#Hosea come get your man

[synthwavecryptid]

I’m uncontrollable, emotional, chaotically proportional

I’m visceral, reloadable

(I’m crazy, I’m crazy, I’m crazy)

[Twisted - MISSIO]

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ All the graces from Heaven

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: Arthur and you enjoy a steamy morning at Strawberry's Hotel, much to the outlaw's delight. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Oral (both reader and Arthur receiving), 69, a bit of fluff if you squint, porn without a plot, Arthur is more of a high/mid honor but loses it and gets a little bit rough, established relationship. ✦ Words: 2,6k ✦ a/n: Yeeeaah so. This is basically a 69 fic, it's pretty filthy and a bit less figurative than my usual works. Just pure smutty smut. I hope you'll enjoy it still! Pic is mine, not proofread! And as English isn't my first language, prepare for some misspellings.

The bedroom of Strawberry’s Hotel is filled with chuckles, and full of scattered clothes on the floor. Leathered boots, two shirts tangled together, jackets and holster belts thrown away messily on furniture. As a lighthouse in the middle of the sea, a black gambler hat stands tall hung on one of the bed's huge footboard legs over this tide of abandoned clothing.

Above it, the old wood creaks as two people mess with each other under the blankets, threatening to make the worn hat fall from its perch. Both are nude as the day they were born, and glued to each other as if they were wearing the other one’s skin.

You and Arthur had quite a time, last night. And since you had woken up, it was nothing but sweet words, cuddling and tickling. Teasing each other had become a private religion between you both, his sarcastic comments always met with a witty answer from you. It made him love you even more.

“Come on darlin’, stay.” Arthur’s deep voice asks you, as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, his nose impregnating with your smell, eyes closing on their own.

He feels good, there. It's in these simple shared moments, those laughs you sew together, those fingers and body you intertwine, those deep and dreamy conversations about your brighter future you share that Arthur finds his remedy. As if after all this life of surviving and fighting for a greater cause, a bigger picture, it was the simplest of things that appeared like an epiphany to him when it came to happiness.

You being the main source and Messiah of most of these humble pleasures, of course. His personal angel.

“You know I can’t. You may have the morning off for once, but I have somewhere else to be. Hosea needs me at the Tracker’s Hotel for a job.”

Arthur doesn’t hide his annoyance and grumbles against your skin, something about “Damn jobs always in the way” and “ The old man can wait a lil’ bit more.”

It makes you smile. As tempting as staying in bed all morning with a naked Arthur seems, especially considering how you can feel his fat cock feeling so soft against your hip, you feel self-conscious about leaving Hosea alone on your mission. You turn your head to the side to kiss your lover’s head, his sandy locks tickling your nose.

“Alright tough guy, time to go.” You decide before getting up in a sitting position, then crawling to the end of the bed to grab your ungarments.

“Not so fast, lil’ missy.” He objects with a low chuckle, obviously enjoying this little chase after you.

Before you can reach your aim, Arthur snakes his hands around your thighs and pulls you back to him in a quick and powerful motion, handling you as if you were the lightest feather, which makes you let out a squeal of protest mixed with surprise.

His laugh resonates for a second and then, he freezes. You had ended up on all four on top of him, but usually, your face was turned to his. This time, Arthur's nose is met with your plump rear, your chest to the other side, just above his crotch. You can feel his body, underneath you, getting tensed. This gigantic, massive, muscled body, so big and tall that his chest feels larger than a tree trunk between your spread legs. What was innocent playing for him just seconds ago had turned into a needy tension between the both of you. The air suddenly feels thick and a silence settles, a tense calm on the shore before a Maelstrom.

Your blouse and Hosea are a long time gone when you realize you can feel his breath on your pussy, the sensation making you shiver. You try to get up from the position, thinking he wouldn’t like to have his face shoved in your intimate parts, but his hands grip tighter and stop you, grounding you in place. You turn your head to him as much as you can considering your situation, taking an interrogative look at his face above your body.

His cheeks are red. Dark red. His eyes are fixated on your entrance, throat swallowing with difficulty. His bust rises and falls heavily, pectorals muscles swelling up before relaxing and rising again. He sighs, and you feel it again, hot air all against you, all against your now aroused and needy slit.

“We hum… We never tried like this…” He starts, voice low and suggestive about what he's implying, his hands traveling from your thighs to grab your ass, one hand for each cheek. They’re so big and firm, and feel so good there, as he squeezes, again and again, driving himself crazy as he admires how the perfect heart shape of your rear looks all squished under his fingers.

“You sure you want-”

Before you can even finish your sentence, Arthur answers it by pressing his lips to your pussy, exhaling through his nose and tightening his fingers on your flesh. This man always had such huge self-control for every dangerous situation known to mankind, but right now, it seems like he couldn’t resist taking a bite when having your perfect cunt under his nose…

A sharp and depraved noise leaves you, making his body burn like redden coal, his mind consumed more and more by your whole being and the simple feeling of your wetness all against his face. His whole universe reduced into this touch, lips against flesh, saliva mixing with arousal. Your sinful nectar and his.

“God, honey!” You whine, back arching without your permission, body moving backward to him, searching for more, needing more.

“Taste so goddamn good… Never gonna have enough of ‘this…” He rasps between a few more kisses to your folds, as a praise or a statement, you’re not sure, and he’s not either as words just flow through him and he lets them out without a drop of restraint or reflection. A rough, unstoppable river. That's how he feels every time he eats you out.

His tongue slowly slips out of his filthy mouth and licks your folds, slowly, tortuously, from bellow aaaall the way up to the inside of your ass. You could have been scared of not being clean enough for him or feeling nervous about his face almost buried in there, but the sound, the moan he had made suppresses all these anxious thoughts all at once.

You have to face the obvious: he’s loving it.

“Aah- Arthur…” Your hips roll against his face, desperate for some more friction, unsatisfied and so aroused by his teasing.

“You go on moanin’ ma name like that and am gonna come without ya even touchin’ me, darlin’.” He warns you, voice hoarse, lips mumbling against your folds, his beard and mustache tickling you just the right way.

You answer his words with a deep sigh, the filth of them burning you to the core. He laps at you the same way again, in one then two long and slow licks, as if savoring you like the finest whiskey he would have tasted. A mewl leaves your lips after each one of them. You’re starting to get impatient, and he knows it, he knows you after all those intimate moments. He stops his lips right at the entrance of your core and gently slides his right hand between your thighs.

The way he has to fold his arm to touch you there isn’t comfortable for him, his bicep being way too big to be crushed like that; but hearing you, feeling your thighs clenching and the appreciative words you let out when his fingers land on your sensitive bud is worth this slight pain. Always putting other’s needs before his own, always being devoted and loyal, always finding happiness in being useful, that was Arthur’s nature. And the bed was no exception to it.

“Was you not supposed to go somewhere?” He asks cockily in a falsely innocent tone, brimming with sarcasm and smugness.

“P-please, Arthur… Quit the teasing, for God's sake…” You ask, trying not to sound too pitiful, probably failing at it.

“A lil’ needy after all, ain’t ya? Ma sweet girl…” He coos, and you can feel his lips stretch into his usual grin, his heart gorging with pride and excitement to have this sort of impact on you.

Bending to your wishes, his fingers start to rub and trace tight circles on your clit as his mouth makes love to your pussy, his tongue delving in as deeply as he can, and the pleasure finally hits you like an earthquake. It feels so good, so damn good, your breathing quickly turning into loud moans.

Your head snaps back forward, and your body pushes your rear up all against him as a cat who would stretch after a nap. Arthur hums in delight and appreciation, unable to speak but encouraging you still. He increases his pace, his digits quick and sharp and so precise against your sensitive spot.

Your face falls down as every fiber of your body hardens, and that’s when your gaze is caught on his cock. Your pussy clenches hard around his tongue just by the sight of it.

It looks so hard and swollen that it must be painful for him. His hips buck forward into nothing, his member almost hitting your chin, with every lick of his tongue inside you. His round and reddish tip is leaking, pre-cum spurting out even more than usual, flowing all the way down into his dark curly pubic hair. His pants would have been completely soaked if he was wearing them.

You're salivating.

It would have been cruel to let him like this, right?

Focusing on him to try and not collapse from your own pleasure, you suddenly press your chest against his belly and take his cock inside your mouth without any warning. The taste of him, this strong saline flavor, fills your mouth.

“Damn!” Arthur shouts in surprise, momentarily parting his lips from yours, fingers slowing their pace. “Jesus, girl!”

This time, it’s your turn to grin, as much as you can, considering how big Arthur is between your lips. You don’t let him any time to think or protest, knowing he would insist that you’d come first.

The way you're crawling on top of him makes it even simpler for you to suck him off, your head naturally placed at the right angle on top of his crotch, and you take advantage of that. Finding support on the mattress with your arms, hands gripping his legs, you bring your mouth up and down hard and fast, sucking his shaft with such vigor you can feel his body squirming underneath you.

“Ngh-! Darlin’! S-stop, slow down! I ain’t gonna last like this!” He tries to plead but his words are drowned in a flood of groans and harsh sighs.

Despite what he’s saying, his body acts in the exact opposite way, hips jerking, cock shoving into your throat at the same time you’re working him. He tries, he really tries to keep on pleasuring you back while you work him, but he feels like he’s completely losing himself, unable to do anything else, to focus on anything else at all.

Your breasts pressed against his belly, his face buried in your pussy and ass, each of your thighs surrounding his head, and your goddamn mouth around his cock, this devilish tongue sliding all around it… He's completely losing his head. It's like being drowned in an Ocean of You. It’s too much. It’s way too much at once for a simple man. A simple, weak, mortal man feeling like he’s receiving every grace of Heaven all at the same time.

His basic instincts win the best of him. His arms are now wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his body, a hand back on your ass cheek, the other on your neck, spurring you into moving your mouth just like he needs to.

“Oh, shit! Yes, go on, go on, take it!”

You've rarely seen him losing his temper like this. He's usually gentle and soft, patient with you during sex, savoring the moment, making it last as much as possible, playing you like an Andante movement from the most sophisticated piece of a symphony.

Right now, he's unchained and rough, rushing to the Grand Finale without minding about false notes, drunk from you and the sensation of warmth he is feeling on every edge of his body; face, chest, cock, every inch of him merging with every inch of you.

He groans all against your pussy, as your saliva drools from this erratic pace. His fingers grip your head and ass tighter as he chases his high carelessly, already coming, way too soon and fast for him. His cock stiffens even more as he fucks your silky mouth, veins gorging with blood, tip throbbing in the back of your head.

“Aaah- Damn… Good… Girl!” He growls loudly with a thrust of his hips after each word.

The last one is followed by a loud and throaty whine, higher-pitched and vulgar, the kind of sounds he would usually let out when being hurt.

He shuts his eyes in a pleasured-filled frown as he pushes his face even deeper between your legs and, more from instinct than anything else, sucks hard on your cunt while he comes, lost, so lost in a sea of primal bliss and pure organic pleasure. His large body burns and tenses one hard final time, and you can feel the path of his cum traveling along his length against your lips as he releases inside you.

It fills you, his saline and strong taste blinding your other senses, cum as hot and sinful as his state, and you exhale with satisfaction as you swallow both this remnant of his ecstasy and the last drops of his sanity.

Arthur falls back heavily on the mattress, completely spent, his sweat staining the white sheets, his hands loosening their grip. Before removing them from your body, he allows himself a playful little spank on your butt as he speaks again, a revenge not strong enough to his liking for your sneaky move.

“Jesus, you’re… completely wild...” He sighs, his heart slowing after having beaten like war drums.

He’s still panting, mouth open and covered with a mix of this sweet cocktail of saliva and arousal. He licks his lips, feeling so satisfied, the sensation of your body everywhere on his skin still vivid and present. Like a stamp of black, indelible ink that has left its mark on a blank sheet of paper.

“You really enjoyed all this, didn’t you?” You ask back while getting off him, legs a bit shaky, your throat starting to feel a bit sore from the intensity you had chosen to go with. “I haven’t heard you whine like this for a long time…”

“I don’t “whine”.” He scoffs, knowing damn well he did, and suddenly feeling ashamed of the sounds he had made and guilty for the rough behavior he had displayed. His negative feelings are soon brushed off though, thanks to your beautiful and mischievous smile enlightening him.

“Yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that. I’ve still got ears to hear, Mister.”

“Hush. Now come here, 'gonna make ya feel as good and miserable as me from finishin’ that fast.”

His eyes burn with that fire he has. The one reserved for you and the excitement and adrenaline of action. You already know there's no way you'll walk out of this bedroom without being completely satisfied.

“Tonight. I’m already way too late to-”

“Now.”

The piece of clothes remains abandoned on the floor as the bed creaks again, that old gambler's hat only witness of Arthur's payback to you.

After all, he never liked leaving a job unfinished.

--

tagging some people who were interested in the scenario! : @amyispxnk @a-court-of-valkyries @fleouris

[hihomeghere]

Salt and Pepper | Arthur Morgan / Reader

Word count : 1.4k Summary : Arthur notices his hair is starting to gray. I saw a post on here about Arthur with salt and pepper hair and I couldn’t stop myself hehe. Warnings/Tags : talk about death, getting old, Arthur loves his wife, no tb, Arthur and reader own a house, mention of past gang members, cursing, lots of fluff, self deprecation on Arthur’s side, bullets, mention of weight gain (in a positive way)

“Godamn ugly bastard.” Arthur huffed, his gaze piercing as he looked into the mirror. He hadn’t meant to have himself a pity party this morning. In fact he was feeling quite fine this morning before looking in the small bathroom mirror. Waking up next to you always puts a spring in his step. Especially when he’s waking up in a real bed, underneath a soft quilt that you happened to sew in some free time. Mismatched patches and all, it was his favorite thing in the small home you two shared. Hell, you were becoming quite domestic ever since the house was completed.

But he wasn’t exactly expecting to find gray hair sprouting from his hairline. He wasn’t that old, was he?

“Jesus.” He sighed, inspecting further he realized it wasn’t one or two gray hairs, it was almost twenty. Hidden under his longer than normal locks after forgoing a haircut for the last couple weeks. He was surprised you hadn’t noticed them, especially with how much you loved to run your fingers through his hair. Although, he loved it just as much, maybe even more.

God, he needed to get rid of these before you saw them. He was sure you had some tweezers around here somewhere. He opened up your drawer, rifling around for your tweezers. Bingo. His hands gripped the small piece of metal, a triumphant smile on his face.

It was only once he looked back up into the mirror, determined to fix this issue before you woke up, that he noticed you padding into the bathroom. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you wrapped your arms around his middle.

“Mornin’.” You hummed, laying your cheek against his bicep, smiling sweetly at him through the mirror.

“Mornin’.” He said, clearing his throat.

“What do you need those for?” You asked, eyeing the tweezers in his hand. Caught red handed, he tried coming up with some excuse.

“Nothin’ sweetheart.” He said, giving you his signature smile, kissing your forehead. He slipped the tweezers into his pocket for safe keeping, at least until he had a free moment without you around. After all those years on the run and he could come up with nothing, Hosea would have been so disappointed in his lack of an answer. He swore he could hear the old man chastising him now.

“For a former outlaw you sure are an awful liar.” You tutted, shaking your head, slipping your fingers into his pocket and pulling out the tweezers.

“Well it ain’t my fault,” He huffed playfully, “Could never get nothin’ past you anyway.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. You removed your hands from around his waist, leaning back on the sink as you looked up at him.

“Spill.” You said raising an eyebrow, your arms crossed over your chest.

Knowing he’d been caught, Arthur hung his head, a low sigh leaving his lips.

“It’s just-“ He cursed, turning to look away from you, “Well I’m goin’ gray.” He admitted, not meeting your eyes.

“And?” You asked in such a nonchalant manner.

“And?” He asked looking up at you, his brows furrowed.

“So you have some gray hairs.” You said with a shrug, “You’re acting like the damn world is ending.” You chuckled softly, a smile tugging on your lips.

“Well-“ Arthur sighed, pursing his lips, he didn’t want to be vain but damn it, it did feel like the world was ending.

“Honey.” You said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Ain’t nothing wrong with some gray hairs.” You said, shaking your head, looking so goddamn patient as always. What he did in a past life to deserve you he would never know, he definitely didn’t deserve you in this one. You smiled, running your thumb over his couple day old stubble. He couldn’t help but sigh softly, leaning into your touch.

“Just makes me feel old ‘s all.” He shrugged, closing his eyes.

“Arthur.” You said softly, he opened his eyes. His bright azure pools looking into yours. “Getting old means we’re still alive.” You said pointedly, not missing the way your fingers trailed lightly down his chest.

He sighed softly, anyone who said he was the most like Hosea had obviously never had a one on one conversation with you. You had shared the same dry wit along with being just as wise as the old man. Sometimes he wondered if the two of you were more closely related than just being adopted by him as a kid.

As your hand settled over his heart, he couldn’t help but remember a time when you didn’t have this place. When his next breath had been an undeserved blessing. When you and Charles had pulled his broken body off that godforsaken mountain. You were right, he should be grateful for these gray hairs and new lines on his face. Should be grateful that he made it this far out west with you, where the air was dryer and slowly his lungs didn’t hurt as bad with each breath.

If anything he should be grateful that you’re here, here in this house. The house that he built specifically for you. That you’re not buried six feet under like most of the fellow gang members. That you didn’t catch a bullet like Lenny or Sean, how he wished they could have had the chance to grown old. Even as mouthy as Sean was, the poor bastard didn’t deserve that. Lenny was just a boy, foolish enough to be sucked in by Dutch’s silver tongue. He shook his head trying to clear any thoughts of the past.

God, along with the fact that somehow both of you still happen to be standing, the fact that you chose to stand by him after everything you went through makes his head swim. You could have left him at any point, hell he had begged you to leave after his death sentence. And yet, here you were.

“Guess you’re right.” He said, a small smile tugging on his lips.

“Course I am.” You teased, a smile spreading across your face. You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. He accepted your silent invitation, pressing his lips against yours. So soft and warm and inviting. He could feel you smile against his lips. That small smile warmed him from the inside out, nearly making his toes curl.

Jesus, he was lucky. More than lucky, he still couldn’t figure out how he had tricked you into marrying him. He wanted to be the best version of himself for you, he had made a promise to try every day to be a better man for you. You shouldn’t be tied down to a miserable old fool like himself.

As if you could read his mind, which he often suspected you could, your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Besides,” You began as you pulled away, “I like the salt and pepper look.” Arthur scoffed, shaking his head.

“Really?” He asked, raising a brow.

“Really.” You nodded, running your hand through his hair. “Think you get more handsome every day.” If anyone was getting prettier every day it was you. Your hair was longer, cascading down your shoulders in waves. No longer tied up in a tight braid or bun. You looked relaxed, at peace. You became softer once you both settled into your new lifestyle. Not just emotionally, although you still had that fire which had first drawn him towards you, like a moth to a flame. You were physically softer, your harsh edges smoothing out as you started to eat and sleep better. Your curves became more prominent, and he certainly didn’t mind having more to hold onto late at night.

Maybe you truly did feel the same about him. He had never known you to lie. A blush settled on his cheeks at the thought. He shook his head, a small chuckle rumbling through his chest.

“Yeah, alright darlin’.” He says taking your face in his hands, kissing you again before you had the chance to embarrass him further.

Maybe getting old wasn’t so bad if you had someone to grow old with.

[not-neverland06]

𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙳𝚘𝚐

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Hosea's meddling has you and Arthur heading into the local town of Valentine. You're on a mission to get some clothes of your own. And Arthur's looking to help some woman named Mary. You don't know who she is, but she must be important for him to leave you all on your own in a strange town for the whole day. One thing is certain, you're not forgiving Mr. Morgan for this anytime soon.

You feel Arthur’s worried stare boring into the side of your head and let out a heavy sigh. “I am perfectly capable of driving a wagon, Mr. Morgan.” You turn towards him with a frown and his face falls flat. Like he hasn’t just been drilling holes into you for the past five minutes. 

“I know, I know.” His brows furrow and he shoots you a worried look. “Still, you don’t have much experience.”

“Oh,” you huff and glare at him, tugging the reins a little to the right on accident. “Would you calm down?”

“Tree,” he says, eyes darting forward. You shake your head and he rips the reins out of your hand, “Tree, woman!” He doesn’t exactly shout at you, but you still feel like you’re being yelled at. Finally turning forward you see what he was saying. 

“Oops,” you whisper, watching him direct the horses back onto the trail and away from the trees. “Well, it’s not my fault these ridiculous things don’t know not to walk into trees,” you argue, motioning at the horses. 

“Hey,” he chuckles, “don’t blame the horses.” 

You see Hosea lean forward from the back of the wagon. He peers between you both with a smile. “Having fun up here?” He asks you, nodding towards an overbearing Arthur. 

You roll your eyes with a faux pout, “Not really. Arthur here can’t seem to wedge that stick out of his ass.” Arthur turns to glare at you and you nudge his calf with your foot playfully, giving him a sly grin. He fights it, but you see the way the corners of his lips twitch up. 

Hosea glances between you both, something mischievous playing on his face. “What’re you up to?” You ask, suspicion brewing as you practically see a plan forming in his head. 

Hosea sends you a smile that does nothing to assuage your reservations. “Nothing, nothing. Arthur,” he chides, turning towards the man, “let her try for a while.”

Arthur sighs through his nose, you see him glance out the side of his eye at you with a perturbed expression. You don’t know why he’s so adamant about not letting you drive. You only crashed the wagon once and that wasn’t your fault. The horses got spooked by a cougar as you were going down the mountain. Still, he hasn’t let go of it. 

You know he’s not used to denying Hosea, but he takes too long to relent. Just as he’s starting to hand the reins over, the wagon bumps into something. The left side of it flies up, sending you sliding down the bench towards Arthur. His hand shoots out, bracing you so you don’t tip out of the wagon. You can’t help but flush at the feeling of his arm around you, caught off guard by the reaction. 

You push that down, deciding to address it later. The left side dips down now and the horses come to a bumpy stop. You let out a rough sigh, turning around and glancing behind the wagon. Arthur drove you all into a large rock, knocking the wheel off the wagon. 

You can’t help but bark a laugh at his expense. “Well, Mr. Morgan, looks like I’m not the only one in need of some driving lessons.”

He takes his hat off, running his hands through his hair and glaring at you. “Enough,” he grouses. He jumps down from the bench, walking off to fetch the wheel. Hosea climbs to the front of the wagon, taking a seat beside you. 

“I suppose once he gets that fixed, I should take over.”

You laugh, grinning at Arthur as he props the wagon up. “I think that would be best.”

His head snaps up and he glares at you both, “Shut up, both of ya.” You can’t help but laugh a little harder at his grumpy tone. 

Mary-Beth helps you set up your few belongings beside the tent alongside the other women’s trunks. You glance over your shoulder, watching Arthur pitch his tent and rifle through his satchel. A part of you is going to miss the solace of having Arthur beside you at night. 

It was comforting, having such a strong man to watch over you while you slept. Especially while you healed. You supposed you were healed now, though, and you didn’t have much more of an excuse to be near him. Not like you did before. 

A part of you is surprised by this sudden attachment to him. You should have seen it coming, though, this sudden onslaught of feelings. It has been so long since you’ve been around any truly decent man. 

Your husband had been good to you at first, but they always are, aren’t they? You hadn’t had some great love story. But you’d been lucky for two people of high status to get along as well as you had. You suppose that success changes every man. For some, they turn into a miser. They want to keep their money as close to their chest as they can. 

Your husband had been the opposite. He’d flaunted his wealth in every way he could. Placed larger bets than was smart. Let people borrow from him and never collected. And then he got into it with some bad men who set him down the wrong path. They made it so he was their cash cow, milking him for what he was worth and turning him against you all the same. They couldn’t risk any words of wisdom getting him to think about what he was doing. 

There was no sharp pain in your chest when you thought about your husband lying dead in the snow somewhere. You didn’t want to lay down and weep. You didn’t even miss the ring on your finger. The one that those O’Driscoll bastards had stolen. If you didn’t remember every bad night with him then you could almost pretend that you’d never been married at all. 

Since he had turned down that path, you hadn’t met a man you thought was worth knowing. Until Arthur. He could say what he wanted about himself, but you’d never had a man treat you as gently as he has. Maybe it’s creating some warped sense of admiration. It could explain the coying urge to want to repay him and be near him at every chance. 

You almost wished you weren’t healed. If only so you could make up an excuse to see him. Now, you’re not sure what you’re going to do. You think he might have only spoken with you because he felt a sense of responsibility towards you. Alive and well, he’s got nothing to say to you. 

“My, I think I see hearts in your eyes.”

Your head snaps up and Mary-Beth grins at you. “Oh,” you catch the teasing glint in her eye and frown. “Hush, you. You’re reading too many of those damn books.”

You help her haul a crate up, pretending to look busy as Miss Grimshaw passes by. “Uh uh,” she argues. “I might fill my head with too many love stories, but I’m no fool. You’ve got it bad.”

Before you can object Tilly walks up. “You talkin’ ‘bout Arthur?”

You frown, brows furrowed as you drop the act of unpacking anything. “How’d you know?”

Mary-Beth and Tilly share a knowing look, both of them giggling slightly. You can’t help but feel like it’s at your expense. “I’ve just never seen a lady so attached to him. Hard to stomach the smell sometimes,” Tilly teases. 

“Hey, he doesn’t smell that bad,” it’s a weak argument and an even worse deflection but it makes them laugh harder. You can’t help but laugh along, cheeks aching with a smile. You’re not too much older than them, having been married to your husband at a young age. You find yourself enjoying the company of women your own age more than you thought you would. 

Someone clears their throat behind you all and you turn around to find a very upset-looking Miss Grimshaw. The three of you straighten up, scrambling for something to fix. It’s not until she shakes her head and walks away that you start cracking up again. Tilly shoots you a look, turning up her nose and mocking the woman. 

You smile, throwing your shoulders back and trying to adopt her haughty walk. It makes Mary-Beth snort so loud that Arthur turns towards you all. He sends you a questioning look and you can’t help but flush, turning around and busying yourself with anything other than him. 

“Knew it,” Mary-Beth whispers behind you as she walks away. You roll your eyes and sigh but you know she’s right. Clearly, you’re feeling something for him. But it feels wrong too. Too fast and too soon for you to be feeling anything but lucky to be alive. 

A few days later, once you’re all settled and Miss Grimshaw is finally satisfied with the camp’s state, you all gather around the fire. You’re late to join the others, having to change your dress after Uncle spilled whiskey all over the other one. 

You walk towards the glowing firelight and the sounds of Javier strumming lightly on his guitar. He’s not singing yet but you’re sure a few more drinks for everyone and the whole county will hear your hollering. 

You try to find an opening among everyone but most of the seats have already been taken. Just as you go to sit beside Charles, Tilly throws herself down on the log. She doesn’t look at you, just fiddles with the hem of her dress and slurps loudly on her drink. Your eyes narrow suspiciously but you don’t call her out.

Instead, you roam the faces of those around you, seeing a spot beside Sadie. She nods her head at you but before you can go claim it, Hosea grabs her attention. He sits beside her, asking her about some nonsense you can’t hear from where you stand. And just like that, it seems everywhere you look any open spot was gone. Someone either slid over or stole it. It left you with just one place left. 

Arthur looks up from his cup as you approach. “You mind?” You ask, lingering by the log, unsure of whether or not he wants your company. 

He slides over easily, “‘Course not.” You let out a small breath of relief and sit beside him. You don’t know if it’s divine interference or a few nosy campmates, but it feels too coincidental that the only open spot is beside him. 

There are a few moments of stilted silence between you. It might all be in your head. You’ve messed yourself up, putting too much thought into how you feel about him. Now, you don’t even know how to talk to him. You just stare into the fire, and watch the shadows play across the other's faces. 

Arthur’s voice breaks you out of your concentration. “You been feelin’ okay?” 

You’re surprised by the genuine concern in his voice. He really cares and it’s such a strange idea to you- meeting a man so attentive. “I’ve been a little sore from the ride, but nothing too bad.” When you turn towards him you’re surprised to find him already looking at you. 

It’s easy, to just stare into his eyes and pretend it’s just the two of you by the fire. It casts a comforting glow across the both of you, makes the dark night look a little warmer. Eases the chill of the night and lulls you into a place where you finally let the anxiousness that plagues you melt away. 

“How ‘bout you, Arthur, you okay?”

He chuckles quietly, nodding his head and glancing down at his lap. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

The soft way he speaks to you lures you into a false sense of security. You wonder if it would really be so bad to say what you’re thinking. He’s so kind to you, you’re sure even if he doesn’t feel the same he wouldn’t be cruel. 

“Would it be odd if I said I miss bunking with you?” You laugh a little at yourself, trying to downplay just how much you truly mean that.

You seemed to have made a horrible mistake though. Being around the woman of the camp has allowed you the comfort of a loose tongue. Judging by the way his whole body stills and he won’t meet your eyes, you think you might need to tighten it once more. “Oh,” you sigh, rubbing an embarrassed hand down your face. “I’m sorry, forget I said anything.”

“No, no,” Arthur’s quick to stop you. He glances around, making sure no one else is listening. “Nothing wrong with that. I just think,” he pauses and lets out a huff. Your face pinches and you bite your tongue, trying to stop yourself from shouting at him to just spit it out. He sucks in a deep breath and turns to you with a pained look. “There are better men than me out there, Mrs. Rowe. I think you’d be better off goin’ after them.”

“What-” He gets to his feet before you can object. You’d like to tell him what a fool he is. How he’s a perfectly fine man and you can choose well enough for yourself. 

“Good night,” he tilts his hat down, ambling off towards his tent and leaving the warmth of the fire behind. 

You look down at your lap with a frown. “Oh,” you whisper, “You’re such a fool, Arthur Morgan.” You watch him slip into his tent and feel like a stone has replaced your heart. You feel heavy now, wanting nothing more than to sleep the sting of rejection off. You quietly slip away from the fire and head towards the women’s tent. 

You ease onto the rocky ground and pull a blanket over your shoulders. You’d never thought you’d long for the rotted floorboards of that shed in the mountains but you crave that comfort more than ever. 

Arthur adjusts his hat and steps out of his tent. He adjusts to the bright morning light and finds his gaze drifting toward the tent the other women are sleeping in. You’re not there, your bed roll fussed up like you’d just gotten up. There’s a split second where he worries you might have changed your mind about the outlaw life and left. 

He’s not happy with the stomach-dropping feeling that leaves him with. He shouldn’t care whether or not you stay. Still, he isn’t satisfied until he looks around and sees you sharing some coffee with Hosea. 

He debates walking over to you both when Pearson ambles towards him. “Arthur,” he barks out. He holds a white slip of paper in his hands and you turn away from Hosea to glance back at him. “A woman brought this by for you.”

He tries to wave at you but you whip around when you hear Pearson speak, avoiding meeting his eye. Hosea leans in and whispers something to you, but you just shake your head. His eyes narrow at the two of you, wondering when you got so cozy. 

“Who was it?” Arthur asks. 

“I don’t know,” Pearson grouses, walking off with a shrug. Arthur flips the paper over and sighs. He didn’t even need to ask. He knows this handwriting about as well as he knows his own. Mary. 

He’s not sure he even wants to read this. There’s the chance that he’ll either have to deal with her father again or he’ll just feel the guilt of what she thinks could have been. Sighing, he turns away from you and Hosea. He flips the letter open, skimming it. He’s not ready to dive so deep into the past this morning but it could be urgent. 

Most of it is pretty vague. Brief mentions of her father devolving past the fool he already was and something about her brother needing help. She asks him to meet her in Valentine and he tucks the letter in his satchel. He doubts anything good would come of going to see her. 

Half the time they just have these quiet sort of non-arguments about how he can’t change and how she never gave him the chance to. They keep going back to each other and keep pretending they're different people than they actually are. She has it in her head that he would never abandon this outlaw life for her. And he thinks that she would never be able to truly accept him as he is. 

They go round and around each other endlessly. Never quite meeting in the middle. These occasional meet-ups have just started to feel like a punishment for himself. But there’s a part of him that always feels the need to hear her out, to see her one last time. He hates that part of himself sometimes. 

He turns to head towards the horses when an eager voice stops him. “Oh, Mr. Morgan!” Strauss stands up from his stool, walking over to Arthur with a large black book in his hand. “Just the man I was looking for.” There’s something in his tone that makes Arthur bristle. He has a feeling whatever he’s about to ask for is going to be something he doesn’t like. 

“What?” Arthur’s short with him, never having been a huge fan of the man. He hates that he’s the one Strauss comes to for collections. He understands the necessity of the money for camp. But half the time the people are just desperate families trying to keep a roof over their heads. If Strauss targeted the rich, maybe he wouldn’t mind roughing the debtors up so much. 

“I just need a favor from you. I’ve got some collections that need to be taken. A few reminders to be sent,” he laughs a little. The noise is empty and grates on Arthur’s already frayed nerves. 

“We’ve barely been here a week. You’re tellin’ me you’ve already got lives to ruin?”

Strauss's eyes narrow into slits before he forces on another thin smile. “Mr. Morgan, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the loss our camp funds suffered in Blackwater. We need everything we can get. Surely you understand this is for the good of the camp, yes?”

Arthur lets out a rough sigh. He looks down at the list of people in Strauss’s hand. He knows that he’s always going to choose the gang over anyone else. But it doesn’t make this feel any better. “Fine,” he snaps, snatching the paper from him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” Arthur shakes his head, ignoring the smug lilt of Strauss’s accent. He shakes his head and turns away, walking towards the horses.

“-well, Uncle ruined my only other good dress. I’ll need to buy some new ones,” Arthur looks over as you speak to Hosea. You motion sadly to a large brown stain on the front of your dress and he rolls his eyes, thinking of Unlcle spilling something on you. Maybe he could pick something up for you while he’s in town. You’ve got hardly anything to your name, you could at least use a new pair of boots. 

He’s nearly to his horse when Hosea calls him over. Is he going to get anything done today, or does everyone need something for him?

He lets out an irritated sigh and walks back over. You don’t look up at him and that only further sours his mood. “What are you doing?” Hosea asks, the suspicious expression on his face only makes Arthur’s hackles raise further.

“Was gonna head to Valentine but Strauss has got me doin’ collections.” Your eyes lift at the mention of collections and he doesn’t miss the slight grimace that passes across your face before you’re looking away again. 

Something hot boils in the pit of his stomach but he shoves it down, trying to ignore it. Hosea shakes his head, waving him off. “No, I need you to escort Mrs. Rowe to Valentine. Micah will handle the collections,” he tells him firmly, not leaving much room for argument. 

“But-” 

Hosea cuts him off with a frown, “No ‘buts,’ the lady needs some new clothes, Arthur. You can’t let her go into town without a proper escort. Imagine what could happen.”

Your face drops at that. You roll your eyes with a scoff, “I most certainly do not need-”

You trail off, sentence falling short as Hosea shoots you a sharp look. You throw the rest of your coffee into the fire and get to your feet. “Right, well I clearly don’t get much of a say in this.”

“Neither of you do,” Hosea responds. He’s got a look that means he’s far too pleased with himself. Arthur glances over at you, feeling a little guilty at the perturbed expression you wear. He doesn’t blame you for not wanting to spend time with him. He knows he could have been kinder to you last night, but all he’d been thinking about was stopping another situation like Mary from happening. 

“Come on Mr. Morgan,” you call out, walking past him and heading towards the horses. 

Arthur lingers behind for a moment, shooting Hosea a glare. “I’m gettin’ tired of your games, old man,” Arthur grouses before reluctantly following after you. Hosea just laughs, taking a long, pleased, sip of his coffee. 

Arthur turns around and heads towards the hitching posts. You’re already waiting there for him, arms crossed while you examine the horse. “Somethin’ wrong?” You jump slightly, turning around to face Arthur as he walks up. 

Your lips purse and he can tell you’re debating whether or not you want to speak with him. Arthur stops walking, standing just a little ways back and giving you no other choice but to talk. Rolling your eyes, you force the words out. “Your horse is too damn tall.”

Arthur glances between you and the shire, laughing a little under his breath. “Alright, come on.” He comes up in front of you, hovering his hands over your waist until you give him a reluctant little nod. He takes you by the waist and lifts you onto the back of the horse. His hands drift down to your knees, squeezing once before he forces himself to back off. “Comfortable?”

You glare down at him, but he can see a little bit of sheepishness in the look you give him. “Fine as I’ll ever be, sitting like this.”

He swings up on the saddle and glances back at you. “We’ll see if we can’t get you a horse while we’re in town.” Your face lights up at that and it unravels a bit of the knot in his chest. 

“I think I’d like that,” you tell him, turning slightly to wrap your arms around his waist. He does his best to ignore the warmth you provide. But all he can focus on is how soft you feel against him compared to the harshness he deals with every day. He doesn’t say anything else, leading his horse out of camp and heading to town. He doesn’t know what he’s more stressed about, seeing Mary or having you see her. 

He lets out a rough sigh and shakes his head. Women, they’re not worth the damn trouble. 

The ride into Valentine isn’t too slow, but you know Arthur isn’t going as fast as he wants so that you feel more comfortable on the back of the horse. You’re still getting used to the finicky beasts, not quite having bonded with them like the others in camp. Still, you’d rather swallow your pride and get one of your own than have to keep riding side-saddle like this. 

Sitting on the back of the horse is damn near impossible to get comfortable on. And you know the animals don’t like it any more than you do. You think it’s only making them dislike you more. You adjust yourself again and hear Arthur sigh in front of you. His chest heaves under your grip and you realize just how tight you’ve been squeezing him this whole time. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, undoing your arms and stretching them out. You’re surprised the poor man can still breathe. 

“It’s fine,” he responds, but you can hear the strain in his voice as he finally sucks in a full breath. You grimace, wondering how you’re gonna handle your own horse if you can barely deal with this one. Arthur’s is the least temperamental of the bunch at camp and you still can’t bring yourself to trust it. 

Arthur passes by the train station and you straighten up, a little bit of relief forming when you realize how close you are to finally being able to walk around on your own two feet. Arthur brings the horse to a slower pace, pulling on the reins as townspeople begin to walk by more frequently. 

You’re not sure what you were expecting of the town. It’s certainly not glamorous. But it’s not as backwoods as you had been expecting. The people seem friendly enough, at least to you. They’ll nod their heads with a polite, “Ma’am,” but they don’t seem very warmed to Arthur. 

“You already been through here?” You ask, a little bit of a tease lingering on the edge of your words. 

Arthur stiffens under your grip, tilting his head back towards you before looking forward. “Whaddya mean?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, “these people seem a little wary of you, that’s all.”

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh, “Not my fault,” he mutters, his voice barely audible. “He called me a pretty boy, what was I supposed to do?” You barely catch the words before he brings the horse to a stop and gets down. 

“Pretty boy?” You question, a grin curling at the edge of your lips. His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. 

“Forget it,” he demands. He holds his hand out towards you and you hesitate. You could just jump down, you'll probably roll your ankle, but you could do it. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like how wholly Arthur’s hand envelops yours, even if he’s made it clear he doesn’t think he’s good enough for you. 

You slide your hand into his and he brings his other one up to your waist. He eases you down onto the ground but your boot slips into a bit of mud. You tilt forward, off-kilter, and catch yourself against his chest. 

Your eyes widen when you feel the bulk lurking underneath his tattered shirt. You clear your throat, backing up quickly and straightening out your skirt. Even after a few weeks, you’re still not used to touching another man who’s not your husband. Especially not so brazenly. 

Arthur laughs at your behavior but you see the nervous way he rubs the back of his neck. He ducks his head down, hat blocking his pretty eyes. You know that you have an effect on him. In the same way, a simple touch from him sends heat racing through you, you can see it happen to him. 

You’re not some lovesick fool who’s blinded by your desire. You may be naive when it comes to relationships, but you know want in a man’s eyes when you see it. If only he weren’t so damn stubborn. 

“I’ve got some business to deal with in town,” your face falls as he speaks. You’d almost forgotten about the letter Pearson had brought to him. The one that a woman had dropped off. You hope it’s his aunt or some withered old lady who just needs an outlaw’s help. As unlikely as that is, you still pray for it. 

He reaches into his saddle bag and your eyes double in size as he holds out a holstered revolver. You stare at it, eyes darting between him and the gun. “You know how to shoot don’t ya?”

You scoff in indignation. “I’ve spent my entire adult life in the mountains. Of course, I know how to shoot. But why would I need to?”

He looks amused by your attitude and it only makes you narrow your eyes at him in irritation. “Just take it, would you? You’re traveling with a gang of outlaws, it’s not smart to go around without anythin’ to protect yourself with.” He nudges the gun towards you once more and you snatch it from him. 

You bring it to your side, attaching it to your belt as you chew on his words. You hadn’t thought of that before, mainly because you haven’t left the camp since you made it out of the mountains. But you’re so used to being seen as a lady that you forget you’re now just as much of a criminal as the rest of them. If only by association. 

“Fine,” you relent. 

“Here,” he reaches into his satchel and tugs out a few bills. “Take this, for the dresses or whatever it was ya needed.”

You stare down at the money and shake your head, “Oh, no, Arthur, I couldn't.” He’s already done so much for you and the camp. You don’t feel comfortable taking from him further. But he won’t let it go, he takes your wrist and forces your palm open, placing the money in your hand. 

“You’re not gonna steal the clothes are ya?”

“No, but-”

“‘Nough fussin’, just take it would ya, woman?” You tuck the money in your waistband and glare at him. He’s being awful pushy this morning. 

He grabs the horn of the saddle, pulling himself back up and glancing down at you. “How long am I gonna be expected to look after myself?” 

“Only about an hour, I’ll be back soon enough.”

“You better,” you chide. He only chuckles, tilting his hat towards you before riding off past the shops and towards the houses behind the town. You let out a heavy sigh, fiddling with the money and looking around town. You don’t imagine you’ll find much here, but you figure the general store is probably a good place to start. 

It isn’t until you’ve bought yourself a few new outfits that you realize just how much money Arthur has given you. You could probably buy two horses with all this. You’re sure Dutch would be irate if he learned Arthur funded your shopping trip and not the camp lockbox. 

You walk out of the general store with your box of goodies tucked under your arm. You hide the rest of your money away in the top of your corset like you’ve seen Karen do before. You look around the shops, trying to spot Arthur’s giant shire hitched somewhere. When you don’t see the horse you frown, deciding to do a quick lap around to see if he’s somewhere else. 

It turns out to be fruitless, despite promising to be back within an hour, you can’t find him anywhere. You figure that his “business” just ran on longer than he thought it would and try and think of a way to pass the time. You debate going to the stables and getting your own horse but it seems rude to just spend his money so cavalierly. 

Besides, you figure you should get his opinion before you commit to one of the erratic creatures. He seems to speak their language. You figure he could help you find one that won’t send you flying if it gets spooked. 

With no other way to pass the time, you take a seat on the bench outside the general store. You pick up a discarded newspaper and figure you’ll just wait for him here. Of course, you only make it about three sentences into a report on a train robbery before you toss the paper to the side. 

You’ve never been very good at waiting. Living the life of a proper lady has left you spoiled and you’re starting to get antsy. Jumping up from the bench you walk around the back of the shop towards the houses Arthur had ridden towards. 

There’s a brief moment of intelligence where you think about the consequences of bugging him. He is an outlaw and for all the manners and grace he’s shown you, you’ve seen the bounty. You know he’s a known criminal and a murderer. Who's to say he won’t get upset at you for interrupting and just shoot you?

Still, the thought of him getting so mad he starts firing off rounds makes you laugh more than it makes you scared. You just can’t picture Arthur in that way. 

It isn’t hard to figure out which house he went to. All you have to look for is the giant black horse grazing in the grass outside. You pick up your pace when you see Diablo roaming in front of a particularly nice house. It’s probably the biggest one around and the most well-kept. You wonder who he could be meeting out here, in Valentine being “rich” doesn’t mean much. 

You notice the front door of the home opening, but you know they can’t see you past the large tree in front of you. You see Arthur first, the brim of his hat, and then his boot as he walks out the door. He turns around, talking to whoever’s inside and shaking his head vehemently. 

You take another step towards them but your foot hovers in the air as the person he’s talking to follows after him. So much for a withered old lady. You feel your stomach drop as the beautiful woman he’s talking to reaches forward and takes his hands in hers. You can’t hear them speaking, but you can see the familiarity in the way they dance around each other. 

She’s got a pleading look on her face and he’s got the expression of a man about to give into whatever she asks of him. You turn around as quick as you can, marching yourself right back to town. You never should have even gone looking for him. One hour or two, you should have just kept your happy ass where it was. At least then you wouldn’t be dealing with the racing thoughts going through your head. 

You had a suspicion that there was once a woman in his life. In fact, it would be odd for there not to be. He’s traveled for so long and he’s so different than other men you met that it wouldn’t make sense for him to have not caught the eye of a pretty woman. But you hadn’t expected her. She seemed so much like…

You. 

She reminded you of yourself before your husband had abandoned you and you started traveling with the gang. Hair done up prim and proper, clothes tailored perfectly to her body. Even the way she carried herself was straight out of the proper lady training book. She most certainly came from money. 

You just didn’t know how Arthur knew her. Or what their relationship was. It certainly wasn’t familial. You knew that much from the longing in her eyes. Oh, this was just awful. Arthur didn’t reject you because he thought he wasn’t good enough for you. He just didn’t want you. He had a woman of his own, of course he did. You feel like such a fool, getting your hopes up over something that could never happen. 

You trudge back into town, heading straight for the saloon. You’ve never had the stomach for alcohol, but you’re sure you can make an exception tonight. Just to ease the blade of hurt wedging itself in your chest. 

You toss your box of clothes on the counter of the bar and the barkeep gives you a startled look. His eyes narrow before he slides a glass over to you. “Looks like you need a whiskey.”

“Make it a double,” you slip him a few more bills than necessary and he whistles. Instead of pouring he just places the bottle in front of you. He leaves you on your lonely end of the counter and scrubs up a drunken spill. 

You use a heavy hand to pour and bring the glass to your lips, ticking your head back and downing as much as you can. The acrid, bog-like taste doesn’t comfort you. But it does make your tongue feel fuzzy and begin to soften the harsh edges of your mind. About a bottle later, you can barely remember Arthur’s name, much less why you’re drinking. 

You’re debating entering a very risky poker game when you see it. Just out of the corner of your eye, a man goes stumbling up the stairs with a whore. It’s not out of the usual, it’s been happening the whole time you’ve been here. But there’s something familiar to you about the back of his head. 

Stumbling to your feet, you rub at your eyes and blink a few times. You squint, trying to make out how you know this man when he finally turns slightly. Like a bucket of cold water being tossed over you, the whiskey seems to leave you for a moment. 

Your husband’s glazed eyes pass over you and he laughs at a drunk man falling face-first to the floor. Your heart pounds so harshly against the cage of your chest you can hear nothing else but your blood rushing. He stumbles the rest of the way up the stairs and you stand there, completely dumbfounded and confused. 

Your husband isn’t just alive. He’s here and he’s about to go fuck a whore like he didn’t leave you for dead.

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[dilf-luvr-4evr]

Maybe it’s just me? But I just have this feeling that the second Arthur Morgan hears that you’re pregnant with his baby, he’d leave it all behind.

All of it.

Anyway, it’s not like he’s never thought of it before. The way he asked Hosea about his little time away with Bessie, the remorse he feels for Isaac and Eliza, the attention he gives for Abigail and Jack? I’m just so sure that if you’re carrying his child, it’s over for him.

He isn’t exactly sure of how it’ll work but he sure as hell ain’t repeating the cycle. Especially not when the love he had for you wasn’t born out of responsibility or necessity.

And you actually loved him in return.

Second thoughts had only costed him so much. And yet, God gave him a second chance. It was still hard for him to believe there was an entity so kind. Let alone to someone like him.

He’s good at many things, smart, strong. Dutch’s most trusted for a reason. He’d get by. He might hate the idea at first; being apart of a society that judged people like him, experiencing the unfair difficulties of the working class..

But if it meant being present for his kid, being able to protect them and give them the life that he or Isaac or Jack never got? He would. Hardship isn’t anything he’s unfamiliar with.

And oh, he would treat you in all the ways that Abigail or Eliza never let him. Put a ring on your finger, be there every step of the way, be the steadfast rock that you can lean on.

Despite the baby being an accident, he was always so sure of you.

It was no longer something he wanted to do for the better. But a real marriage, for better as well as for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and cherish. Till death do us part.

It’s a little funny how daunting it all was at first compared to how you couldn’t be happier now. Living this struggle of a life with your baby and your husband, the outlaw who constantly had blood on his hands.

And he’ll forever thank you despite the seemingly difficult circumstances. Fatherhood and other dreams, you’ve made it come true.

His very own little family that looks at him like he put stars in the sky, that looks at him like he is a good man <3

This kinda came to me out of nowhere and I made myself cry a little lol!!!!!!! In my mind he is happy and healthy FOREVER and only dies of old age!!!

wrote a part 2-ish to this!! <3

my masterlist

Thank you for reading!! 🫶🏼

[mentally-ill-simp]

Trusting the RDR2 men to hold your drink

Tw: mentions of alcohol, mentions of Micah Bell

Arthur Morgan:You walked up to Arthur at the camp looking at him you were a bit tipsy but you really had to go off and pee and didn't want to leave your drink unattended "Arthurrr..could you do me the biggest favor" you slurred your words slightly and Arthur smiled softly at this thinking it was cute "sure what do you need" his southern accent thick and deep as he spoke you melted at the way he spoke "could you hold my drink for me?" You asked smiling wide knowing he would, the man took the drink from you "I can absolutely do that" he smiled holding the cup close to him like his life depended on it..he would protect it like it was a small child guarding it with his life until you came back.

John Marston: You stumbled over to John. "Marston!" You shout trying to get his attention he looks up from whatever he was doing "what do you want" he groans pretending to be annoyed but he did really like you "hold my drink I gotta go do something" you hand him your drink "why do you need me to hold your drink?" He asks confused still taking the drink anyway "so people don't touch it or put weird things in it" you look at him like it was obvious and at that he nods getting protective...he now had a mission and he was damned if he'd fail at it. He holds the drink waiting for you to get back glaring at anyone who even looked at the drink, at one point he forgot it wasn't his drink and he took a sip but when he realized he stopped. Would 100% gaslight you if you asked if he took a sip

Javier Escuella: The man sat by the fire with his guitar when you approached him "Javi could you do me a huge favor?" You ask him softly "anything mi amor just say the word and I'll do it" he smirked at you his playful flirting mixed with his thick accent was enough to make any person weak at the knees "could you hold my drink?" You asked him nicely, and he immediately grabs the drink from you, putting his hand over top of it. He sits there in silence, and if anyone comes up to him to ask about it, he'd start a string of Spanish swear words and insults (mainly Micah or Bill). He guarded that drink with his life until you came back to claim it

Lenny Summers: The poor boy is just trying to have some time to himself and read when you come up to him "Lenny my favorite friend in the whole entire world" you smile at him and he just looks up from his book knowing you need something "what is it" he looks at you and you laugh lightly "I really have to go to the bathroom could you watching my drink for me?" You ask him nicely, hoping he'd say yes. He sighs but agrees after a while. He's upset that he'd have to put his book down but also happy to help, he just sits at his tent the whole time hoping no one else would come up and ask him any other favors while he was doing this. After a while, you come back and thank him, and he just nods and goes back to reading his book

Charles Smith: You walked up to Charles, he was a bit intimidating due to his size but you knew him better "howdy Charles" you say with a small smile and the man gives you a small nod "could you possibly hold my drink for me?" You ask him wondering if he would,"of course I can, " he says softly, putting his hand out to take the drink from you. No one really goes up to him to try to test his patience, and if they do, he just glares at them. Your drink is very, very safe with Charles

Hosea Matthews: When you walk up to Hosea, he gives you a loving smile immediately. "How can I help?" He asks his voice soft and warm, you smile at his friendliness "Hosea would you mind holding my drink for a minute, please?" You ask him nicely, and he nods."Of course I can, " he smiles, taking the drink. He sets the drink down next to him, keeping his hand over the cup the whole time a book in one hand and his hand over the drink in the next until you get back

Kieran Duffy: When you walk up to Kieran he's all alone by himself hanging out with the horses "hey" you give him a small sweet smile and he jumps a little at your voice not knowing you were there "h-hey (y/n)" he says shyly "would you mind guarding my drink for a quick moment?" You ask him softly, and he nods. Of course, he would no one ever ask him to do anything around camp, and he just wants to be helpful. He makes sure to keep your drink really close, scared, anything might happen to it.. he just really does not want to mess this up. When you get back, you thank him so much. He is left feeling really good about himself afterward, like he helped someone out

Micah Bell: I'd rather die

Women Version here

[nthspecialll]

Young Arthur Morgan is so funny to me because he is hinted at being everything BUT the calm, thoughtful man we know of today. He is described to be a menace from the mere age of fourteen and when he was twentyone he got so annoyed fish weren't biting that he just went and brought three ones and presented them to Dutch and Hosea as his own catch. Like this was an easily fustrated, angry kid who was probably SO easy to tease.

You cannot tell me that when john joined that he didn't stick his tongue out at Arthur and Arthur JUMPED at him. I see so many who thinks Arthur would be this kind of annoyed but calm big brother when I think he would be the "try me and you will find out what your guts look like" kind, like he will be GLARING at John if he comes anywhere near him and jump at the chance to get at him.

Imagine Dutch teaching Arthur to read, I don't think that it went well at all, I think that Arthur just said "I don't need to know how to read!" threw the book away and stormed off and first actually learned it after he had stood in a situation where he actually needed it and he realised he was fucked. He was probably still a bitch about it tho, getting all up in Dutch's face about it but following him around camp in case he found a word he didn't understand.

I think that Arthur learned to love John, but he was definitely rough with him and there were times where Hosea was genuinely worried if the two of them would end one another but then he sees how they protect each others backs in battles and realises he doesn't have to worry.

ANYWAYS, Arthur Morgan was a violent kid and he would not cry while learning math with Dutch at the kitchen table, he would just run off.

[xxhexwolfxx]

Can I request dating headcanons for Sean, Javier, Hoesa, John, Arthur, and Charles with gn s/o?

𝓓𝓐𝓣𝓘𝓝𝓖 𝓗𝓒𝓢

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! I hope you enjoy! :)

DISCLAIMER: None of these are really connected.

WARNINGS: Some of these have angst!

CHARACTERS: Sean, Javier, Hoesa, John, Arthur, and Charles

~~~~~~~~~~

Sean

If he sees that you're upset, then he'll start to make jokes to make you laugh. He hates seeing you sad.

Once he starts to date you, he'll cut back on his drinking. He wants to remember every moment with you.

If you don't like to talk then don't worry! This man does enough talking for both of y'all. Although it does end up in a fight with whoever he's talking to sometimes.

When he has nightmares of the time of his capture, he'll immediately seek you out. He finds himself comforted by the fact you're there with him.

Javier

He'll help you learn the guitar, so he has the excuse to hold your hand to help adjust your fingers along the frets.

On nights when it's difficult to sleep, he'll softly sing to you with you in his arms.

In the mornings he'll let you put up his hair. He likes the simplicity yet lovingness of the act.

If he messes up when speaking English, he'll look to you for help. You always have to reassure him that everyone makes mistakes and that it's okay.

Hosea

He is an old-fashioned lover. He would want to take it slow so you both can learn more about each other.

When you guys are doing nothing, then he likes to read you, his book. Then he likes to talk about what happens in it.

When its nighttime and you guys are about to sleep, he likes to tell you stories of his youth to help you sleep.

On some days when it's bad, he finds himself thinking that you deserve better than an "old man" like him.

John

(Epilogue) When he's building a home for you guys, he likes to do the dirty work, so you don't worry about getting dirty.

On days when you guys don't have anything to do, he likes to take you and Jack out for family time.

Sometimes he feels super useless from the constant insults from Arthur. You'll need to reassure him that he is not useless and that he does a lot for the camp.

When he gets out of prison, he wouldn't let you go for hours. He's spent so long away from you that it makes him feel better just holding you.

Arthur

When he's busy working or resting without his hat on. He'll put it on you, so he won't lose it. It warms his heart to see you wearing it.

He knows how much you love his voice, so he'll make it slightly deeper to tease you.

If you don't know how to ride a horse, then he'll teach you. He'll even make it a little date for you both.

Sometimes he thinks so badly about himself that it takes a lot of convincing that he isn't ugly or unlovable.

Charles

He likes sitting with you while you guys do your own things. Like you are reading a book while he makes arrows.

Sometimes he just wants to sit in silence with you. Holding you or just sitting next to you while you guys bask in each others presence.

When he goes out to hunt, he likes to bring you back little trinkets or flowers that remind him of you.

Due to the others, sometimes he feels like an outsider to the group. The thoughts go away when you come over to him with a big smile on your face.

[zanazirafanfic]

I just received the finished Cameo from @noshirdalal, and I am SHAKING. It is SO good.

Here it is in full, for your viewing pleasure. (Transcript, provided by @rockscanfly , under the cut.)

I had asked what Charles might have to say to Arthur, if the two of them discussed how much Dutch was changing. Since Charles had experience watching anger and grief change his father into someone he no longer recognized, I wondered what perspective he might offer.

The answer was delivered even more masterfully than I had hoped - although I'm not surprised by that in the least. The request was also tied to some relevant events in my own life, and I appreciated Charles's cool-headed and truthful words of wisdom as much as I'm sure Arthur did.

(Thank you so much, Noshir, both for your wonderful performance here and for your kind words before. It means more than you know.)

Outlaws for life! 🦬🦌

Transcript:

I’ve been a fool, Arthur. I kept telling myself it was only grief. That Dutch was working his way through the loss of Hosea. That eventually he’d come back around.

This isn’t grief. There is something wrong with him.

I watched him giving counsel to Eagle Flies. The look on his face... That poor boy was so worked up, so angry, so confused, that he didn’t see it. But I saw it: the jackal, leering behind that mask that Dutch wears these days. It's like the man I’ve known is gone.

Your cough is getting worse. And I know you don’t have a lot of time. And I know you’re gonna do everything in your power to save those that need saving.

My father taught me a really important lesson. He was a drunk, and he taught me that you can’t save someone who doesn't wanna be saved. And I wear his lesson on my face.

Be careful, Arthur. I don’t know if Dutch can be saved. And if he can’t, a lot of good people are gonna die.

[twola]

i think another a/b/o fic would heal me. or jealous arthur... 🫦

¿PORQUE NO LOS DOS? 🎉

Claim

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

This, this is something that has gotten his hackles up.

Arthur seethes to himself in this stupid, stupid suit, chafing his neck.

Dutch; in all of his wise planning, brought you along. “An unclaimed omega is sure to smooth some of the negotiations - Bronte is an alpha, just a man.”

Hosea wasn’t exactly pleased. Arthur wants to tear something apart.

You flit around in that pretty little dress of yours, off the shoulder and baring your neck for the whole world to see that you’ve never been claimed, that no alpha can say that you are theirs. Indeed, Dutch is right - you’ve garnered attention from onlookers throughout the party - from scandalized women to men following you around like puppy dogs - alphas and betas alike.

He angrily stalks around the periphery of the event, of little use to go carousing. Arthur keeps you in sight for most of the night, until Dutch sends him off to investigate something about Cornwall in the Mayor’s office. He does so, grumbling to himself, and comes back down to the garden to put eyes on you again and threaten death upon any man who got too close.

“Arthur-”

Your hushed voice cuts through the din of conversation like a knife. Not loud, but he hears you say his name clear as day. It sends a shiver down his spine. He spins around to find you leaning against the column of a pergola, seemingly unable to stand upright. He swears as he rushes toward you. 

“What is it - did you have too much to drink, did someone-”

He trails off as his eyes open wide. The flush on your cheeks is more than the champagne would cause. You reach toward him, and instantly, he realizes that you’re about to tumble to the ground. He catches you before you make a scene, his strong hands under your elbows as you gasp.

Arthur swears. “Shit, you’re goin’ into heat, ain’t you?”

You look up at him, terrified, sweat breaking out on your temples, “It- it’s not supposed to come for another week -”

Your plea is cut off as your knees buckle, and Arthur quickly shoots an arm around your waist, holding you up. He quickly walks the two of you to the garden, sitting you down on a bench and settling on one knee before you. As you hold your stomach against a cramp, Arthur tucks strands of your hair behind your ears gently.

“She alright?” 

“H-Hosea-“ you whimper as you look up, finding the older man leaving above Arthur’s shoulders.

“Heat,” Arthur mutters. He looks up at Hosea seriously.

Hosea has a pained look on his face when he takes you in. “I’ll handle Dutch and the rest of the night. You get her somewhere safe.”

Arthur nods, standing up and wrapping his arm around your ribcage even tighter, and you moan softly as your head lolls into his chest as he pulls you to stand. Your flushed cheeks and sweat-soaked decolletage make it obvious that you’re going into heat. And without a claim; without an alpha’s scent on you, it was just a matter of time before every man at this damn party would be gunning for you.

Arthur starts to walk the two of you toward the front gate.

“Arthur.”

Arthur turns his head to make eye contact with Hosea one last time under the garden lights before he takes you toward the front gate.

“She’s trusting you, boy. See that you don’t betray that trust.”

Arthur grinds his teeth but nods his head solemnly. Far too many men would take the opportunity of a lifetime, a heat-drunk omega, defenseless, ripe for the taking. As much as he wanted to, as much as the beast within him roared to, he would not force you to do anything you did not want. Omegas were put upon enough in this world.

You lean on him heavily, arms wound together, as he walks you to the opulent front gate. Armed guards stand at the ready, noticing them walking toward the street.

“Act drunk,” Arthur whispers in your ear, and you nod and turn into him, swaying as if you had too much to imbibe. 

“Evening gents, the Missus had one too many glasses of champagne. Headin’ back to our room down back on tha’ other side of City Hall.”

The guards mumble amongst themselves before one moves out of the way, allowing Arthur to drag you through the gate. Once across the street, he pulls you along much faster than a husband helping his drunk wife would naturally move. Making a beeline into the park, you whine again as Arthur nearly drags you forward across the cobblestoned Flavian Street.

The two of you make it to the fountain before he stops, looking around at people out in the night. Police officers mull under the streetlight, eyeing you both for a moment. Arthur pulls you from under his arm and helps you stand before him, trying to look inconspicuous, like lovers at night.

Your hands land on his biceps as you suck a breath in and slowly look up at him. He curses inwardly at the sight, even more of his goddamn blood pooling in his groin.

“Arthur-” you whisper, your face flushed and cheeks red, obvious even in the night. Your eyes are rimmed with silver, unfocused, dilated. You suck in another breath as you sway, and his hands clamp around your waist to keep you upright. You lean your forehead against his sternum and shiver. The sheen of wetness trails down your neck, and Arthur nearly goes cross-eyed as you try to bury yourself into his chest, knees shaking, nearly collapsing.

“Sweet- sweetheart. You gotta stay upright or the law is gonna think I’m kidnapping you.”

You moan quietly. “I feel…”

“I know, I know. I’ll get you somewhere safe.”

By some power unknown, you’re able to continue to walk the entire distance, tucked into Arthur’s side. He’s shrugged out of his dinner jacket and placed it around your shoulders. He nods to the policemen as he walks you past them - he’s sure at least one of them caught a whiff of your pheromones. He cursed under his breath as he remembered he had no weapons on him. Nothing to defend you but his fists… in most cases would be enough.

Your small hand clutches at the lapel of his shirt, and as much as he’d want to just take you in his arms and carry you, there are too many prying eyes around.

After what seems like forever, the two of you make it to your destination. He brusquely demands a room once the two of you nearly stumble into the Bastille, several card games still going on at the late hour.

Arthur knows as he pulls you toward the stairs that the beady eyes of men at the table are on you, the scent of your pheromones unable to be hidden anymore. He grits his teeth as the two of you slowly ascend the stairs, wanting nothing more than to throw you over his shoulder and march into the room.

But this isn’t about what he wants. No, he’s trying to ignore his achingly hard cock. Trying to ignore his blood pulsing through his veins. Trying to ignore the preemptive swelling of his knot.

Painstakingly slowly, the two of you finally reach the room, where he quickly kicks the door closed and you all but collapse onto the bed, sucking a breath in as you clutch at your abdomen.

“I’ll stay outside. You’ll be safe in here alone.”

“No-” you cry out, pressing yourself up on your elbows in the bed, “Don’t leave me, please, Arthur.”

Arthur grinds his teeth, goddamnit, this was hard enough already, “Sweetheart, I need to leave this room while I still can.”

“Don’t leave me, I want you to stay.”

Your plea hits him like a freight train, the tension having licked up his spine. His cock pulses with interest, “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for…”

Your whole body shakes and you moan, your head falling back onto the mattress. “Oh please, please, I know what I’m asking, oh please-”

“Sweetheart-”

“Arthur please, please come here and knot me.” You whine, sitting and starting to gather your voluminous skirts, pulling them up, your stockinged calves up to your knees on display before he has the wherewithal to move.

He steps closer and places his heavy hands on yours to stop you from baring yourself further. “Stop, that’s your heat talkin’.”

You push at his hands and heave yourself up to a sitting position. “No, no, I’ve… wanted to ask you for months. Before Blackwater. I�� I just been scared you don’t want me.”

“Don’t… want you? Christ, woman. Of course I want you. Jesus, I’d ride you somewhere safe every month and hold you through them heats.”

Arthur sits down on the bed, dangerously close to you, rubbing your wrists gently with his thumbs. The red-blooded alpha in him roars to push you down, rip your underthings, and knot you until you scream his name. But he does not. If anything he has gotten good at in his thirty-six years is dampening down his desires.

You grab his fingers and draw them toward your lace-trimmed bosom, “Please…”

Arthur is unable to bite back the groan that claws its way out from his chest.

His hands, normally such rough tools of destruction, skitter up your ribs to the back of your dress, deftly undoing the clasp below your neck as the dress slumps forward off of you. You shiver as your breasts are more exposed, held in only by your corset - the next target of his quick-moving fingers, pulling at laces and ties. You’re dizzy, and unable to do anything other than breathe heavily as your corset is pulled from your ribcage, your chest exposed as Arthur gently leans you back in the bed. Gently, too gently for an outlaw, for an alpha, he pulls your dress from your frame, your lace-trimmed underthings following, until you shiver, bare underneath his gaze.

You whimper and he hushes you quietly, as if he was calming his mare. Those deft fingers undo the starched shirt, shedding his clean white shirt and crisp pants with urgency. By the time he has stripped himself naked and kicked away his too-nice shoes, you reach toward him, beckoning him into your embrace.

Arthur climbs into the bed, his large form hulking over yours, muscles straining against his skin, his cock bobbing heavily, ready for you.

You open your legs, quaking with unrestrained need, and he settles himself between them as naturally as if you and he had been doing this for years. His cockhead notches at your cunt and he surges forward to mash his lips against yours as he presses through the wet rim of your cunt. You moan, piteously and loudly, as those hard inches slowly slide into you, strong and unyielding, until he is fully seated within you, your cunt stuffed full of his flesh. He pulls away from your lips and leans his forehead against yours, swallowing deeply himself, as if he has to recenter his mind.

Your hands find your way to his pomaded hair, releasing it from its hold as you run your fingers through it. He opens his eyes, those damned blue eyes of his, and they focus on yours for a moment before he slides his head down, his lips probing your neck before he kisses the rim of your ear.

“Still want me to knot ya?”

You turn your head to look at him fully, and you smile, your legs lifting and your ankles crossing over his back.

But he makes no move to cross that threshold.

“Arthur?” Your hand moves to cup his cheek.

He swallows, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before focusing on you again, “Darlin’, I… I want to claim ya.”

Silence falls between you. You blink up at him and he frowns, inwardly cursing for having gone too far. He goes to pull himself out of you before you regain your wits.

“Yes, yes Arthur, please, make me yours. I’ll be yours the rest of my days and I’ll always please you and you can have me whenever you want-” You babble on before he shushes you with another kiss.

“Hush now. You’re gonna be mine, and I’m gonna take care of you, little omega. Through all them heats, you’ll never have to hurt again.” He smiles back at you, his uncertainty from before gone. 

You mewl in response. Arthur grunts as he lifts himself to his elbows and rocks his hips forward sharply, making you sigh.

“Gonna mark you-” he groans as he starts to slam his hips into yours at an increasing pace, “Ain’t no other alpha ever gonna have you, ever gonna look at you again.”

You whine at the thrust, baring your neck, permitting him to fully make you his. He snarls, all alpha, as his hips slam into yours, eyes bleeding red before you have to close yours in overstimulation.

“No one will ever-”

Thrust.

“Touch you-”

Thrust.

“Again-”

He gives one final, brutal thrust, his hips slamming into yours.

The base of his cock swells, and you whimper against the stretch, a bolt of pain-pleasure through your pelvic ring as he expands, locking himself into you. Arthur grunts loudly as he lowers himself down on top of you, his cock twitching violently within you as hot spurts of spend paint your insides. As he finishes, his lips find your neck and his teeth encircle your weeping gland, and they sink into your flesh, causing you to cry out in both pain and relief. The feeling is so overwhelming that you shudder around him, gushing slick around him as you come.

In a knot of entangled limbs, damp with sweat, the two of you pant wearily as you return to your senses. Arthur gets up on his elbows, one of his hands reaching up to brush strands of hair out of your face. You open your eyes to see him smiling down at you, his lips stained with your blood before his tongue darts out to clean himself.

Your hands find his hair once again, affectionately smoothing it down. Arthur nuzzles against your forehead and you smile up at him with adoring eyes.

He glances back down to your neck, where a perfect circle of teeth marks your skin. Before he can linger, you make a small, needy noise and he leans up to kiss you again, adjusting his hips slightly as he covers your body with his. His knot holds strong, sheathing his flesh within yours.

As he kisses you and you clutch at him, his mind drifts to you in that dress, with your neck on display. How now, every man would see his mating mark on you.

How now, the world would know, you were his.

[saddleups]

𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐒. ↳ 𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ( drinks on me )

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 7k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . ongoing , part three. ARTHUR MORGAN X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . explicit dirty talk . semi public . size kink (?) . p in v . oral ( f receive ) .

★ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 . . .  after  successfully  completing  your  mission  ,  dutch  praises  your  efforts  but  reminds  arthur  that  you  stuck  your  neck  out  for  him  ,  urging  him  to  appreciate  it.  relieved  of  your  duties  ,  you  and  arthur  share  a  celebratory  drink  ,  retreating  to  a  secluded  room  where  emotions  boil  to  the  surface .... and dutch walks in.  later  ,  you  decide  to  make  arthur's  dreams  come  true. 

  ★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . please .......drink responsibly

You're still reeling from Arthur’s confession, the weight of it settling heavy in your chest as you watch him walk away, disappearing into the darkening streets of Saint Denis. Conflicted and embarrassed, you try to shake off the emotions brewing inside you. You knew Arthur didn't mean to intrude during an intimate moment but you weren't ready to confront those emotions.

Returning to camp feels like the only option, and you’re set on ignoring Dutch, hoping to slip back unnoticed. But as soon as you arrive, he’s already there, waiting, eager for an update on how things went in town.

“Where’s Arthur?” he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly.

You maintain your composure, not wanting to let anything slip. “He decided to stay behind for a drink,” you lie smoothly, hoping it’ll satisfy Dutch enough to let it go.

“I was tired, so I came back alone.”

Dutch’s jaw tightens, irritation flashing across his face. He doesn’t seem overly concerned about the dynamic between you and Arthur, but more about the integrity of the mission.

“Did you find out anything about Dupont?” Dutch asked, his tone sharp with expectation.

"Not much," you admit, taking a steady breath. "But he’s definitely not the gentleman type. He invited me to his hotel for the night… not exactly what you'd expect from a married man."

Dutch nodded thoughtfully, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “That tracks with what I’ve been hearing around town. Dupont’s screwing around, and high society won’t take kindly to that kind of scandal.”

“So, what’s the next move?”

Dutch mutters something about needing everyone to pull their weight but ultimately relieves you for the night. "Just go get some rest," he says, waving you off, already turning his focus back to the planning.

Exhausted, you gladly take the opportunity to retreat to your tent, the weight of the day pressing down on you. Sleep comes quickly, but it’s restless, your thoughts circling around Arthur and the strange turn the day had taken.

The next morning, you wake to find the camp buzzing with activity. However, you immediately sense a shift in the air. Dutch is already in the center of camp, speaking to Hosea and giving orders. You spot Arthur nearby, arms crossed and looking visibly tense. The moment Dutch catches sight of you, he waves you over.

“Well, there she is,” Dutch says, his voice carrying its usual commanding tone. “Got a little change of plans for tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow, unsure of what he means. Arthur shoots Dutch a dark look, jaw clenched tight.

“What change of plans?” you ask cautiously.

Dutch steps forward, holding a garment bag in his hand. “I’ll be accompanying you to the ball tonight,” he announces. “Arthur’s staying behind.”

Arthur bristles immediately. “The hell I am,” he grunts, stepping closer. “I thought it was me and her. That was the plan.”

Dutch gives him a look, calm but firm. “Plans change, son. You know how it is. Dupont’s a slippery bastard, and I need to make sure we don’t leave anything to chance.” He pats the garment bag. “I already picked up the dress this morning.”

Arthur scoffs, his frustration barely contained. “And what? You think I can’t handle it? You don’t trust me with this job?”

Dutch’s expression softens, slightly. “This isn’t about trust, Arthur. It’s about making sure we succeed. Dupont is more likely to talk to a man with, let’s say, a certain charm. That’s why I’m stepping in.” He gives a smile, clearly confident in his ability to sway the target.

Arthur shakes his head, clearly unhappy. “You’re underestimating me, Dutch,” he mutters, his eyes darting between you and Dutch.

You glance at Arthur, feeling the weight of his frustration. “Arthur…” you begin, trying to ease the tension. “It’s not about you. We all just want to get this done right. Dupont’s a dangerous man.”

Arthur shoots you a sharp look. “And you’re fine with this? Going in with Dutch instead of me?”

You pause, unable to find the proper words to respond with.

Dutch claps his hands together, interrupting the exchange. “We go with what works.” He slings the garment bag over his shoulder and turns to Arthur. “Oh Arthur, don't be a baby. You're welcome to join, Dupont won't be your focus. Don’t take it personal, but this mission’s too important to let anything slip.”

Arthur’s glare intensifies, but he keeps his mouth shut, his jaw working as if he’s biting back a retort.

Dutch turns to you with a wide smile, full of charm. “Get ready. We’ll be heading out in a few hours. Dupont won’t know what hit him.”

Arthur watches as Dutch walks away, leaving you standing there with him in the tense silence. His eyes flick to you, and despite everything, you can see the frustration simmering beneath his guarded expression.

“We were supposed to do this together,” he mutters, his voice low but heavy with disappointment. He's hurt, and for whatever damn reason you feel bad for the guy.

You don’t respond immediately, unsure of what to say. Instead, you give him a small, tired nod before heading back to your tent, the day had just begun but you felt the pressure of it mount on you already.

As you turn to head back to your tent, Arthur grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. Before you can protest, he pulls you into a quieter spot behind the wagons, away from the prying eyes of camp. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are clouded with something you can’t quite read—frustration, guilt, maybe both.

“You actin’ like this because of what I said last night?” he asks, his voice low but urgent. “Look, I swear—I didn’t mean to see anything. I didn’t.”

You sigh, the weight of the past couple of days pressing down on you, and pull your wrist free, crossing your arms. “Arthur, this isn’t just about that,” you say quietly. “You took my journal, teased me in front of Dutch, and questioned if I was even good enough to do the job. What did you expect me to do? Laugh it off?”

His expression softens, and for a moment, he looks down, his frustration shifting into something more sincere. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “You’re right,” he mutters, his voice quieter now. “I shouldn’t’ve taken your journal, or said half the things I did. That was wrong. I—" He pauses, as if struggling with the words. “I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. Arthur doesn’t apologize often, and when he does, you know he means it.

You let out a long breath, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “I know we’re not exactly friends, Arthur. But we’re supposed to be on the same side. If this job is going to work, we need to trust each other.”

Arthur meets your gaze, his expression serious. “I know,” he admits. “I was just… hell, I don’t know what I was doin’. But I’ll make it right.”

You study him for a moment, then nod. “Fine. I'll talk to Dutch, convince him to go back to the original plan. Just you and me.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his moth, almost like he's relieved. "Thank you."

It catches you off guard, you tease him. "Sorry? What was that, didn't catch it the first time."

"Don't push it, woman."

With that, the tension between you eases, at least a little. Arthur steps back, giving you space, and for the first time since the morning started, it feels like you might just be able to pull off this job together—despite everything that’s happened.

You find Dutch by the campfire, his usual charismatic grin absent, replaced with a furrowed brow as he stares into the flames. For whatever reason—maybe guilt, maybe something deeper—you vouch for Arthur as if your life depends on it. Despite everything that happened, despite the way he made you feel, there’s something in you that refuses to let Arthur be cast aside.

Dutch, who had always shown you an unimaginable amount of kindness, who had made you feel like you belonged to something greater, watches you closely. His charm, that effortless warmth he always wielded to win people over, fades away. In its place is a stern, punishing expression you’ve only seen him reserve for reprimanding Arthur.

He looks at you, eyes narrowed, the lines on his face deeper, harsher. “I took you in because I saw potential in you. You’ve been sharp, you’ve been loyal—but vouching for a man who can’t follow simple orders? Arthur’s been slipping, and I won’t let anyone drag this gang down, not even him.” His voice, normally smooth and persuasive, carries an edge of warning now, making your stomach knot.

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you stand your ground, meeting his gaze. "Arthur isn’t the problem here, Dutch. He may be reckless, but he’s not a liability. He’s done more for this gang than anyone, and you know that.” You take Dutch's hand into your own. Fingers dancing over his many rings.

Dutch’s jaw tightens, his eyes studying you, but he doesn’t interrupt. You can tell he’s considering your words, weighing them like a balance on a scale.

“Look," you continue, your voice steadier than you feel, "I know I haven't been here long but, I don't doubt Arthur's loyalty. If you push him away now, you might lose more than just a good gun. You could lose the glue that’s holding your gang together.”

Dutch stands silent for a moment, then finally exhales slowly, his gaze shifting from you to the fire. “You got more heart than I gave you credit for but....” he mutters, though his voice still carries that hard edge. Dutch grips your hand, gently but enough force to get his point across. “....Remember this—loyalty cuts both ways. You put your neck on the line for Arthur, you better make damn sure he’s worth it.”

You nod, feeling the weight of Dutch’s words sink in. His charm may have faded for the moment, but the unspoken message is clear: loyalty comes with a price, and you’ve just raised the stakes.

Your hands untwine. Dutch raises his to point at a group of women gathered around the other side of the camp. "Go on, get ready for the evening. I'll talk to Arthur."

"Thank you Dutch."

"Oh don't start, now go on."

You nod at his order and head towards the other side of the camp. You do your best to muster up a smile to the women, who had more excitement for the evening than you did. As you draw closer, they greet you with open arms, already eager to help.

Mary-Beth, claps her hands together. "We’re gonna make you look like a proper lady tonight!" Tilly grins and winks. "Well, as proper as a Van der Linde woman can get."

They lead you to a makeshift vanity near one of the wagons, filled with brushes, powders, and colorful fabrics. Karen is quick to pull out the gown—a rich, deep red that shimmers faintly in the light. "This’ll suit you just right," she says, holding it up against you, eyes sparkling with approval.

You’re not used to being fussed over, but the women work swiftly and with care. Mary-Beth weaves your hair into a neat, elegant updo, leaving a few loose strands to frame your face. Tilly helps you into the dress, cinching the fabric around your waist in a way that flatters your figure, the tight fit around your curves transforming your usually practical appearance into something... different. You almost don’t recognize yourself.

As Karen adjusts the hem of the gown, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a small, cracked mirror. For a moment, you pause, taking in the reflection. You look beautiful. The elegance of the dress, the soft makeup, the way it all enhances your natural features—it surprises you. A small, unintentional smile creeps onto your face.

"See? Told you," Tilly teases, catching your look of surprise in the mirror. "You clean up real nice."

With a deep breath, you step out from the circle of women, ready—or at least as ready as you’ll ever be. "Thank you girls," you express your gratitude with hugging each of the women goodbye.

When Dutch sees you, his reaction is immediate, his expression softening with pride. He approaches, offering a fatherly smile, warm and approving. “Now, look at you,” he says, his voice full of affection. “I knew you had it in you. You look... well, you look ready to take on the world.” His places a gentle kiss on your cheek, his approval radiating in a way that makes you feel like you truly belong here, like you’re part of something greater.

When you notice Arthur standing off to the side, his usual laid-back confidence is still present, though his eyes linger on you a moment longer than normal. He tugs at the stiff collar of his suit, pretending not to notice how you're watching him.

"Well?" you prod, lifting an eyebrow. "You’ve got something to say, or are you gonna just stand there all night?"

Arthur smirks, shifting his weight and scratching the back of his neck. "Ah, you clean up alright," he says with a shrug, deliberately casual, though you can see the way his gaze flickers over you—taking in the way the dress hugs your form. "Figured you’d be tripping over that thing, but I reckon you’ll manage."

You can’t help but roll your eyes, though a small smile tugs at your lips. “Is that all?”

His smirk widens, and he shoots you a sidelong glance, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Maybe I’ll have more to say later," he drawls, "once you stop fishin’ for compliments."

Even though he doesn’t outright say it, there’s something in his tone that gives him away. And the longer his eyes linger, the more you’re certain — he’s definitely noticed.

The two of you walk side to side toward the carriage Dutch had organized for the evening. Further selling the idea that you belonged to a higher class. As you walk, you catch a fleeting glance of Arthur beside you and catch a sight you'd never seen before.

Gone is the rugged gunslinger in his usual worn leather and dusty hat. Instead, he’s dressed in a finely tailored suit, the dark fabric hugging his broad shoulders and clean lines giving him an air of refinement. His usual scruffy appearance has been replaced with something more polished—his hair, typically tousled and unkempt, is now neatly combed back, framing his face in a way that softens his usual hard edges.

The suit fits him well, accentuating the strength in his build, but there’s still something unmistakably Arthur about the way he carries himself. He tugs at the stiff collar, clearly uncomfortable with the formal attire, but there’s no denying how striking he looks. It’s almost disarming to see him like this, a man who’s so at home in the wilds, now looking every bit the gentleman.

You can’t help but stare for a moment longer than you intended. It’s a stark contrast to the rough-and-tumble Arthur you’re used to, and somehow, seeing him cleaned up like this only adds to the tension between you. He catches your eye and, noticing your gaze, shifts awkwardly.

"Stop starin’," he mutters, glancing away, though there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Ain’t used to all this."

You smirk, your eyes still trailing over him. "Could’ve fooled me. You almost look civilized."

Arthur lets out a soft chuckle, scratching the back of his neck again. "Don’t get too used to it," he says, his voice low. "This fancy stuff ain’t exactly my speed."

“Well, I think you look handsome.”

The confession slips out before you even realize it, casual but undeniably true. Without giving it much thought, you turn and step into the carriage with Dutch’s assistance, brushing it off as if it’s no big deal.

Behind you, Arthur stands there for a second, blinking as though you’d just spoken in another language. His mouth opens slightly, clearly caught off guard, fumbling for a response.

Dutch, ever observant, leans in toward Arthur and mutters, “Just take the compliment and don’t be an asshole.”

Arthur grumbles something under his breath, but he follows you into the carriage without a retort, shaking his head.

The air inside the grand ballroom is thick with the chatter of high society—politicians, businessmen, and more. You move through the crowd with Arthur at your side, dressed up yet somehow still managing to look a little out of place among the glittering chandeliers and silk gowns.

As you glance around, your eyes land on Alistair Dupont, the man at the center of Dutch’s scheme. He’s charming the crowd, his smile and demeanor polished. But there’s a flicker of recognition when his eyes meet yours. He excuses himself from his conversation and approaches.

“Ah, the lady of the hour,” Alistair says smoothly, giving a short, practiced bow. His gaze sharpens as he studies you, then flicks to Arthur. “I must admit, I didn’t expect such... colorful company this evening.”

Your jaw tightens, but you keep your cool. “Nice to see you too, Mister Dupont.”

He smiles, but there’s no warmth behind it. "Why don't we find someplace a bit more… private?" Alistair murmured, placing his hand at the small of your back as he guided you toward his study.

The heavy double doors closed behind you and Arthur with a soft thud. You exchanged a brief, reassuring glance with Arthur, though the air was thick with tension. Alistair was up to something. He turned his back to you both, casually fixing himself a drink as if this were just another social call.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Alistair turned back toward you, a cold smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Without a word, he pulled a piece of paper from his desk and tossed it onto the floor at your feet. Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized it immediately—your own wanted poster.

Your fists clenched, and a wave of heat rushed through you, but your voice seemed trapped in your throat. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but you stood your ground.

“I’d be careful about the game you’re playing, sweetheart,” Alistair sneered, his tone dripping with malice. “You and your little friend here are in way over your heads.”

Arthur shifted beside you, a steady presence, his fingers twitching ever so slightly near his belt. “Is that so?” he drawled, his eyes narrowing. “Funny, I thought we were just gettin' warmed up.”

Alistair’s smile faltered, the tension thickening. “I know exactly who you are and what you’re trying to pull. You think you can blackmail me?” He stepped forward, words tasting like venom. “Let me be clear—whatever dirt you’ve dug up won’t matter. I’ve got powerful friends. Lawmen, politicians… they’ll bury you both before you even have a chance to breathe.”

"You sound nervous, Alistair," you say, keeping your voice calm and measured. "Like a man with too much to lose."

His expression darkens as you continue, unbothered by the tension building in the room. “A wife who knows nothing about the mistress, and a child you’ve hidden from the public? I’m sure your 'friends in high places' would love to get wind of that.”

Alistair’s grip on his glass tightens until his knuckles turn white. "You should've just taken the invitation to the hotel," he snarls, his voice low and dangerous. “I would've had my way with you, made you feel like the most expensive whore in Saint Denis, make you forget about this life with that damn outlaw.”

A flicker of panic crosses his face as he steps toward you, his intentions clear, but before you can react, Arthur surges forward. With no hesitation, he shoves Alistair back, his jaw clenched in fury. In one swift motion, Arthur’s fist collides with Alistair’s face, the impact echoing through the room.

You gasp, eyes widening. “Arthur!”

Arthur’s fist connected with Alistair’s jaw with a sickening thud, sending him stumbling backward. The glass in Alistair’s hand shattered on impact with the floor, spilling liquor across the polished wood. He groaned, clutching his jaw as he glared up at Arthur, a mix of rage and humiliation clouding his features.

Arthur stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous, “Listen here, Dupont. Your little secret—your wife, the kid, all of it—stays buried. But only if you keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. You’re gonna stay loyal to us, to Dutch, and if you don’t…”

He let the sentence hang in the air, the threat clear without needing to be said. Arthur’s gaze was hard as steel, his fingers still curled into a fist, ready for more if Alistair tried anything again.

Alistair swallowed hard, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth, the defiance slowly draining from his eyes. “You can’t—” he started, but Arthur cut him off, his voice cold and final.

“I can. And I will. You play along, and no one has to know about your dirty little secret. But cross us, and not even your 'friends' will be able to protect you.”

You make your presence known, standing beside Arthur. "Get up and wipe yourself off Alistair." You throw a handkerchief in his direction. "You have a party to get back to."

Alistair glares at Arthur, but the weight of the threat settles between them. “This isn’t over,” he hisses before turning on his heel, disappearing into the crowd.

Arthur watches him go, his jaw clenched, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Christ,” you mutter.

Arthur shoots you a sidelong glance. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” you reply, though your heart is still racing. “I need a drink.”

As you and Arthur reenter the ballroom, the tension of the encounter with Alistair still lingers between you. The grand chandelier above casts a warm glow across the sea of people dressed in finery, but your mind is far from the celebration. You spot Dutch near the far end of the room, engaged in conversation, but his eyes find yours as you approach.

Dutch's brow lifts with curiosity, sensing that your task is complete. "Well?" he asks, an edge of anticipation in his voice.

Arthur straightens beside you, offering a nod. "It’s done. Dupont’s… on board now," he says, voice low but firm.

You add quickly, "He won’t be a problem. We made sure of it."

Dutch’s eyes flicker with satisfaction, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Good. Very good. I knew I could count on the two of you." He leans in, voice quieter but full of pride. "I’ll take it from here—Dupont won’t dare step out of line now."

Dutch’s gaze shifts pointedly to Arthur. "And Arthur, you should know she stuck her neck out for you back at camp. Vouched for you, when I wasn’t so sure." His tone is stern but not unkind, as if reminding Arthur of a debt.

Arthur glances at you, something unreadable in his eyes, before he mumbles, "I know."

Dutch pats both of you on the shoulder. "Consider yourselves relieved for the night. Go, enjoy yourselves. You've earned it."

As Dutch turns away, already moving to work his leverage on Dupont, you catch Arthur’s gaze again. He clears his throat, his teasing tone returning, though his gratitude is clear in the way he holds your gaze a little longer. "Well, partner, looks like I owe you. How ‘bout we celebrate? Drink’s on me tonight."

The weight of the events seems to lift just a little. You smile at Arthur and he returns the gesture.

A few drinks later, you and Arthur find yourselves in a secluded room, away from the commotion of the ball. The soft glow of candlelight fills the space, the hum of distant music and chatter barely reach your ears. You've booth loosened up, the tension from earlier melting away with each glass of whiskey.

"You handled Dupont better than I expected," Arthur says leaning back against the wall, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. "Didn't even slap him when he said such a nasty thing."

You sit on the chaise across from Arthur, cradling a glass in your hand, eyes fixed on the amber liquid swirling inside. "Yeah, thanks," you murmur, glancing up at him. Arthur leans against the wall, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. His expression is thoughtful, still weighed down by the confession from the night before.

"Come, sit," you say, patting the open spot beside you.

Arthur hesitates for only a second before obliging, settling next to you. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken thoughts. Finally, your eyes meet his, and you decide to break the tension.

"About last night…" you begin, feeling the need to get ahead of the conversation. "I shouldn't have said nothin'," Arthur interrupts. His voice softens, "shouldn't have watched, neither."

You take a breath, feeling a combination of embarrassment and something else you weren't ready to name, "Arthur, it's…"

Before you can continue, he interrupts once more words falling from him like a running faucet. “I ain’t apologizing for lookin’. Can’t help it.” He slides in closer, his gaze intense. “But if you think I’m gonna stand by and let Dupont or anyone else put their hands on you…”

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in. You’re both sitting so close now, the air thick with tension, and all the teasing and bickering that’s built up between you feels like it’s coming to a head.

“I…” you murmur, your voice trailing off as he inches closer, his eyes searching yours for permission, for understanding, for something neither of you are ready to say out loud just yet.

Without hesitation, you place a firm hand on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. "....I can take care of myself," you say confidently, but he simply responds with a soft yet rough voice,

"I know. But I still will."

Your gaze locks with Arthur's, and you can feel a fiery intensity building between you. You bite your lip before shifting your attention to his hands. "Can I ask you something?" you inquire.

Arthur takes a swig from the whiskey bottle and nods, "Of course. I've been honest with you."

You hesitate for a moment before continuing with a softer tone. "That night in the tent… when you saw me, did you like what you saw?"

Arthur nearly chokes on his drink, caught off guard by your question.

"I swear, I didn't see much," he stammers.

With a subtle touch to his thigh, Arthur tenses up at your gesture, sending electric sparks through his body. Your eyes meet his as you whisper in his ear, "Be honest. Did you touch yourself thinking of me?"

Arthur closes his eyes in disbelief at the boldness of your words. "Yer trying to embarrass me, aren't you?" he mutters.

You shake your head firmly. "No, no. I promise. I'm just curious." Your hand slowly slides higher on his thigh. "I could've used your help that night, you know." You lean in closer to him. "I bet it would've felt so good. So much better than my own fingers."

With a lift of your hand you trace your index across Arthur's bottom lip. A grunt escapes Arthur's lips as he struggles to contain the moan threatening to break free.

"Kiss me," you demand.

And without hesitation, he does. Your lips meld together passionately as if they were made for each other. Your palm presses firmly against his chest as the kiss deepens, both of you trying to devour each other completely.

As you part for air, you look into his eyes and remind him of your initial question. "You still didn't answer my question, Mister Morgan." Your hands playfully dance along the waistband of his trousers. "Did you like what you saw that night?"

Arthur's confession comes out in a low, husky tone, "Course I did. I went to my tent and stroked my cock thinking about you. I had a dream of fucking you." He breathes heavily against your mouth, taken aback by his own admission. "Is that what you want to hear, darlin'?"

Your heart races at his words as you gulp, unable to believe what he just revealed.

Your breath catches in your throat at Arthur's blunt confession. A shiver runs down your spine as you process his words. You hadn't expected him to be so candid, and the raw desire in his voice ignites a fire deep within you.

"Yes," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

Arthur's eyes darken with lust as he watches you, waiting to see what you'll do next. The tension between you is palpable, electric. You slide your hand higher up his thigh, feeling the hard muscle beneath his trousers.

"Tell me more," you breathe, leaning in close so your lips brush against his ear. "Tell me about that dream."

A low growl rumbles in Arthur's chest. His large, calloused hands grasp your waist, pulling you flush against him. "You sure you want to know, darlin'?" Arthur murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "It ain't exactly proper talk for a lady."

"I'm no lady," you reply with a smirk. "And I want to hear every filthy detail."

Arthur's grip on your waist tightens as he pulls you even closer. His breath is hot on your neck as he begins to speak in a low, gravelly whisper.

"In my dream, you came to my tent in the dead of night. Didn't say a word, just started undressin'. I watched as you peeled off every layer, 'til you were standin' there bare as the day you were born."

You shiver at his words, picturing the scene. Your hands roam over his broad chest as he continues.

"You climbed on top of me, straddlin' my hips. I could feel the heat of you against me, even through my clothes. You leaned down and kissed me hard, your hands working to undo my shirt buttons."

Arthur's voice grows huskier as he recounts the dream, his hands roaming your body. You let out a soft moan as he squeezes your hips.

"I ran my hands all over your soft skin, touchin' every inch of you. When I cupped your breasts, you threw your head back and made the sweetest sound I ever heard."

Your breath quickens as Arthur's words paint a vivid picture in your mind. You press yourself closer to him, craving more contact.

"Then you started ridin' me, slow at first. I could feel how wet you were, how tight. God, it felt so good. I gripped your hips and helped you move faster, harder."

Arthur's hands slide down to cup your backside, pulling you firmly against him. Your palm hovering over his trousers can feel his arousal growing.

"I woke up just as I was about to finish," he growls. "Left me aching for you, somethin' fierce."

You roll your hips against him, eliciting a low groan. "Well, Mister Morgan," you purr, "why don't we make that dream a reality?"

A wicked grin spreads across Arthur's face as he looks at you, still chuckling in disbelief. His eyes are filled with a dangerous glint as he feels the power you have over him and decides to challenge it.

"Not so fast, darlin'," he taunts, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Ever think I might have a question for you too?"

You knit your brows together, feeling a surge of pleasure rise within you. "What are you talking about?"

"That night in the bar with Dupont," Arthur continues, his words laced with lust. "You were pouring ale down your chest, driving us mad like dogs."

"What about it?"

Arthur leans closer, his breath hot against your skin. "You gonna apologize for that little stunt or what? Because I was ready to bend you over and fuck you right then and there."

Before you can react, he grabs the bottle of liquor and pours a few ounces down your cleavage, causing a soft shriek to escape from your lips. He then plunges down, lapping up the liquid gathered in your bust hungrily while his fingers dig into your hips possessively. The intensity of the moment leaves you breathless and disoriented, unsure how to respond to this display of dominance from Arthur.

With each passing second, your gaze remains fixed on him, his tongue lapping up the taste of liquor from your skin. His hand sink into the depths of your hips, keeping you still.

"Careful, don't rip my dress." You warn, "I won't." His response thick, speaking directly where his lips met your cleavage.

A flush spreads across your body at his words - warmth that quickly turns hot and wet. The knowledge of where this will inevitably lead heightens the need within you until it feels like an ache.

The sound of a doorknob rattling awakens you, yet Arthur remains transfixed. You desperately try to pull yourself away, Arthur complies looking up with eyes glazed over by lust, mouth and chin smeared with liquor and saliva.

Arthur's head snaps back into focus at the sound of Dutch's voice entering the room. "Sorry," he slurs out stumbling up from the chaise.

"You two look like quite the sight," Dutch remarks dryly as he surveys the scene before him: Arthur swaying unsteadily on his feet; your cheeks flushed red with embarrassment; whiskey stains splattered across you both - evidence of their recent encounter. It's like a father catching his daughter.

You stand on your feet and protest, "it was an accident!" Trying to shield your wet chest from Dutch's gaze while simultaneously fanning out your skirt to cover up Arthur's excitement still throbbing in his trousers.

"He spilled whiskey on me," you say defensively on behalf of an intoxicated Arthur.

"You know what they say about trying to put out a fire with gasoline?" Dutch questions pointedly, eyes narrowing at Arthur's inebriated state.

Dutch grabs hold of Arthur by the arm and propels him towards the door, barely able to keep his footing with each unsteady step. The sound of his scuffling feet echoes in your ears as you watch from afar.

You can't help but look away when Dutch finally turns to face you again, his eyes boring into yours like burning embers on a cold night. "He spilled a drink on you?" he asks sternly, as if trying to determine just how much trouble his drunken companion has gotten himself into.

You nod your head quickly in response, your cheeks flushing with shame and embarrassment at the memory of what had happened earlier. "We were celebrating and just got carried away," you offer by way of explanation, hoping that it will be enough to appease Dutch's wrath.

But he isn't satisfied with your answer. He puts his hands on his hips and lets out a long exhale, like he's trying to keep himself from losing control completely. "A dress like that doesn't come cheap," he warns ominously before turning around and heading back towards the carriage.

"Come on now, unless you prefer walkin' home."

You swallow hard as you gather your skirts around yourself and hurry after him, praying that you won't have to face any more questions about what had happened between Arthur and yourself earlier tonight.

The carriage ride back to Clemens Point feels interminable; every jolt of the wagon causing an unbearable ache within you as you try desperately not to think about how close you were to giving in to temptation earlier. Dutch kept his gaze on Arthur, still in his drunken haze staring out the carriage window.

By the time you reach your destination, exhaustion has finally begun to overtake you completely, and all you can do is stumble through the darkness towards your tent. Mary-Beth waits for you outside, her eyes widening when she sees the whiskey stain on your dress. She curses under her breath as she helps you undress for bed, not even bothering to hide her disgust when you explain Arthur spilled a drink on you.

But sleep eludes you long after Mary-Beth has left the tent; instead, all you can do is lie there in the darkness replaying over and over again what had almost happened earlier that day...

So you leave your tent, passing through the central campsite to ensure that everyone else has retired for the night. The lanterns have been extinguished, save for one flickering oil lamp left burning low by Dutch's side as he keeps watch over the camp. It's risky, yet you take your chances to sneak towards Arthur's tent, grabbing a bottle of liquor along the way.

The interior of Arthur's tent is dimly lit by a small lantern hanging from the center pole; it casts shadows across his face as he lays on his back on his cot with his arm covering his eyes like he's trying to sleep but can't seem to find any relief.

"What are you doing here?" he asks groggily when he feels your presence, not quite awake yet but definitely aware that someone has entered his personal space uninvited.

You swallow hard and place the bottle of liquor down on a nearby table before beginning to undress, unable to resist the urge to explore this newfound desire between you and Arthur,

"How'd that dream go? I sneak in your tent…" your clothes fall away one by one, revealing more of your body with each discarded piece, "and undress bare as the day I was born?"

Arthur lets out a slow sigh and rolls over onto his side towards you. His hand reaches out and brushes against your skin lightly as if testing the waters; when he receives no immediate resistance, he begins exploring further downward your abdomen, leaving kisses in his wake.

The silence that falls between you two feels electric; it crackles with anticipation and desire as if every nerve ending in your bodies has come alive all at once. You push him down on the cot, Arthur speechless at the site. You're a literal dream come true.

"I get on top of you." You press your core onto his clothed cock, grinding your hips forward as you lean down to place a firm kiss on his lips.

"And ride." he completes your sentence with a moan.

Delicate hands begin to fumble with the buttons of Arthur's shirt. Freeing him from the confides of it, you admire his broad chest, freckled with a few scars and littered with hair. You place wet, open mouth kisses starting at his neck and down to his chest.

Arthur large hand cups your ass, hips bucking forward as he grinds into you. You moan so sweetly, Arthur kicks his head back. "You sound better than I imagined."

You can't suppress a chuckle, "I can't believe I'm doing this," you mutter, "I wanted to punch you the second I met you."

Arthur laughs, "can't say I was too excited to meet you neither, darlin' but you changed my mind."

His eyes flicker to the bottle of liquor you sneaked into the tent. "Go on, bring that bottle over here." He requests sweetly. Although you are hesitant to escape from his touch, you oblige to his request and retrieve the bottle.

"Is this really the time?" You ask, handing the bottle over.

There's a wicked grin on Arthur's complexion that hints he's up to something, you just can't put your finger on it.

"Lay down on the rug over there, pretty girl."

Looking at Arthur for reassurance, he nods encouraging you to do as he requested. Surrendering your frame onto the rug underneath you, you lay back feeling the fur blossom around your bare skin.

Arthur kneels at your feet with a bottle of liquor placed right at his side.

"What are you-"

He cuts you off by grabbing your legs and arching your body upward towards him. He takes your legs and places them on either side of his shoulder. Then Arthur retrieves the bottle of liquor and pours a generous amount onto your exposed cunt. The sensation of the liquid pouring between your legs is unusual but the hunger in Arthur's eyes aided your growing desire.

Without notice he drowns into you, tongue flat against your wet slit as he laps up the liquid eager not to waste a single drop. His tongue swirls inside you greedily sucking your juices mixed with liquor. Your back arches forward, hips grind against his face as you feel his stubble burn against your inner thigh.

The moans that leave you are ones you weren't aware you were capable of making. "Arthur!" You shriek. He's lost in his own world and you can't resist the urge to tighten your thighs around his pretty face.

"Arthur if you keep this up, I'm going to..."

Arthur releases his grip slowly lowering your body onto the rug, he parts from his task allowing you to catch the breath caught in your throat.

"Well, it sure don't sound like you want me to stop?" He teases.

Without a word, you reach over to unbutton his pants, aiding him in sliding the fabric down his legs. You wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it gently as you lean forward to kiss him. He lets out a low groan, hips bucking into your hand.

"It's just... I want your cock," you pout, "take me, Arthur. However you want me, take me."

"God," Arthur gasps, looking up at you. "Sit up and take my cock like the good girl you are." He demands.

You oblige, positing yourself over him. The size of his cock comes into clear view, you wonder if it's possible for his large girth to fill you entirely.

"Go on, girl" he urges you.

"It's so... big."

Arthur places his hands firm on your hips, "we'll just take it easy, yeah? I got you girl, don't you worry."

You nod, trusting him. The tip of his cock kisses your entrance. As he begins to sheath himself inside you, you feel your walls stretch open. Your wetness gathering on his cock. He groans, "atta girl."

You lower your weight. His cock entering you completely. Plunging forward you place your palms flush on his chest anchoring yourself. Your hips move in tandem with his, a slow steady rhythm.

"Your cock feels so good inside me, it's so big."

Arthur grunts, “that's it, take it like a good girl." Arthur firmly grabs your ass and slaps the skin. It sends a jolt up your spine resulting in a loud moan.

Quickly he places an open palm over your mouth. He hushes you, "I know your excited pretty girl, but you gotta stay quiet for me."

Nodding your head, you both become more entangled in each other, your hips begin to move faster. Arthur's hands grip harder onto your hips, his cock plunging deeper inside you with every thrust. You throw your head back in ecstasy as he reaches around to grab one of your breasts, squeezing it softly between his fingers.

"Oh fuck, Arthur," you moan. "Fuck…I'm gonna come."

Arthur growls into the crook of your neck, "come for me baby girl."

In an explosion of pleasure, you cry out as waves of intense sensations wash over you. Your muscles tense up around his cock, milking it with each spasm. Arthur lets out a long groan, feeling you grip him tightly before he too comes undone, filling you completely with his warm seed.

Breathing hard, your forehead rests against his, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. “That… was absolutely incredible,” you murmur, eyes locked on his.

Arthur chuckles softly, still catching his breath. “If I wanna top that, I reckon I’ll have to keep dreamin’,” he says, pulling out of you slowly, his tone laced with humor.

You relax against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall as he recovers. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” you tease, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

“I should probably head back to my tent,” you suggest after a moment, though Arthur’s arms tighten around you, a soft groan of protest escaping him.

You kiss him gently, smiling as you pull back. “I need to let you dream, don’t I? Besides…” you sit up slightly, glancing down at him, “I doubt Dutch would be too thrilled about this.”

Arthur groans again, like a petulant child. “Don’t go bringin’ him up in a perfect moment like this.” You laugh and playfully slap his chest, feeling the warmth between you linger.

You sit up, gently brushing your hair back as you prepare to leave Arthur’s side. He watches you, still catching his breath, his eyes lingering as if he doesn’t want the moment to end. Leaning down, you place a soft kiss on his lips, letting it linger for just a heartbeat longer than usual.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” you whisper against his mouth, pulling back with a tender smile. “Keep dreamin’, alright? Maybe next time you’ll outdo yourself.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly as he gazes up at you. “Reckon I’ll give it a shot.”

You stand, adjusting your clothes, and cast one last glance at Arthur before turning toward your tent. As you take a few steps away, his voice, soft yet playful, breaks the silence. “You sure you can’t stay a little longer?”

A smile tugs at your lips, and you pause for a moment, shaking your head. “Tempting,” you reply, glancing back at him over your shoulder, “but I’ll leave you to those dreams.”

Before you can take another step, you feel Arthur’s hand gently wrap around your wrist, tugging you back just enough to stop you in your tracks. “Oh, come on now, darlin’,” he teases, his voice low and sweet. “Don’t make a grown man beg.”

His eyes, wide and hopeful, give him a puppy-like look you can’t help but smile at. You sigh, pretending to consider your options, but he’s already won you over.

“Alright,” you relent, shaking your head with a grin. “Guess we’ll just have to wake up early.”

Arthur’s quiet celebration is immediate, his face lighting up as he adjusts the cot to make room for you. Sliding in beside him, you find yourself enveloped in his warmth as his strong arms pull you close. His chin rests on your shoulder, the rough touch of his stubble tickling your skin in a way that makes you feel strangely comforted.

As you settle into the cot, the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s breathing becomes a soothing rhythm, a remedy for a good night’s rest. Wrapped in his embrace, the exhaustion of the day fades, leaving you content and warm in his arms.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TBA

[synthwavecryptid]

Handsome devil down in Saint Denis 🦇🩸✨

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 2: CHARLES SMITH, THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 

synopsis: charles makes sure you're getting on okay as you continue to try to evade arthur (poorly, might i add).

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: i almost leaked this to my classmate when sending her a link. nearly shat myself but we're all good this is all still under wraps

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Charles was right. Even though you want to help, there’s really nothing to do besides hunt – and the good Lord knows you’re useless when it comes to that.

For the last day or so, you’ve just been hanging around the garage-made-kitchen. Even though Javier told you you weren’t intruding (and that “everyone needs shelter”), you feel like you are. It’s not a good feeling. So you stayed outside, in the company of a man who introduced himself as Simon Pearson and the camp cook, Charles, and occasionally Javier when he found the time to swing by. 

A fair few people have introduced themselves as well – Hosea Matthews, Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers, Reverend Orville Swanson, Leopold Strauss (who just oozed sleaze), Miss Karen Jones, Miss Tilly Jackson, Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill, and little Jack alongside his mother, Miss Abigail Roberts. Those who didn’t directly introduce themselves to you were pointed out by Karen and you were given a run-down on them.

So far, these are the people as you know them: Missus Sadie Adler is a grieving, skittish widow. Uncle is a lazy sack of shit. John Marston is better at being wolf food than being a father. Miss Susan Grimshaw is stubborn (but caring – somewhat like how neighborhood mamas care). Miss Molly O’Shea has a stick so far up her ass she spits splinters when she talks. The man tied up in the barn, Kieran Duffy, is an O’Driscoll (or ex-O’Driscoll, if what he insists is true is really true). Oh – and the blond man that punched Bill? That’s Micah Bell: a man with the eye of a viper tasting the air and the nose of a shark waiting for blood in the water. From what you’ve deduced, his general vibe is “I would take sexual relationship advice from Bill Cosby if given the chance.”

All in all, a healthily diverse group of people – even if the traits that make them diverse aren’t all that desirable. (Mostly Micah’s. Especially Micah’s.)

But Charles is nice enough. So you’ve stuck with Charles. Even if you need to hang around Pearson to hang out with him. Pearson isn’t an intrinsically bad guy, just… a little off-putting.

Right now, you’re able to put your hands to use by opening canned vegetables and putting them in the cauldron-looking pot Pearson has for rabbit stew. Across the table, Charles is butchering and deboning a rabbit as best he can with his injured hand. You try your best to keep your eyes on the cans of carrots and celery you’re opening. 

There’s footsteps. You glance up. It’s Arthur. You look back down. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Pearson gripes to no one in particular. 

You watch Arthur approach the fire and he holds his hands out towards the coals in your peripheral vision. He shakes his head. “Ah, we’re okay.”

“We have a few cans of food and a rabbit. For, what – ten, twelve people?” Pearson gestures over to where you and Charles are working. “Even more with them and that widow.”

Despite yourself, you can feel the tips of your ears start to burn. What do you have to be embarrassed about? Needing to eat? If anything, Pearson should be the one feeling embarrassed for talking about you in front of you. Yeah… that’s it. 

Pearson continues. “When I was in the Navy…”

Arthur immediately interrupts him. “I – I do not wish to hear about what you got up to in the Navy, Mister Pearson.”

And yet, he keeps going despite Arthur’s protest. “We were stranded at sea… for fifty days.”

“And you, unfortunately, survived,” Arthur drawls. 

You glance up at him from underneath your eyelashes and smile. His eye catches yours, and your gaze drops, as does your smile. Instead, you work on getting your finger under the tab of a can of chopped onions – which is hard, considering the thickness of your gloves.

You feel Arthur’s eyes leave you and let out a soft sigh of relief that clouds in front of your face. Charles holds out his knife to you. You tip the top of the can towards him, and he wedges the (bloody – ew) blade of his knife underneath the tab and opens it. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You clench your jaw when you feel Arthur’s eyes on you again – yes, very briefly, but still. You can count the number of times you’ve made eye contact with him on one hand, and you don’t want to add to that total. 

Thankfully, Pearson seems ignorant to your plight and continues complaining. “When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn’t able to get supplies in!”

“Well, when government agents are hunting you down, sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short,” Arthur snaps. “We’ll survive. We always have. And if needs be, we can eat you – you’re the fattest.”

You bite your lip to suppress a laugh and clear your throat to mask any noise you might’ve made. You pour the onions in the pot and glance at the rabbit carcass, now carved up and stripped of meat.

“Damn, there’s nothing left on that thing,” you say. “You’re good at that.”

Charles nods in response. “If you’re done, you can put it on the fire.”

You lift the pot with a grunt – it’s heavier than you expected, but nothing you can’t handle. You move over to the coals and hang the pot on a hook over the fire while Pearson and Arthur continue talking. 

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting, and they found nothing,” Pearson says. 

“Well, Lenny’s more into book learnin’ than huntin’,” Arthur says. You perk up at that. “Bill’s a fool. Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read, ain’t no wonder they haven’t found –”

“Enough of this,” Charles interrupts. Even though his voice is relatively quiet and deep, it still cuts through whatever Arthur was planning on prattling on about. “We’ll go find something. Come on, Arthur.”

“Well, take them.” Arthur gestures vaguely in your direction. “Since they seem so keen on helpin’ out, and all.”

“I, um…” You shake your head. “No, thanks.”

“They don’t even know how to hold a rifle correctly,” Charles says. (His bluntness stings a little, but it’s true. You know how to hold a handgun, but not these old-timey types.) “If they knew how to hunt, we would’ve gone already.”

Arthur sighs and shrugs. “If you insist.”

“Wait a second, hold on.” Pearson hurries over to the table you and Charles had been working at earlier. He pulls out a can from the small pile you had organized and tosses it to Arthur. “You’re gonna need something to eat out there.”

“Hm… “assorted, salted offal”,” Arthur reads off the label. He levels Pearson with a dead stare. “Starving would be preferable.”

You stifle a laugh and, again, clear your throat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Charles says, adjusting the bandage on his hand. 

“You can’t go huntin’,” Arthur says. “Look at your hand.”

“I can’t stay here listening to you two,” Charles says. He gestures to you without looking at you. “The conversation they make is tolerable, but, again, they can’t hunt. Look, if there’s game in those hills, I’ll find it – and you can kill it.”

“You need to rest, Charles,” Arthur insists.

“You think this is rest?” Charles’ face twists into a scowl, then he turns and walks towards his horse with a “Come along.”

Arthur scoffs under his breath and his eyes flick to you. You do your best to suppress the temptation to duck away from his gaze, as piercing as it is. You win, and he looks away, following Charles to the hitching post. They quickly mount up and ride out.

You draw your shoulders up to your ears and shudder. When Pearson shoots you a questioning glance, you excuse it with “What? It’s cold.”

When a few seconds have passed, you roll your shoulders back. You settle down on the chair that’s inside the kitchen, just watching a few late, fat snowflakes fall outside.

After a good ten minutes of watching Pearson and playing with your hands, you figure he’ll be fine on his own and wander out along the footpaths in the snow. You find who you’re looking for quickly. 

Lenny gives you a polite nod as you stand across from him, the fire on the ground separating you two. He has a rifle – the sight of which doesn’t surprise you as much as it first did – and he settles the butt of the gun in the inner corner of his elbow. 

“You’re Lenny, right?” You try. 

“Yeah. And you’re…” Lenny gives your name. You nod in response.

“I just…” You clear your throat and bat away the embarrassment and anxiety that’s creeping up on you – something that always comes with approaching strangers. “Arthur mentioned that you like books. I, uh… I read, too. Sometimes.”

“Really?” Lenny says. “What kinda books have they got out in the Mojave?”

You look down at the fire and think, trying to come up with some excuse and build your backstory. “We don’t have a lot of books – I live in a pretty isolated part of the desert. But there’s traders, and they bring medical books, and a few storybooks. I like the medicine books they bring. You?”

Lenny seems to hesitate for a moment. “Poetry.”

“Poetry?” You hum. “Huh. Poems are nice.”

There’s a lapse in conversation. You don’t know how to fill it. You say the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Micah’s kinda a prick, right?” You blurt out. 

Your eyes snap up to Lenny’s face. He’s surprised, but his face quickly melts into a smile and he laughs. You feel the coil of anxiety in your stomach loosen. 

“Why, I didn’t expect you to come out and say it,” he says. “But your assessment is correct.”

“Yeah, sorry.” You laugh nervously, your eyes falling to the fire again. “I just get bad vibes from the guy.”

“Bad vibes?” Lenny echoes. 

The coil is tight again. You think for a moment. “Uh, yeah. One of the tribes I live with believes in, um… vibrational energy, that kinda thing. When you look at someone and you get a bad feeling without knowing them that well, they give you bad vibes.”

“Hold on,” Lenny says. “Vibrational energy?”

You nod and continue to pull things out of your ass and curse Lenny for being scholarly. “Yeah. Life… um, well. I don’t remember the explanation too well. But I remember White Bird – the Sorrows’ shaman – saying…”

You tilt your head and look to the side and think for a moment.  “He said, “All life is music – all music is rhythmic – all rhythm is life.” And that somehow relates to vibrations. I don’t know, you seem smart. Maybe you can understand what he was talking about.”

“Well, I don’t know what it means, but it sure sounds pretty,” Lenny says. 

“They’re good people,” you say. “Maybe you’d like to meet them someday – if you’re ever so far west you’re in the desert, I mean.”

Why the fuck did I say that?! You curse yourself in your head. They’re not real! The Dead Horses and the Sorrows and Joshua Graham and Daniel are all made up! They’re fictional characters –

“I don’t know, maybe,” Lenny says. “For now, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be goin’ that far.”

You hum and pretend to act disappointed while you fight the urge to crumple in on yourself in relief. “That’s a shame. I’m sure you’d like them. They’re interesting people, especially the Sorrows. Though, Joshua…”

You trail off as you check over your shoulder. Hoofbeats, you’re pretty sure. And you’re right – Arthur and Charles are riding back into camp, a dead, snow-dappled doe on the back of each horse.

“Brought some food back, boys,” Arthur calls.

They both hitch their horses at the post and hoist the limp does onto their shoulders, carrying them over to the kitchen. 

You look back at Lenny and jab a thumb over your shoulder at them. “Should we…?”

“I don’t think so,” Lenny says. “From what I seen, Arthur’s a butcher – a mean one, at that. I don’t think he’ll like it if his work’s disturbed.”

“That’s fair,” you hum. (Secretly, you want to thank Lenny profusely. You already know that Arthur’s a mean man – you don’t want to see him even meaner.)

You check over your shoulder again. From where you’re standing, you can see an old man has taken your seat in the kitchen, and you can hear Arthur giving him hell for whatever reason. What was his name again… Uncle, maybe?

Unfortunately, your staring caught Uncle’s eye. He beckons you over with a wave of his hand. You give Lenny a quiet, polite “See you later,” and head over, trudging through the thick layer of snow that’s settled on the ground.

“Yeah?” You nod at Uncle as soon as you step into the kitchen. You sidle up to the fire, warming yourself with the smoldering embers. 

“Thought it’d do Arthur some good to see the…” – Uncle waves you up-and-down – “…wonders some modernity will do you.”

“What? Modernity?” You repeat back. You tell yourself to calm down – you haven’t been found out. (Not yet.) “I’m far from modern.”

“Why, you’re perfectly modern!” Uncle says. 

“You don’t even know me.” You scoff and turn away. 

Your eyes catch Arthur wrapping wire around the back ankles of one of the doe corpses. He pulls it taut, then hooks both legs to the deer hoist. He lifts it with a grunt and puts the hoist on the hook sticking out of the wall. You avert your eyes before he turns around. 

“Well, I mean…” You shrug. “I guess I’m… sort of modern? But I don’t see any issue with what Arthur’s doing. He’s just hunting.”

Arthur’s eyes fly to you again when you say his name. You wish that the Spanish Flu had come sooner so you could wear a facemask to hide your pursed lips and clenched jaw. After a moment, he looks away.

“What a surprise,” Arthur drawls, “to find the camp rat loiterin’ around in the kitchen, chargin’ dimes for his thoughts.”

He pulls away from the deer hoist and walks over to the fire. He keeps a healthy distance, but you can still feel some sort of heat coming from him when he stands next to you. You guess a man that tall and broad would be a furnace in cold like this. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Uncle asks. “I feel we haven’t spoken for days.”

“I do my utmost to avoid you,” Arthur retorts.

Charles approaches the fire, standing on your other side. He gives you a small look that says “Ignore them. They can, and will, go on for hours like this.”

Uncle looks over at you and laughs. “He loves me, really. It’s his… sad way of showing affection.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You and Arthur turn to look at each other. You hadn’t meant to speak over him, and from the kind of-surprised look he’s sending your way, you think he didn’t mean to speak over you, either. You nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“It isn’t.” He turns back to face Uncle and waves a hand. “Now shoot, get lost.”

“Well…” Uncle shrugs and stands. “See y’all later.”

Pearson swipes a bottle from Uncle as he steps out. He then looks over at one of the deer. “See you got on just fine.”

Arthur nods toward Charles’ direction. “Charles is a wonder.”

“Have a drink, my friends.” Pearson holds out the bottle across the fire. “Ya earned it.”

Arthur takes the bottle after you wave it away. He takes a swig and sputters, coughing. “Jesus!” His voice cracks. “What is that?”

He passes the bottle to Charles, who sniffs the rim and takes a tentative sip. 

“Navy rum, sir. It’s the only thing – the only thing!” Pearson laughs as Charles hands the bottle back. “Keeps you sane, it does.”

“Yes, seems to have done a treat on you.” Arthur glances at Charles and waves a hand in his general direction. “You go rest that hand, Charles.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” Charles says. 

He makes eye contact with you and nods towards the cabins, indicating for you to follow. You do so while listening to Arthur and Pearson talk about skinning the deer. (And you hide a smile when Arthur asks Pearson if he gets to skin him, too. He’s mean, but at least he’s funny with it.)

“You settling in okay?” Charles asks when you’re in a somewhat secluded area. It’s not all that isolated, but it’s out of earshot for most people.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not being a massive asshole about everything.”

“You’re lost,” he says. (You notice he leaves out the very obvious “and scared” he could’ve tacked on the end.) “And you need help. It would be cruel not to give it to you.”

Yeah, totally! You think to yourself. You’re literally one of the kindest people alive and I’m… what? A scumbag that’s taking advantage of you? Oh, it’s so sweet that you’re ignoring the blatant lies I’m throwing in your face! Thank you, Charles! Thanks a fucking million.

“Still. Thank you,” you say instead. “You could’ve easily kicked me out in the snow and left me to freeze.” 

“We could’ve.” Charles looks out at the horizon. The way he pauses almost makes you think he’s considering it. “But we didn’t.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to reassure you or continue the conversation at all. After a few moments, you awkwardly hook your thumb over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna, uh…” You nod. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later?”

Charles is still looking out at the treeline, looking at the way the snow weighs down the leafless trees and the way even the smallest sound could disrupt everything. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

[hihomeghere]

Dreams | Arthur Morgan/Reader

Word Count : 1.1k Summary : Arthur starts having dreams of starting a family with you Warnings/tags : Cursing, fluff, mention of infidelity, just Arthur being a sweet guy <3

He knows he shouldn’t feel like this. Shouldn’t be having these thoughts, because all they are just dreams. They’re never going to become a reality. Not when they’re constantly on the move, running from place to place. He sees the way it affects Jack, poor kid, not knowing what the hell is going on. And his daddy doesn’t exactly help him understand. 

He can’t even say he would be a better father, he wasn’t before. 

Hell you two ain’t even married yet, and he’s not that much of a fool. Not anymore. His regret for not marrying Eliza weighs heavily on him most days, even if he didn’t love her in that way. Now you on the other hand, he loves you more than anything. More than this stupid gang, more than life itself. He would happily lay down his life if he knew you would be happy, safe. 

When these thoughts enter his head, he can’t say. His days sort of blend together, making it hard to pinpoint. Although seeing you interact with Jack doesn’t help. 

You are so sweet, so motherly, hell you even mother the younger folks in the gang. Soft touches, kind words, but internally strong. You have all the qualities he finds attractive in a woman. Somehow you fell for him just as hard as he fell for you. 

But he ain’t a fool, he knows this ain’t the right time or place. So instead he writes down all these dreams in his journal, his safe place. The place where he can say anything without being judged. He dreams of little girls, he didn’t know how to interact with Isaac. Too afraid of being his own father. Girls seem less daunting, and a little you would be perfect. He already has one angel, what’s one more?

He comes up with the name while north of Brandywine Drop. The bright purple flowers caught his eye just off the trail.

Violet.

Violet Beatrice Morgan.

His heart sings, scribbling the name down in the margins of his journal. He finds himself writing VM in his journal, smiling foolishly to himself. It’s beautiful, his precious flower. 

It’s not like you meant to snoop. You were looking for Arthur, since he was nowhere to be found. You entered his tent, which in reality wasn’t much of a tent at all, finding his journal open. You walked over to it, looking over the worn page. There were the normal doodles he drew, along with his flowing hand writing. But one thing stood out to you, a pair of initials circled by hearts. VM.

You furrowed your brows, you couldn’t think of anyone you knew with the initials VM. Those definitely weren’t your initials either. 

With your curiosity peaked you flipped through a couple more pages. VM was written everywhere, along with those damn little hearts. 

You felt that little green monster grow inside you the further you looked into his journal. Biting your cheek so hard you could taste blood. It did nothing to quench the fire inside of you. 

“Darlin?” Arthur called walking into the so-called tent. You dropped the journal back onto the table, turning to face him. “There you are.” He grinned walking towards you.

“Here I am.” You said forcing a smile.

“Hosea said you were looking for me.” He said softly, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, "Anything you need?”

“Must have forgot.” You said with a noncommittal shrug, “I ought to get back to work.” You nod walking past him. Arthur furrowed his brow at your attitude. Did he say something to offend you?

Then his eyes fall onto his open journal. His stomach drops at the sight. Jesus, you saw. You saw all of it. You were probably thinking the worst, seeing the initial surrounded by hearts. How was he gonna fix this?

You stomped off to the edge of camp, trying to wrack your brain as to who this VM could be. And why was Arthur drawing hearts beside the initials? Maybe you had this all wrong, Arthur would never do anything to hurt you. He was a good man, a man you could trust. Wasn't he?

“Y/n!” He called trailing behind you, a crestfallen expression on his face. You stopped at the tree lining, biting your lip as you turned to face him. “I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can.” You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I-“ He sighed looking down, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let out a low curse. 

“Who is she?” You asked clenching your jaw. He furrowed his brows looking up at you.

“What?” He asked, his hands settling on his hips.

“VM, the girl you keep drawing hearts around. Who is she?” You were blunt, something he loved so much. Always telling it like it is, never leaving him to guess your feelings. A small smile spread on his face, which only made you more mad. “Seriously, you think this is funny?” You hissed, taking a step towards him. Arthur only had one choice, to tell you the truth. 

“Violet.” He said softly, reaching for you. “Violet Morgan.” You let him wrap his hand around your forearm, pulling you close to his chest.

“Who is Violet Morgan?” You asked, swallowing thickly. He sighed, looking off to the side, wetting his lips.

“She’s uh-“ He shook his head, a nervous smile on his lips. “She’s not exactly real, not yet at least.” He said. 

You shook your head, brows knitted together, “Not real? The hell you mean, not real?”

“I-“ He rubbed the back of his neck looking down, “It’s uh- shit.”

“Spit it out Morgan.” You huff throwing your arms up. 

“I thought of a name,” He explained, “A name for a girl if we- if we have one some day.” He said with a shrug, his cheeks flushed, almost as though he had been in a scuffle. 

Oh.

If we have one some day. 

“Oh Arthur.” You said softly, a smile spreading across your face. Feeling suddenly very foolish for doubting your man. “That's so sweet.” You took a step forward, tilting his face up to look at you. 

“Yeah?” He asked, looping his fingers in his gun belt. 

“Yeah.” You repeated, nodding. “Jesus you had me scared you were gonna tell me you found someone else.” You chuckled, shaking your head.

“Never. There ain’t no one else in this goddamn world that could replace you.” He said his hand reached up to cup your face. “You’re uh- you’re it for me darlin.” His bright blue eyes peered into yours, love and affection pouring out in his expression. 

“When we have our girl.” You said brushing away a stray strand of honey brown hair, “Violet will be a perfect name.” He grinned, wrapping a hand around your waist.

“Guess it’s settled then.” He said as he leaned down to press his lips against yours.

[rockscanfly]

Random Charles Smith Headcanon's

Has probably contemplated suicide at more than one point (see “I’m here just to hurt and suffer myself. In this land I feel stuck.”)

Maybe a little vain. He cares for his clothing well, embellishes himself. 

Has auditory sensitivity. He gets very irritable with loud people.

Has never felt like he belonged, always feels cut off

Is comfortable with violence only against folk he sees as on his own level/like himself. Has little empathy for himself so has little empathy for them (hence smoking while Arthur beats a man for information, the efficient and quick kills of the bounty hunter, the poachers)

Has a STRONG sense of justice--that includes responsibility and culpability. People make choices and Charles holds them accountable for them. Sadie is a killer, so he treats her like any other ally. That German family didn’t make that choice, neither did the Wapiti. But he doesn’t have any pity for the gang.

Animals don't choose violence, hence the protectiveness over them and their dignity. 

Comes off as cold because he isn’t loud/not good at chat. He’s really just been alone most of his life. 

Okay with drinking, does NOT like drunkenness. Back to culpability. This can make him unforgiving and harsh at times.

Both he and Arthur are so used to people passing in and out of their lives that they’re afraid to hold on too tight. Then Arthur gets captured by Colm. Hosea talks to him, about Bessie and about Arthur’s dead family. 

“I’m not her,” Charles says. “Not either of them. I’m not asking you to leave your world behind, and I’m not going to wait for you in some house. We’re partners first. I’d lose the rest of it before I let you put me to the side.” 

He likes that Arthur is big enough to push him around, to hold him down and anchor him when he can feel himself getting lost. To toss him over a broad shoulder when they’re swimming around on a hunting trip and settle him down on soft pelts, to pin him and bite the lonely from his skin. 

Charles can kick Arthur’s ass and will do so on request

He’s kind and thoughtful. He’d be the one to make Arthur little presents and leave them around for him. Practical things, made special with the careful workmanship of beading/embroidery/etching. 

Can be impatient—autonomy is his norm so waiting on others both physically, mentally, and emotionally doesn’t come natural to him

Will cut slingload on people he feels don’t value him back—would not pine for Arthur or stick around if Arthur tries to protect himself by lashing out at Charles, even if he still has feelings. His father taught him that he has to protect himself because no one else will do it. Arthur. Well. Arthur’s the only person he’s trusted to have his back. Because Arthur proved it, several times over. There’s no one Charles would have used “do it for me” on other than Arthur Morgan. 

He fell into fighting again because he had begun opening his heart for the first time since he was a child, and then fate took Arthur too. Like Charles said—he was put on the earth to cause pain and to suffer himself. 

He tries to help folks, but he’s not good at talking and he can’t use his privilege to help like Arthur did. He’s everything the US government hates, even more than the Waipiti. They reach a point where his violence is no longer useful. And for a drowning, grieving, heart sick stretch of years violence is all Charles has left to him (hence going to Saint Denis, a city he hates, and fighting people for white folks' entertainment in a transparent suicide-by-cop bid for someone to end his suffering) And then Sadie gives him the option of closure and working beside John reminds him that he is a man, not a weapon, and Beecher’s Hope makes him believe he too can change. 

Charles has never tried to be anything but who he is. He and Arthur are similar in that way. What he realizes, what Arthur realized too late, is that he can change if he wants it. And that maybe he’s allowed his past pain and scars to run his life along a course he doesn’t actually have to follow. 

Brought to you by my on-going replay of RDR2 and my undying love and devotion to princess of my heart Charles Smith.

[2demondogs]

Pet Name Headcanons | Arthur, Dutch, Hosea

A/N: Gender-neutral reader. I wanna do these for most of the gang but didn't know a good "grouping" so I went with the old guard fellas first. GIF cred: 1 / 2 / 3.

Sweetheart, honey, sugar, pretty lady / handsome man, my girl / man, sunshine, moonshine for flavor, physical traits (freckles, shortstack, etc.)

It leaves a weird taste in Arthur's mouth to be less than genuine about these things. If it doesn't fit you, he won't say it. If it isn't the right time, he won't call you a nickname. If he doesn't feel particularly struck by affection-- he won't say anything just to be cute.

The right time to him is usually when you're alone or around company you both trust. If you're upset or hurt, he'll lay it on extra thick because he feels useless with verbal comfort and it helps communicate that he cares.

His catalogue isn't too broad, and he tends to stick with casual, but overall sweet pet names.

He'll probably get used to anything you call him, but I can't imagine he'd be too keen on it being debuted in front of someone else. He'd rather chew on how it makes him feel in private company first.

Darlin', beautiful, gorgeous, angel, baby, dove, lamb, variations of your name, my love, my dear, make anything possessive and he'll say it

Dutch always has something new to call you, whether it's from reading, overhearing a couple in town, or a song. He would be more unwilling to admit that he sees a lot of things that remind him of you, and that's where some stranger nicknames have come from.

Where Arthur's names are youthful, at least for the time, Dutch is a middle-ground between him and Hosea. He tends to go for old money type endearments more than old coot -- ones that carry the sense of high class that he ironically wants to maintain. Because of course, he overthinks even this.

His possessiveness is largely insecurity, so he drops a my in front of any name he calls you in public. It's typically a steady stream of endearments. Honestly, sometimes you wonder if he's forgotten your first name.

In the vain of maintaining images, he'll be fine with whatever you call him in private, in the end. In public, he will get very uncomfortable with certain names. Maybe don't call him Old Girl.

Dear, darling, m'love, my girl / my man, old girl / old man, babe, honey, sweetheart, precious, my heart, peach, handsome man / pretty girl

Hosea is a bit older, and it shows. His choices in endearments are usually saccharine and the type people only like to say after making a commitment.

Timing doesn't concern him. If it's clearly an inappropriate time, that's different. Usually, though, it's second-nature to call you the first kind thing that comes to mind.

He says your name often. He likes it because it's, well, you as a word can get. Mister/Miss and your last name is another common occurrence, though usually in a playful way.

He doesn't care what you call him or when. Well, if it's really out there, he might -- mostly, he's content that you want to refer to him as anything but his name. A reminder that you're sweet on him is always a good thing. It's like a verbal kiss on the cheek to him.