#Red Dead Redemption 2 fanfic

[elliesplug]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

charles smith x reader

summary: what its like to be charles' one and only

warnings: no smut but slightly suggestive parts, reader referred to as "ma'am" once

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— Charles is the kindest lover ever!!

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— Acts of service, gift giving, and physical touch final boss.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— He always puts other people’s needs before his own. Do you need something from town? He’s halfway into town before you can even finish speaking. You’re feeling hungry? He’s already grabbed his bow to go hunting. You mention that you’re feeling any form of physical pain? Don’t worry at all because Charle’s soft hands are delicately massaging your ache away.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— Charles remembers everything. He never forgets a single detail about you. One time he overheard you mention to Tilly how badly you wanted a few strawberries to snack on. The next day Charles is riding in on Taima with a barrel full of the most beautiful and luscious looking red berries you’ve ever seen, despite them currently being out of season. He remembers all the stories you told him, even if you were the one to forget that you’ve already told him that. It’s the sweetest thing ever when he finished the ending of your stories. 

“Oh goodness did I already tell you that? I’m sorry for making you sit through all that again.” You say with a laugh.

“Don’t apologize. I’d gladly listen to that story 1 million times over if that meant I got to hear your voice for a second longer.”

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— Another time Charles was admiring you as you both were sitting by the fire. You held a rough and worn out paperback version of your favorite book. This had to be your 10th re-read over the years of you having it. A mental note was quickly made by Charles of how distressed the current state of your paperback was. The next day you wake up to the smell of a warm cup of coffee that’s sitting next to a beautiful hardcover detailed with fine gold patterns. At the top of the hardcover there laid the title of your favorite book. You smiled to yourself as your fingers repeatedly ran over the golden prints. Your senses were cheerfully greeted with that new book smell he knew you adored so much.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— This man adores taking baths with his lover. It’s usually not even sexual. He just enjoys the comfort of being that close to you. The warmth of your bodies and the warmth of the bubbly water is more than enough to keep him happy for the rest of his life.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— If you’re in town with Charles and you even glance or touch something you like Charles is buying it for you. 

“Charles, c'mon you know I don’t need that. You know I can’t just let you spend all your money on me.”

Charles replies with a smug smirk across his face, “Good thing I wasn’t offering then. Looks like you’ll just have to accept it now, won't you?”

You happily gift him a kiss on the cheek in return to show your gratitude as you leave the store with your new present in hand. 

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— Charles ALWAYS knows when something is wrong. He can tell when you’re having a rough day, when you need comfort, when you’re stressed, and when you need the space to be alone. You don’t ever need to communicate to him what mood you’re in because he already knows. He never takes it to heart when you need to be left alone and he’s the best at making you feel better, whether that be from afar or between his strong arms.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— Not huge on PDA but he loves when you hold onto his arm as he guides you through the town. When he’s in private he can’t keep his hands off of you, though. Around the campfire his hand will rest on your thigh. While you’re asleep his broad chest is attached to your back as he holds you. Physical intimacy is very important to him.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— Takes off your boots and litters soft kisses across your legs every night before you both go to bed.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— He’ll tell the whole gang that he has to “go hunting” or that he “needs to go into town” just so he can steal you away for a bit. He’ll take you on cute dates to your favorite restaurant or skinny dipping sessions at the lake as the warm sun sets behind you’re joined bodies.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— If anyone at the camp even tries to disrespect you he’s running at your defense. One time Micah rudely commented on something you were wearing and before you could even blink a loud slap was laid across his cheek by Charles.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— He likes keeping to himself but always opens up to you. The rest of the gang is in shock on how you were able to crack him open. Charles is quiet, not shy. It’s his choice who he decides to let into his life and you are more than thankful that you were that one that he chose.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— You always stay up talking by the fire late at night, even when everyone else returns to their tents.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— He would never ever let you see him fight. This man is not insecure in most aspects of his life but he has a strong fear that you’ll perceive him as the violent man that the world paints him out to be.

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— After every fight you clean him up even though he always suggests that it’s not necessary.

“You don’t need to do that, my love. Don’t need you getting dirty or making a mess cause of me.” He tells you.

You roll your eyes in response. “You say that every time, Charles, you sound like a broken record. Lucky for you it’s a good thing that I wasn’t offering. Looks like you’ll just have to accept it, remember? Now sit.”

A laugh escapes his lips before he replies, “Yes ma’am. Whatever you say.”

⋆.˚ ୨ৎ— He takes you to Canada and you both spend the rest of your days happily married and together!!!

[hyper-fixates]

low honour!arthur morgan x virgin!reader

this is really just one long-winded fic idea that i need to speak into existence.

tags: literally save a horse ride a cowboy, afab!reader (feminine pronouns, descriptions, and names used), religious topics/imagery, obsessive!arthur, virginity kink, age gap relationship, loss of virginity, corruption kink

Reader is in her early 20s, privileged to come from a family with wealth from their heritage and inheritance in the oil industry.

The era of cowboys and outlaws has started to become a thing of the past from the shifts in climate and industry throughout the country. Reader has resided in Saint Denis her whole life, never needing to worry about gangs, outlaws, or even cowboys.

She has never even seen a cowboy before, but she’s heard stories; none of them particularly pretty. The presence of law enforcement throughout the streets and the sheer distance of Saint Denis from other towns is enough to deter most of them from causing trouble.

Functionally, she should never be compatible with a cowboy.

Her father has always preached about her waiting for a “good, proper man” that can marry her into another family with obscene wealth. And so, she protects her chastity and innocence just as she is expected to—just as her father expects her to.

Hell, she doesn’t even know how to ride a horse! Her father believes that riding horses is beneath them, so anywhere she wants to go is accommodated by a stagecoach.

Cut to: reader is accompanying her father on a trip to Annesburg to discuss potential investments in the mining industry. He hates leaving her alone. She knows he worries that she’ll get “up to no good”.

Her father has chosen one of their more comfortable, flashy stagecoaches for the longer ride, giving him more storage for his financial documents and whatnot. A perfect target for gangs.

And, inevitably, they get robbed.

The robbers’ faces are all concealed by hats and bandanas, and one of them ties her arms behind her back with careful hands before guiding her to her knees on the wet grass.

The man who tied her up stays close by her side, and she can see her father pleading for his life to another man who’s not listening.

“Are you a cowboy?” Are the first words she says to him, not a note of fear in her doll-like eyes that make her look so fuckable in this position with her on her knees next to him, dress billowing out around her form.

He looks down at her confused. “Uh, once, I suppose.” His voice is a little muffled by the black bandana hanging over his nose and mouth.

She can see that his hair is so long that it starts to curl up and out at the ends under his hat.

“Well, you got the hat. And the horse,” she reasons, wondering if she’s truly meeting a cowboy under circumstances she thought she’d never be in.

He looks to her again, left hand causally hooked in the leather of his belt as he waits for the rest of his gang to finish up. “I guess you’re right.” He tips his head to her in agreement.

“Leave them! These people are leeches. Let the wolves decide their fate.” A man with a deep, booming voice announces atop his white horse.

Now she starts to panic.

She pulls against the rope around her wrists, looking up to the man who tied her as he begins to walk toward his horse. “Wait! Mister, please! Please don’t. Please,” she yells to him.

He looks back to her, then his horse, then back to her again. “Hold on.” He signals to the man on the white horse before walking back over to her.

“Take me home. Please just take me home, mister. I won’t say nothing, I promise, but just take me home and I’ll give you anything you want,” she begs to him.

He sighs, but not out of annoyance or hesitation for her request. He sighs because he has no idea what she has just done to herself.

He places his bandana over her eyes and leads her to his horse. He unties her hands and lets her blindly climb into the saddle, legs shaking from unfamiliarity.

When she settles, she blindly grips onto the saddle horn for dear life, wishing her father let her ride at least once in her life so she wouldn’t appear so delicate in this situation. The man chuckles off to the side before mounting up behind her. She notices the saddle is not quite meant for two as he pushes in tightly against her ass, seemingly not even concerned about it.

This is probably the closest she’s ever been to a man.

“Where to, miss?” The man leans forward against her back to grab the reigns, caging her in with his arms.

She tells him in a quiet voice, and he kicks against his horse, setting them into motion.

When they arrive at her French two-story home on the outskirts of Saint Denis, the man dismounts swiftly, hand circling her wrist before saying, “Swing your right leg over and I’ll help you down.”

She slowly brings herself around, feeling the man lock his hands around her waist to guide her to the ground.

He tugs at the knot holding the bandana around her eyes, and she doesn’t let herself turn around until she feels he’s had enough time to tie it back around his face.

“Thank you, mister,” she whispers.

He tips his hat and leaves without another word.

In the following week, the man watches her after the sun sets. He watches her pray before bed and change into her silk nightgown, waiting for the night he can maybe finally see the more explicit side of her. But it never comes.

She’s perfect.

Eventually they cross paths again one day. The man purposefully chooses to ditch the bandana, too.

“I don’t think my daddy would appreciate me talking to someone like you,” she admits slyly as she continues her trek into Saint Denis.

The man follows beside her on his horse, left arm lazily hanging down by his side. “Someone like me? And who’s that?” he asks, a slight smile also on his lips.

“A cowboy. An outlaw,” she says, sneaking a glance up to him as his horse steps in time with her down the path.

“Well your daddy ain’t here.”

“No, mister.”

“Come for a ride then.”

And that’s how it’s starts for them. He introduces himself as they ride to his gangs camp, and she complains about how sore her legs are when they arrive.

“You don’t ride?” Arthur asks, intending for it to be a joke.

“That was my second time. Ever,” she laughs.

And that’s when he understands what type of lady he’s dealing with, so he goes for it.

“Maybe you should practice on me sometime,” he remarks, untacking his horse.

She wonders if she heard him right. “Uh, mister—”

“Arthur,” he corrects.

In that moment, she realizes he can teach her everything her father has kept from her, show her everything he had protected her from. Throw away the innocence and chastity and truly experience what life should be. But Arthur doesn’t know the entirety of her sheltered life. She needs someone like him.

“Arthur…I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” she admits. “I…I’ve never been with no one. Ever.”

“You’re untouched, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Just as my daddy said I should be. Until marriage.”

And Arthur makes it his mission to make her experience her own sexuality in its completeness, so he starts off slow.

He would always touch, never breaching her or letting her do anything to him. The focus was always on her.

Her virginity and pureness made him conflicted: he wanted to ruin her in all the ways she has never been, but he wants to tease and rile her up and watch her experience all the sexual frustrations for the first time.

It was cute. The more bold he got with his touches, the more bold she got in trying to take what she wanted. He would take her behind a tree and slowly lift up the dainty material of her summer dress, gathering it in his left hand as he used his right to rub her clit through her underwear while he licked and sucked along her neck, careful not to leave marks.

She would get weak so fast, Arthur could barely handle how virgin her body truly was. She would grip onto the leather straps of the rifles hanging down his back, trying to force his hand harder and faster.

However, the first time he made her cum was an accident.

He confidently placed a gentle kiss on her lips while they were alone in his tent—he just wanted to see how she would react.

She leaned in and returned it, snaking her hands around his neck and pulling him down to her. He pulled her into his lap, laying them down on his cot as they started making out like a long-distance high-school couple.

Arthur mindlessly starts grinding against her, ignoring the clothing separating them. She doesn’t realize what she’s feeling as Arthur’s hard cock slides against her clothed pussy.

Her orgasm just kind of happens.

Arthur watches her shake and twitch under him as he pulls away to see what happened. The wet spot on her underwear is all the evidence he needs.

Ever since, she’s been insatiable. She wants Arthur to show her everything. Teach her everything. She wants to feel everything if that means she can cum like that again.

Around the campfire she’d sit on his lap, tightly circling her hips against him until he’d grow hard before stopping. Then she’d do it again.

Arthur would mostly ignore her teasing. He didn’t want her to know how much she was driving him up the wall, so he’d retaliate in a way that was ten times worse then whatever she did just to prove a point about her innocence, how she knows so little compared to him.

The first time they fuck, he makes the horse riding joke again: “I’m sure this’ll be good practice for you, sweetheart.”

She huffs a laugh, rubbing his cock through her folds as she straddles him. He’s built up her confidence so much, it’s all been leading to this.

He’d guide her up and down, back and forth, testing her body to see what she likes. Seeing what spot makes her tremble.

He finds it. “Fuck, there it is,” Arthur groans.

She can’t even think. She doesn’t know what to think. She’s doing everything her father told her not to.

Premarital sex.

Premarital sex with a cowboy.

“Oh, Lord, forgive me,” she prays, her pussy sliding so perfectly along him as he grips her hips harder.

Eventually, he’d eat her out in her childhood bedroom. Her father sleeping in the room above her own, separated by the thin wood of the floor. She arches against the bed, and her eyes meet the iron cross hung above her bed frame.

She’d often ask him to leave the hat on, and he’d laugh, pleased that she is slowly adopting sexual preferences and interests.

She was his perfect, sophisticated woman that he was free to defile and poison with his desires.

[devnmon]

by the lantern light.

Summary: Pining for your bounty partner is manageable most times, but it becomes extremely difficult when the hotel screws up your room choice and you're forced to share a bed.

sadie adler x fem!reader

warnings: smut, fingering, some oral (r!receiving), a cutesy love confession too & a tiny bit of angst, one bed trope x

wc: 4.4k

Another long day of riding from West Elizabeth to Annesburg and back had come to pass. An Era of outlaws and gunslingers had come to a close, while Sadie Adler found herself a successfully skilled bounty hunter.

Everything ached; your legs, your back, your heart for the woman you called the other half of your bounty hunting duo.

Sadie Adler continued to be the one constant in a world that showed you anything similar to it. A sickening love for her had grown with it, overtaking you to no end.

In turn, the day was finished with more than enough pay to last you both a while. To treat yourselves, Sadie suggested a night of hearty meals and the nicest rooms in the local town.

Add a bath to your expenses for the sole purpose of relaxation and hot water, your night was simply made.

Your boots were giving you countless blisters, and your thighs ached just standing upright.

Remind me never to suggest this many jobs in one day again...

Her low chuckle at the words you murmured while entering the hotel was almost enough to let her have a chance at the bath before you. But she took one look at you and basically ordered you to get in immediately.

Something about how she bossed you around, enjoying the way it made you feel wanted—no, needed, by her.

In her defense, you looked like shit.

For the meantime, you were to clean yourself while she ran a couple errands in town after booking the room. Most times, you had to pay extra for a specific room with two beds, lest society began to wonder if you were sharing the same bed.

Each muscle ached a bit more trudging up the hotel's steps, spurs clinking with each slow movement.

Shoving the bath's door closed was your next action, followed by peeling each and every item of clothing off of you for the time being.

While the tub filled, your mind floated back to the way Sadie had praised you earlier that day. Her drawl made your knees weak without fail, the thickest you've ever heard but no one else's you would listen to every day.

There you go, you got it... Nice job, honey.

Sunflower colored strands of her hair always remained neatly pulled back in that familiar loose braid of hers, wondering what you lengths you would go to for just a chance at running your fingers through it.

Your palms sweat around her just thinking about it. Other times about how you might look in one of her shirts, aroma of orchids and vanilla intertwined in the fabric.

With the first dip of your body into the steaming water, the outside world ceased to exist in that moment. Goosebumps flooded your skin and pricked up those little hairs along your body.

Upon the lack of sleep you'd received the night before, the warm water had you ready to nod off and rest your eyes. All you wanted to do was stay submerged in the clean water and dream of a certain blonde woman.

Your whole body ached for her; the warmth in her presence, the way she called your name, joked around with you, put every part of her trust in you on jobs. Your heart had held a special place for her ever since the day you two met.

Dreams of yours mainly consisted of her figure, putting you in not-so-safe-for-work positions that arose many confusing feelings in you.

Once the word love crossed your mind regarding her, there was no other way for you to see her. But in that golden light right before dusk and how she smiled when you genuinely made her laugh.

If there was a future for you out there, Sadie was painted in along with all the images you envisioned.

No matter how much being in her presence sparked a flame inside you, there wasn't enough evidence in the world to speak how you felt.

Just the deep thrum of heat flowing from the true center of your body, suffocating you in desire. Your skin under the water managed to be more sensitive, reminding you of the gentle but calloused hands of your partner.

Ease in her touches that had patched you up multiple times had been ingrained into your memory.

Ignoring the heat between your legs to clean your body, you tightened your thighs together in attempt to suppress it.

Sooner than later, a knock at the door pulled you from your daydream and alerted you of how cool the bath water had become. That familiar feminine drawl called out from the other side.

"Y'done in there yet? Our room's 'bout ready an' my feet're killin' me."

Shit.

Having to face the woman you were just daydreaming about— there were more things you'd rather do. She won't notice the blush on your cheeks because the room was hot from the steam. Right?

"Oh- yeah! Just gimme a minute."

Clothes returned to your back, clutching your gun belt and satchel in hand while your boots clicked on the floor once again. Upon opening the door, Sadie stood against the nearby wall, sighing when she noted your refreshed state.

"Well don't you look purdy." She smirked, dragging her eyes up and down your figure, impressed you actually listened to her.

Her comment was met with a roll of your eyes, walking past her and further down the hallway. Because of course you listened to her, you would walk into hell itself if it was what she wanted.

"Hey, it's room 2A, should be unlocked already." she called out to you, giving her a thumbs up wordlessly without turning back to face her.

Your eyes coasted along the wooden walls, finding the door unlocked like Sadie had said.

What she wasn't aware of was the lack of two beds and presence of one. Only one bed possessed this godforsaken room, and somehow that was seeming to be the last straw for you today.

There had to be some mistake, you were sure the hotel's clerk took bribes for preferred rooms. It had worked in the past, why was now the time for that to get thrown out the window?

You couldn't sleep in the same bed as her. You were sure you wouldn’t survive.

You always knew she wouldn't see you as anything more than her best friend and bounty partner. Which should've been enough. It should've been enough to satisfy you in this life. Lucky enough to even be graced with her presence on a day to day basis.

Not many men in this world could say this woman would even look twice in their direction.

But the sickening feeling when she pulled you close in the cold or when she gave you the last of her food. Those moments were when you wanted to break the silence and pull her lips to yours.

Organizing your things around the room was how you passed the time before Sadie eventually came knocking at the door.

One creak of the door opening was enough for her to realize exactly how she'd fucked up.

"What the hell? I could've sworn I paid that jackass at the front desk enough to get us the exact room I specifically requested! I should kick his ass—"

As much as you'd pay to see her cuss out the clerk at the front desk, the two of you couldn't handle all the attention it would bring. When Sadie doesn't get what she asked for, it was never long before hands were thrown.

"No—" you sighed, "we can't afford gettin' kicked out, Sadie. My back cannot take another night on the ground."

"Well, yer right," she drawled, "You ain't gon' make it five feet out them doors before needin' a lie down. Plus, we're both beat."

She took a quick look around the room, then placed her things down on the opposite wall.

"I think we can tough it just one night. Whatchu think?"

Truth be told, you were much too drained to argue or find another reason to protest the situation any longer.

When your figure hit the mattress, feet free of the cowboy boot leather, the comfort of soft sheets was enough to lull you off into a deep sleep.

Though your subconscious dug deep into the layers of your mind, unearthing the most filthy words in Sadie's beckoning voice.

You have no idea how much I want you right now... as her hands pin your wrists to a wall.

God, you look amazing like this, while you're perched kneeling between her thighs.

You're a needy girl, aren't you? Tell me what you want... the minute she gets you undressed.

Her closeness has you sweating and your body is on fire. She reaches for your waist, hands eager and steady; that is, before the vision fades and your eyes jolt open to the low lit room.

Gasping slightly, you're frozen in place upon waking from sleep. Stuck sleeping in a bed with the woman that embodied your dreams just a moment ago.

Quiet breaths filled the room, another reminder you were in such a situation that there was nothing you could do. About these overwhelming sensations, the feelings you bared, an urge to take care of how turned on those dreams had made you.

This situation was beyond impossible to weasel your way out of. Sleeping on the ground was terrible, but at least you could sneak away silently; any slight move or sound could wake her on this mattress.

Though you attempted to drift back off into sleep, your overactive thoughts of Sadie intensified.

How long would it take to kiss every inch of her body?

Which spots would be more sensitive to your touch?

Your eyes shot open again, void of any fatigue you felt a couple hours earlier. Only thing inhabiting you now was the heat radiating from under the covers. Sadie's body heat next to you on the bed contributed to the raised temperature, but you could tell that wasn't the only heat you felt.

Not only were you drenched in sweat, but the overwhelming heat painting your body radiated from between your legs. Aching something awful the second you squeezed your thighs together.

Having to share a bed with her was anxiety inducing enough— add the effect of seeing her laid out for you perfectly behind your eyelids, and you felt helpless to do anything.

Attempting to fall back asleep was out of the question as well, seeing as those thoughts of her positioned so nicely for you lingered distastefully. It just had to be the night you couldn't keep your mind off her that she lay the closest she's ever been to you.

The more you attempted to avoid what was keeping you awake, the more your cunt throbbed and begged to be touched.

At this point you'd become desperate, wanting to be relaxed so bad that the idea was more appealing now than it was five minutes ago.

Anything for you to rest again.

Very delicately, one of your hands moved to slide down the front of your underwear. You were betting on the fact that Sadie was exhausted that night and wouldn't be woken by the slightest movements.

Just as your fingers snuck past the waistband, the woman beside you shuffled slightly. Your movements halted until you were sure she didn't wake easier than you thought. Upon the lack of evidence afterwards, you decided to continue and reach down between your legs.

It was almost surprising how soaked you were upon running your finger over your cunt, holding back a whimper when just the pad ran over your clit. You were clenching around nothing just from it, tempted to go further but knowing someone could hear you.

God— fuck it, right?

Damn Sadie Adler with her hickory colored eyes and sweet southern drawl, with those nimble hands and steady thighs and proportions that could make a grown woman cry—

Pushing two fingers between your folds tests you more than anything in the moment, with filthy sounds threatening to break loose.

Why oh why couldn't you two just have gotten separate rooms like you wanted? What possessed her to make you share a room with her all the time?

A pad of your finger swiped up to your clit, circling ever so slowly and with feather light touches.

What would she think if she caught me? Would she punish me? Or make me worship her to no end?

Either way, you were fucked in the head for thinking any of it.

That cunt of yours throbbed to no end, worsening by the second you begun touching yourself again. Light circles turned to adding more pressure and steadying your breath with each pass of your fingers.

Your body ached for her touch, picturing the image of her above you with those hands of hers outreached for you. It was erotic enough to make you whimper in the silent dark of the hotel room.

"Fuck..." you muttered under your breath.

Wet sounds began to fill the room once your fingers pushed inside your entrance.

Now you were really moving slow, pressing both digits inside just to curl them at the perfect spot that sent your thighs tightening again.

Her sweet saccharine southern drawl was the closest thing to euphoria you'd imagined. Putting the words in your mind to her voice- you were exploding on the inside from imagining it.

To sit at the mountain peak of her thighs and give her everything you had... to have her call out your name out of any others in the world. It was enough to make you—

Oh, Sadie...

Too focused on keeping her image clear in your head, you’d missed the additional shuffling next to you. Eyes squeezed so tight, your blood pumping in your ears was all you could hear.

Any time she filled your mind, the images were always of her splayed out any way your brain could fathom...

One of her completely naked on a couch, another where she's towering over your body, thrusting her hips against yours; one more of her face shoved between your thighs while your fingers ran through her blonde strands, her tongue slowly inching through--

"Havin' trouble over there?"

A raspy voice called out through the dark, belonging to none other than the woman you were fantasizing about to no end.

In a fraction of a second, you were frozen in place... as if you would be any less caught than you were in that moment. Your hand shot out from between your legs faster than light on impulse.

As if doing cartwheels, your stomach dropped over and over again, while you were in the midst of surveying what to do.

Take it on the chin? Face her? Tell her everything you'd been thinking about? Absolutely all of it? None of it?

Before you could even get a chance to realize how fucked you were, she'd switched on her lantern light and sat up on the bed.

"If you needed some stress relief, all you had to do was ask'." Her low drawl rings out in the warm light, blonde hair covering her back as you peek over at her.

Sitting up nervously, you turned to face her, eyes overwhelmed with regret and uncertainty. Guilt had overridden you on another level, not knowing how she'd react to— wait, did she just say...?

"When they told me I could change our room, I decided against it... to see what would happen. To see if my suspicions were right all along."

"You did this...? Why--" you started, meeting her brown eyes for the first time all night.

"Cause I... could tell how you felt. For a while now. Just... didn't know how I felt. Took me some time to. But now I do." she drawled, a look of understanding meeting yours.

"And now?"

Surprisingly, the heat level in your cheeks settled some when she scooched closer to you on the mattress.

"Just... let me try somethin'."

Not only does one of her hands land on top of yours, but cups your cheek with the other and began to lean in to you.

Every atom in your body screamed out for her, similar to the way a firework sparked a bit before its shot into the sky.

Once her lips finally pressed to yours, every moment you shared together flashed through your head. Almost like a vision aligning, where you could see every day she kept you around wasn't just for convenience. Each time she had your back in life, through fights and drunken nights, was because she cared only for you.

Instantly you forgot how to breathe, only wanting to savor the burn of her pillow-esque lips against yours for the rest of eternity.

But when she pulled away, the breath you were holding became overwhelming and caused you to gasp for air.

"Sadie... I-"

"No, I know. I know, honey. But it's the middle of the night, we can't afford to lose any more sleep talkin' about this. We already ain't had enough of that." she chuckled, intertwining her fingers with yours.

"Kiss me again, please..."

Of course she would indulged you over and over, spending minutes frozen in time and trapped in the loving embrace her lips were giving yours. Somehow it was even more perfect than in your dreams.

Wordlessly, she laid you down on the bed, your hair scattering across the pillow while you continued to share the most perfect sounds she'd ever heard. Heartbeat quickening, sighs and small moans of pleasure escaping the both of you until she pulls away for a moment.

"Y'were thinkin' about me, weren't you?" One of her fingers swiped at the excess saliva on her lip from your overeager state.

Reminded of how exactly you'd gotten yourself in this situation, you nodded in confirmation and felt your cheeks pink up.

"You're the only person I would, Sade."

One of the corners of her mouth points upwards, painting a smirk on her face.

"Now what are we gon' do about that, hm?"

"Whatever you want."

Your response tumbles out a split second after her question hits the air, the apples of her cheeks brightening with a bit of a blush.

Instantly, her lips are on yours again as she's pushing you down onto the pillow's soft cover. Sadie's loose strands of hair tickle the sides of your face slightly, but the contact isn't unwelcome.

With her in an image you'd been daydreaming of for god knows how long, you thought this moment might actually be the paradise in her you were searching for.

Another gasp leaves you as her lips separate from yours to leave a trail down your jawline to your neck. Her hands resting on the mattress at your sides were gripping the comforter.

"Can I... touch you here?" Her fingers ghost over your waist, the lightest touches hovering over your skin.

"Yes... god, yes. Please touch me. All over, Sade."

Your voice is barely a whisper, plainly begging for her to run those hands down your body until she was satisfied.

Only after you'd given her the go ahead does she connect her hand to your waist, slipping her fingers under your sleep shirt ever so slightly. That overbearing heat still lingered, only burning hotter with her hands on you.

You can feel her mouth sucking a mark into your collarbone, swallowing your whimpers before she releases with a popping sound.

"Now then, let's make sure you sleep t'night. I ain't doin' this all night with your damn tossin' and turnin'."

You scoffed, because how could you be so careless? Sadie was one to know when gunfire was about to break out-- of course she knew you weren't really sleeping.

Her hands delicately lift your shirt up, fingertips painting goosebumps along your skin. When your chest came into view, you caught her licking her lips before bending down to place a kiss between the valley of your breasts.

"You're prettier than a flower in bloom. Know that?" Her lips ghost up your chest and collarbones with feather light kisses.

"Stop sweet talkin' me..." you replied breathlessly.

Without warning, she takes one of your hardened nipples into her mouth, circling her tongue around it before nipping ever so lightly.

"Shit-- don't tease me... it's been long enough," you whined, pulling a chuckle from her.

"Alright, alright." Her other hand grasped your other breast, playing with your nipple between two of her fingers.

You inhaled sharply when her other hand slipped right past the band of your bottoms and down between your legs, slapping your palm over your mouth in surprise.

"Shh, shh... gotta be quiet for me, m'kay?"

Nodding in reply, she licked her lips and pulled down your bottoms.

"Ah, there she is... my sweet girl." Her drawl had your head spinning, not even realizing her hand was traveling further down your body to push your legs open for her.

"Sadie..." you whispered, perplexed by the entire situation. You pinched your arm to make sure this wasn't a dream while you sensed her palms cupping the soft plush of your thighs.

Sadie's fingers stroke over your heat, unbeknownst to her how badly it burned and pleaded for her touch. As if she could read your mind, two of her fingers opened you up for her, vulnerability washing over you in that moment.

"Y'don't even know how whipped you got me, honey. I'd have walked into hell itself if you were the one askin'..."

God... you were lovesick.

You whimper behind your palm, practically vibrating with how much you were riled up beforehand.

Once her fingers sliver through how soaked you were, the pad of her middle finger traces circles on your most sensitive part. Sadie's eyes catch your flustered state as she continues the slow movements, moving down to your entrance while collecting your slick.

It's cruel how she barely touches your entrance before removing her fingers to taste you for herself. Your hazy eyes catch her licking your arousal off her digits before reaching down to touch you again.

"Sweetest thing I ever did taste, baby."

Please... you whisper, gripping the bed sheets tighter than you can imagine. Sadie only chuckles, before two of her fingers prod at her entrance, pushing in slowly at first. When she realizes you welcome her in with no resistance, she bites her lip and smirks.

Though your overwhelming arousal allowed for her fingers to slip in easily, it felt as if it was your first time. Thin and nimble, they were even more fulfilling than your own. It made a world of a difference not having to pleasure yourself for the first time in ages.

Men tried their best, but you knew Sadie Adler's skills would outperform all of their past attempts.

As if a reflex, your walls clench around her fingers, covering them in your arousal again, and she smiles. Her dirty blonde strands tickle your thighs as she presses a kiss to one of them, feeling you throb while pushing them back inside.

Her unused hand parts your folds for her and her thumb gently rubs your little bundle of nerves, taking pride and joy in being the one to do so.

She adores the way your eyebrows scrunch together while you attempt to remain quiet, the way your breasts sit prettily on your chest and the way your body reacts when she angles her fingers just right.

"Y're so... lucky I'm too tired to scream your name right now..." you pant, taking each tantalizing drag of her fingers with pride. Her fingers curl inside you upon hearing your words, watching you swallow another sound she feels envious to not hear in the moment.

"Sounds like heaven. Maybe when we got a little place of our own someday." Sadie leans down to press a kiss onto your heat, catching more of your slick on her lips and humming with content.

"Shut up... oh-!" You bite your hand to combat the filthy sound you want to emit, just so she can hear how intoxicated by her you've become.

"There ya go, takin' me so well..." the movements of her fingers set a steady pace inside you, observing you breathe heavily above her.

Her tongue against your heat was the closest thing to euphoria you could imagine, saturated in her lust and devotion like a god. In a split second, she hums against you and you can feel the wave of pleasure begin to build like no other type of adrenaline.

"I'm close, Sade... don't stop..." you spoke breathlessly, your entire being feeling connected to hers in that moment. Your toes curled, fingers grasped the cotton sheets until your knuckles turned white.

"Let go for me, sweetheart. Just let it all out, there ya go..." she beckoned, pressing her tongue to your clit as her fingers continued to pump inside you.

The quiet of the room was now filled with your heavy breathing, as though the entire world paused its turning for a moment, high coursing through your body.

Some of the slightest moans you'd been withholding for the sake of people in the hotel slipped past your lips like music to Sadie's ears.

As your high washed over you, she could feel you clenching rhythmically around her fingers and chuckled to herself before pulling away and crawling back up your body.

Her lips trailed kisses up your stomach and neck while your breathing steadied, the contact with your skin warm from your overwhelming orgasm.

"You're so pretty..." she breathed, "when you come for me."

Sadie kissed your cheek and dragged her hands up your body, goosebumps in your afterglow spreading like wildfire. Your hands loosened their grip on the bed sheets and wrapped around Sadie's neck loosely, welcoming each kiss she placed upon your face.

"Feel better now?" she mumbled against your ear, cupping the side of your face with her palm.

"Mhm... thank you, Sade. Feel s'much better now, love you... so much."

The lack of sleep had you delusional, barely registering anything you admitted to her now that you'd finally gotten the one thing you wanted.

"Love you too, honey. More'n you know."

Sadie lay beside you, her arms wrapped around your body to pull you in close while the both of you finally let your mutual tiredness drift you off to sleep.

[noxsspace]

okay but colter Arthur and his big fluffy coat?? if you two were alone, he’d grab you and stuff you in the coat with him in it and just hug you tight. he’d close the coat around you and make you feel so safe, so warm, kissing the top of your forehead while you say his lips feel like ice, only encouraging him to kiss you more.

[laylasredemption]

Wtf so I now can post long fics? Well, thanks Tumblr I guess the beef between us didn't last long. Here's the sad Arthur fic I wrote, hope you like it guys<3

arthur morgan x dutch's daughter!reader 3,9k words chapter 6 spoilers, death, violence

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Until the last breath

Never in a thousand years would have Dutch van der Linde thought his own daughter would betray him. He would suspect anyone - recently even John or Arthur. But not [Y/n]. She was his daughter, his only child, the only thing he had left of Annabelle.

And yet there she stood - a gun in hand, pointed at her father, who had his own guns pointed at Arthur and John.

"You're on these two rats' side? That's what I get for raising you?" Dutch asked, his angry gaze fixated on his daughter. "You ungrateful brat."

"You didn't raise me!" [Y/n] countered. "Hosea was more of a father than you. To you, money has always been more important. You always had a plan to get more, and more, and more. I'd be in Tahiti if I had a dollar for every plan of yours that didn't work out."

"I gave you everything I could!"

"You gave me everything?" She had to stop herself from scoffing. "I spent my whole life trying to make you happy for once. Trying to make you proud of me. I gave my heart and my soul for this gang, and you ruined it all when you took in this rat!" Her voice started to crack, but she forced tears away. She reached for her other gun and pointed it at Micah.

Dutch asked, "You really think Micah is the reason you're turning on me?" His tone was strangely calm, too calm. "You think I never noticed the way you and Arthur were plotting something behind my back? But, of course, he didn't sneak into your tent at night just to plot. You disgust me, [Y/n]."

[Y/n]'s mouth fell slightly open as she attempted to form a sentence, and yet she wasn't able to. How did he find out? She thought her and Arthur had been sneaky enough.

"You lost your mind, Dutch," Arthur spoke up, "we were worried about you."

Dutch turned his eyes to Arthur, his anger growing at the man's comment. "I'm the one who gave all of you a home! A purpose! A damn family! And you had the nerve to get with my daughter behind my back, and turn her against me."

"All these years, Dutch..." Arthur shook his head. "Just to waste it for this snake?"

"Be quiet, Black Lung." Micah said, his gun pointed at Arthur.

"No," miss Grimshaw appeared with her rifle pointed at Micah, "you be quiet, mister Bell. And put that gun down."

It escalated in a moment. Micah pulled the trigger, sending a bullet towards miss Grimshaw. He took the last remaining mother figure [Y/n] had. Miss Grimshaw was a cold woman, but she cared for her, she cared for all the girls. And now she was dead.

But there was no time to dwell on that.

"Pinkertons are coming!" Javier ran up to the group, warning them.

"Now," Dutch spoke way too calmly for [Y/n]'s liking, "who amongst you is with me, and who is betraying me?"

"Bill, Javier, think for yourselves." Arthur spoke, but they didn't listen.

The both of them were too blinded by the doomed loyalty to Dutch. They sided with him, while Arthur was left with just [Y/n] and John. Besides them, there was also Micah and his own friends he had brought to the gang recently. They were outnumbered.

"My own flesh and blood has turned against me." Dutch concluded in a cold voice [Y/n] hadn't heard before. He had never been a good father, but now... his transformation was complete. The man who had once been a leader, had been replaced by a ghost of himself, driven by greed and paranoia

"You brought it upon yourself." [Y/n] spat.

Micah sneered, "And here I was thinking blood runs thicker than water. Seems a good fuck can change a lady's mind so easily. Wouldn't suspect that of cowpoke, but seems this day is full of surprises."

[Y/n] winced at Micah's remark. She wanted nothing more than to shoot him then and there.

And she tried to. But her hands were trembling with anger, and she missed.

"Put your guns down!" An unknown voice yelled out.

The pinkertons. They ran into the camp, or whatever was left of it, and started shooting. The Pinkertons had arrived, their shouts and gunfire piercing through the madness. The world started to crash down. [Y/n], Arthur, and John found places to use as a cover. The girl didn't even care what would happen with her father now. She had to focus on the pinkertons.

After a few minutes, when the trio knew they won't get out of it this way, John called out, "[Y/n], Arthur, into the caves!"

They didn't think twice before running inside the cave, following the gloomy and scary passages. The pinkertons ran after them and [Y/n] hoped John was leading them to some second entrance. They couldn't afford hitting a dead end.

"Micah was a rat, Milton told me." Arthur confessed as they kept running.

"We should've let him rot in that jail in Strawberry." [Y/n] thought out loud.

There was a ladder, leading them upwards. And another one, and a third one. As the surroundings started to become lighter with the outside's air, [Y/n] thought they might be getting out of that cave before the pinkertons get them.

"John," Arthur turned to his friend when the trio reached fresh air finally, "Abigail is safe, Jack too. They're with Sadie." Then he turned to [Y/n], and tried to stop a cough before speaking to her, "You, [Y/n], I want you to go and–"

"Go where?" The girl interrupted him. "Go and do what?"

"We have to separate here. John and I will go this way, you'll go join Sadie."

In the meantime, John called for their horses. Except that [Y/n]'s didn't come, which could only mean one thing.

"They killed her..." [Y/n] mused, and for a moment she couldn't fight the urge to cry. A few tears had escaped. "Now I have to go with you."

But, again, there was no more time to think. They mounted their horses, Arthur insisting [Y/n] rides with John in case they had to go separate ways. She didn't mount John's horse, she sat on the back of Arthur's. She knew that he knew there was no time to argue.

And they ran again. Ran, followed by the bullets shot by Dutch, Micah, Bill, Javier, and those men Micah brought to the gang. Dutch van der Linde was many things, and he never played the role of the father well, but even now [Y/n] was shocked to see him chasing after them, not afraid of the risk to shoot his own daughter.

When they escaped them, they kept running into the pinkertons. They seemed to be everywhere, as if they knew their next moves.

The trio tried to escape running up a mountain, but they were stopped. [Y/n] saw John falling off his horse, and no sooner the same happened to herself and Arthur.

"Buell!" The girl called out, seeing the animal lying on the ground with a bullet wound. "These motherf–"

They had to shoot now. There was no way out if they didn't kill all those pinkertons. And, fueled by the rage, [Y/n] felt as if she could shoot them all by herself. Hell, she would gladly choke all of them with her bare hands if she got the chance.

"Come on!" John called out after they have dealt with pinkertons. He knew this wouldn't last long.

[Y/n] ran up to Arthur, who was kneeling next to Buell, gently petting the horse's mane. The girl didn't even get to be with her mare when she got killed, so she had to be at least with Buell.

"Let's go!" John repeated.

"Give us a moment!" Arthur shouted back.

[Y/n] touched the horse gently and Arthur leaned over his head. This was such a heartbreaking thing to witness. Arthur received this horse from a man who had lost his leg in the war. Found him randomly in the woods, when the horse bucked him off and his leg got stuck in a stirrup. Arthur helped him and became friends, visiting from time to time. They went hunting once, and the veteran got attacked by a giant boar. With his last breath, he asked Arthur to take care of Buell. And Arthur did, until the horse's last breath, too.

With one last final, "Thank you," that Arthur whispered to Buell, they were ready to run further.

"Let's go." John said for the third time.

Arthur asked, "What about the money?"

"Money?" [Y/n] sobbed, wiping away a few last tears. "What about Micah? We have to get rid of him."

"I go down there, I'm dead in five minutes," John stated, "I have a family, that's more important."

"You're right," Arthur admitted, thinking John must be making sense for the first time in his life, "[Y/n], you go with John. I'm going back for the money."

"No, you're not." The girl protested firmly. She wasn't losing Arthur, not like that. "We go together or we don't go at all."

Arthur knew it was pointless to argue with [Y/n]. If she inherited anything from Dutch, it was the subborness.

Arthur also knew that he didn't have much longer left. He was actively dying from tuberculosis that he hasn't even told [Y/n] about yet. If soon he was going to take his last breath, he wanted [Y/n] to go, not see him like this. He had always been a tough man, he couldn't let the girl he loved more than anything in the world see him die beaten by a stupid illness. "Fine, let's go." He muttered and the trio started once again running. He had no idea how to get out of this. There was no way out for him, but he still could help [Y/n] and John.

They needed to find a higher ground, running up a mointain. It was very steep, they had to be careful. At least they knew they were safe from the bullets, for now. The pinkertons would come back to the cave, as Micah most likely told them about the money hidden inside.

"Keep, pushing, Arthur!" John said.

Arthur stopped running. He stood bent slightly, propping his arms on his knees. It seemed to [Y/n] like he has difficulty to take a breath. An expression of worry grew on her face. She knew he had some kind of sickness, but she didn't realize how serious it was until this moment.

"Arthur, let's go, we've made it so far." She said, the tears threatening to appear in her eyes once again.

"I think I've pushed all I can." Arthur admitted, coughing out some blood. He straightened his posture, being able to breathe a bit better momentarily.

John walked up to him, "We ain't got time for this."

"We ain't all gonna make it."

His words hit [Y/n] worse than any bullets. She ran up to Arthur, grabbing his arm, trying to make him step forward.

"Don't talk nonsense," she tried to pull him, but even in this state he was still stronger than her, "Arthur, I'm not going anywhere without you."

"You both go." Arthur insisted. "I'll hold them off. There ain't no more time to talk." With these words, he reached for his sachel and handed it over to John. Then, he took his hat off and placed it on [Y/n]'s head.

She knew what that mean. She knew Arthur was prepared to die. But she couldn't let him. She couldn't imagine a life without him. He truly was the love of her life, how was she supposed to keep going if he died on that mountain?

Arthur turned to [Y/n], his eyes softening as he took her face in his hands. "You need to keep going, no matter what happens. You understand?"

[Y/n] shook her head, tears welling up again. "Don't talk like that, Arthur. We're getting out of this. All three of us."

But Arthur knew better. He could feel the life slipping away from him with every breath, every step. "I need you to promise me something, [Y/n]."

"No, Arthur, no." She closed her eyes, hoping this would at least stop the tears.

"Look at me," Arthur said, gently placing his thumb on her chin and tilting her head up, "look at me, doll."

She slowly did as she was told, opening her eyes to meet his. Her heart was racing, knowing that these might be the last moments they have together. His gaze was full of love, as if in these seconds he wanted to love her for all the time he won't be able to in the future.

"You've been the light in my life, the good in me." Arthur told her.

"You've been my everything." She whispered, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak.

"You get out of here with John. When I'm gone, you'll find a good man, one that'll give you the life you deserve. You're young, you can start a family, forget about me. I don't know what I did to deserve your love, but it's the time you bless someone worthy with it."

[Y/n] shook her head, her hands gripping Arthur's coat as if she could somehow anchor him to this world, keep him from fading away. "I'll never forget you. You're the love of my life."

"You deserve so much more than this life, [Y/n]. More than what I could ever give you. But you can still have it. You can still have everything you want, a future, a family, happiness."

But [Y/n] was stubborn, as always. "There's no future if you're not in it."

For a moment, Arthur looked as though he might break, as though he might give in to the desire to stay with her, to fight for a few more moments together. She tried to kiss him, and it took all the strenght his ill body had to stop her.

"I love you, [Y/n]," sounded his final words, "I love you more than anything in this world. But you have to go. For me. I'll love you till my last breath."

"And I'll love you until mine," that was the only thing she could promise him, "I'll never forget you."

The sound of gunshots echoed nearby, and the trio knew there was no more time. [Y/n] would trade anything to have a few more minutes with Arthur. She would walk down to Hell to speak to the Devil himself if he could grant her a bit more time.

John grabbed [Y/n], as much as it pained him, he had to drag her away. They had to run. That's what Arthur wanted.

As she was being dragged away, [Y/n] watched Arthur climb, trying to reach an even higher spot of the mountain.

"Arthur is doing this so you can live. Don't let it be for nothing." John said.

[Y/n] didn't reply. They had to make an escape, and they did so in silence, but the girl didn't even feel her own legs, she just trusted they were there. There was no life for her if Arthur died. This life had been all she knew. How she was supposed to live without the gang, and without him?

"John." She said firmly, somehow finding the strenght in herself to not cry anymore. "I'm going back there."

[Y/n] had been hit by the realization that she doesn't have anything to lose. Everything she had, she already either sacrificed or lost. Her mother, the gang, her father, her horse, and now Arthur, her Arthur.

John stopped dead in his tracks, turning around to face [Y/n]. "No, you ain't."

"I ain't got nothing to lose. Either I'll be dragging his dead body to the pearly gates and bribing the God to revive him, or I'll die there with him."

John looked into her eyes just to see fire in them. He understood her love for Arthur and her desperation to save him, and maybe he would have even done the same for Abigail. Except it was plain stupid to do such thing for a man, who was already dying.

"Damn it," John muttered, knowing he can't stop her, "you're as brave as you're stupid. The both of you."

[Y/n] took off Arthur's hat that he had given her, and passed it to John. "You're the best brother I could've had. When I die, I'll look up at you and expect to see you treating Jack and Abigail well. No more running away."

"You mean look down." He corrected her.

"Oh, I'm definitely going to Hell. And I'll be waiting for you, just wait at least fifty years." She chuckled and pulled John in for a quick hug. When they pulled away, she could see tears in his eyes. But [Y/n] wasn't going to cry, not anymore.

She had no reason to cry now. Her time was over. If Arthur was going to die, she was dying there with him, and she was ready for this. More ready than for a future without him.

"Take care of your family," [Y/n]'s last words for John sounded, "make sure they get the life they deserve. Make sure you get that life, too." And with that, she turned away and walked back to where Arthur was supposed to be.

John nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He knew he would carry this moment with him for the rest of his life. The night he had lost the two people who were like siblings to him. He had lost much more, but it didn't matter.

[Y/n] had nothing left to lose, nothing left to live for but this one last act of love. If she could save Arthur, it would be worth it. And if she couldn't... then at least they would die together, side by side, as they should have lived.

There were no more gunshots to follow, not a sound of any fight. [Y/n] climed up the rocks, finding the path where she had last seen Arthur. She saw someone walking her way, not someone who she yearned to see.

"You goddamn rat!" [Y/n] yelled as she grabbed Micah by his coat. She didn't know where she found this strenght in her body, but she managed to throw him such a powerful punch in the face that he had to take a few steps back, almost falling off a cliff.

"You just won't give up, will you?" He said, his usual malice still audible in his voice.

"Did you kill him?" She asked, pointing her gun at him.

"He's alive. Not for much longer though."

[Y/n] clenched her jaw, her grip on the gun tightening so hard her knuckles went white. She felt her anger building up inside her, threatening to explode at any moment. "I should've put a bullet in your head a long time ago."

"Come on, do it now then," he laughed, the sound getting into [Y/n]'s head as she contemplated the decision, "we both know you're too soft to do it. How can such a failure be Dutch's daughter? I bet your mama wasn't the most loyal to your daddy."

That was it, her breaking point. [Y/n] knew putting a bullet in Micah wouldn't fix what was already broken, but at least she could stop any further damage he would cause if he stayed alive.

[Y/n] pulled the trigger, aiming for Micah's head, right between his eyes. His body fell down the cliff, and [Y/n] watched that happen. She felt absolutely nothing. No remose. But also no ease. Not until she could see Arthur.

She ran towards where Micah came from. She found Arthur lying down, his upper body propped on a rock. His face was turned towards the east, looking at the sunrise, even though he had always loved the sunset.

"Arthur..." She said.

His eyes searched for the source of the sound, Arthur thought he was having hallucinations. He forced a smile on his beaten face when he saw her.

"You damn fool, [Y/n]." He said in a weak, raspy voice. Not the kind of rasp [Y/n] loved to hear in the mornings, but the one that emphasized Arthur's condition. "I told you to go with John."

"I couldn't leave you, Arthur." She said, losing all her power to not cry. She knelt down beside him, looking at his injuries. His face was full of little cuts and bruises, some blood. But he didn't seem to have gotten shot.

Tears shone in her eyes. And she must have been the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever laid his eyes on. The way the orange morning sunrays touched her face made Arthur feel butterflies in his stomach. It was way nicer to die when he had this sight in front of him. But it wasn't fair to her.

"Doll," he breathed out, "I'm dying."

"No, you're going to be fine." She stuttered, the pain in her voice betraying how delusional she was being. She couldn't accept the reality of the situation. She refused to believe that the man she loved more than anything was slipping away from her.

She took his hands in hers. His touch used to be so hot it could put the Devil to shame. But now his hands were colder than the coldest night in Colter.

"I've got tuberculosis." Arthur confessed to her finally.

"What?" A puzzled expression appeared on her face. "Since when?"

"Since I killed Thomas Downes."

[Y/n]'s heart dropped. She had heard rumors about the sickness, the way it slowly drained the life out of a person, but she never imagined that Arthur, her Arthur, had been battling it all this time. It explained so much, the coughing fits, the way he had grown weaker, more distant. And yet, he had never told her, never let on just how bad it was.

"I deserved to know." She replied, her voice cracking. "I could've helped you."

"I didn't want to worry you, doll. Didn't want you to see me like this. You deserved better than that."

"I loved you, I still do, and I would've stayed by your side no matter what. You should've told me. We could–" She choked on her words, realizing there was nothing they could've done to stop it.

A small, sad smile tugged at the corner of Arthur's lips. "You've always been too good for me, [Y/n]. I ain't ever deserved you, not really."

"Don't say that, Arthur. You deserve everything. And now you're dying here. Alone."

"I ain't alone." Arthur murmured, his voice growing weaker with every word. "You're here, right? That's all I ever needed."

She nodded, her heart breaking as she watched him struggle to keep his eyes open. The sunrise was casting a warm glow over his face, and for a moment, [Y/n] could almost pretend that they were somewhere else, somewhere safe, where they could live the life however they wanted to. Away from all the bullshit they had to go through.

But reality was cold and its walls were closing in on them. She could feel Arthur slipping away, his fingers holding onto hers weaker with each passing moment. She wanted to scream, to beg for more time, but it would be in vain.

Arthur stopped fighting the urge to close his eyes. "Promise me, doll... you'll find a way to live... without me." He could barely speak anymore, yet he managed to utter these words.

"I love you, Arthur." [Y/n] said instead, because she didn't want to make a promise she couldn't keep.

His grip on her hands loosened, and his chest rose and fell one last time. [Y/n] leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She held him close, cradling his head in her arms as they were bathed in the warmth of the sunrise. She stayed like that, long after he was gone, her tears mixing with the blood and dirt on his skin. Arthur was gone, and with him, a part of her died too. She had nothing left to lose, nothing left to fight for, except the memory of the man she loved.

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

A hardened outlaw tied to a gang that's as much family as it is trouble, and a drifter searching for something she can’t name, find their paths crossing by chance. As Arthur shoulders the weight of the gang’s choices and the drifter continues to wonder, trust becomes a gamble earned through grit, gunfire, and mistakes neither can outrun. In the end, they’ll have to decide what kind of people they want to be. For now? It’s just bad decisions, sharp words, and worse company.

Chapter 1: How Did I Get Here?

Content Warning: Description of injury and blood      ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The rhythmic pounding of hooves slices through the haze of pain. Your entire body aches, but it’s the jagged, burning sensation in your side that consumes every thought. Each breath comes in shallow bursts, the edges of your vision blurred, but you fight to stay conscious. The air reeks of blood and dirt, the sun searing your skin.

Stay with it, you tell yourself. Don’t fade now.

The wound bites deep, a tether holding you to the world. That, and the steady rhythm of hooves beneath you. The pain is unbearable, each jolt of the horse sending fresh waves of agony ripping through you. But you’re alive. Not dead yet. That grim truth is all you have to cling to.

The rough leather saddle digs into your skin as you slump forward, vision swimming. The world blurs with every move, the edges of consciousness threatening to give way. Blood seeps warm and sticky beneath your clothes, but you can’t dwell on it—not now. Thinking about it will undo you.

Fragments of memory flash through your mind: the campfire, the men, the fight. Gunshots. A trap. You recall the fire of the gun in your hands, the brief surge of triumph as your shot landed true. Then came the pain—searing, all-consuming.

Who did this to you? The thought spirals in your fractured mind. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

The horse stumbles slightly, jolting you back to the present. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, the agony flaring anew. The sound of your own shallow breathing drowns everything else out, until a voice cuts through the noise.

“Stay with me.”

The voice is low, firm, and tinged with urgency. It pulls you back, anchoring you against the pull of oblivion. You turn your head slightly, eyes straining to focus, and catch a fleeting glimpse of him: Arthur Morgan. His familiar drawl grounds you, his steady presence a lifeline in the chaos.

The warmth of his arm braces you as the horse charges forward, his grip firm yet careful. The leather reins creak, and you catch the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder. It brings you an odd comfort.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Arthur murmurs, the strain in his voice unmistakable. “I need you to hang on.”

A weak, bitter laugh escapes your lips, a cruel parody of defiance. “Only ‘cause you asked so nice…” The words tumble out, strained and barely audible.

Arthur spurs the horse onward, his breathing steady but his heartbeat frantic against your back. His urgency is a sharp contrast to the lethargy clawing at your limbs. You’re slipping, and he knows it.

The edges of your consciousness flicker, bright sparks turning to embers before dissolving into the darkness. The world tilts, a chaotic blur of sound and sensation, and for a moment, everything goes black. You lose the shape of his arms around you, the thud of the horse’s hooves beneath you. The pain recedes, leaving behind only the distant, rhythmic pounding of blood in your ears. The wind carries the faint, rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves, a deep, steady thrum that draws you deeper, pulling the last of your thoughts, your memories, your fears, into the void.

                   ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The pounding of hooves slows, the sharp crunch of dirt underfoot stirs you awake once more. Strong hands haul you from the saddle, not gently, but with care born of necessity. Your vision swims, catching fleeting images: the flicker of a campfire, shadowy figures darting in the firelight, voices cutting through the haze.

“Come on, girlie,” a voice whispers, rough and urgent. Arthur. The gravelly tone catches in your ears, thick with exhaustion and a quiet strain. There’s a rawness to it, like the edge of a blade that’s been used too long, but beneath it, there’s something steady—something anchored. A confidence that can’t quite disguise the fear threaded through his words. The words are almost a command, but with a tenderness buried deep, like he’s trying to reassure both you and himself.

“Almost there,” he adds, the drawl of his southern accent seeping into the syllables, giving the words a warmth that contrasts with the urgency. The sound of it is grounding, familiar in a way that makes the world around you feel a little less threatening. It’s almost like he’s talking to himself, trying to believe in his own words.

A moment later.

Voices.

"Careful with her,” someone says sharply. “She’s bleedin’ bad.”

Cool hands press against your side, applying pressure to stem the flow. The pain flares, white-hot, and a strangled cry escapes your lips. Arthur’s voice is a constant thread through the noise.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says, though his tone wavers.

A woman’s voice joins his, sharp and authoritative. “Careful! We need to stop the bleeding before she goes into shock. Someone go get the supplies! Reverend!”

The camp blurs in and out of focus. Cool cloths press against your forehead, the sting of antiseptic cuts through the fog. Every sensation feels distant, muted, like it’s happening to someone else.

“She’s losing too much blood.” The woman’s voice is sharper now, tinged with desperation.

Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens. “She’s not dyin’. Not here, not now.” His voice carries a fierce conviction that makes you want to believe him.

Your breathing comes in harsh, shallow gasps as you open your eyes again, only for the world to spin. Your vision narrows in on the looming figure above you—Arthur. You can make out the shape of him now, darkened against the campfire. His face is a mask of concern, his lips moving, but the words don’t quite reach you.

“Open your eyes,” he mutters lowly, but it sounds distant, as if he’s speaking through thick fog.

A rough, half-sarcastic laugh escapes you, though it’s weak and breathless. “Fine mess I got myself into…”

The words feel foreign, so far removed from the weight of the pain. But somehow, they escape, even though they carry with them the faintest echo of something you don’t fully understand.

Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens, firm but gentle. “We’ll get you patched up. Just hold on.”

You don’t have the strength to answer. The words are too far out of reach, tangled up with the pain and the weight of everything that’s happened. Your thoughts are swimming, slipping between memories that don’t quite make sense and the sharp, burning agony in your side. Your head lolls to one side, and your body shudders, a chill running through you despite the heat of the campfire.

The world dims, but Arthur’s steady presence anchors you.

“Stay awake, spitfire,” he says softly, the nickname laced with something unspoken. It stirs a faint flicker of warmth, like a distant memory brushing the edge of consciousness.

The warmth of Arthur’s hand is steady on your arm, his grip unshaken despite the commotion around you. You feel his breath against your ear, his voice cutting through your fractured thoughts.

“Hold on. You’re gonna be okay. We’ll fix this.”

For the briefest moment, you wonder if he believes it—or if he’s just saying it to keep himself together. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All you know is that you’re still here, and the voices haven’t stopped. Not yet.

The moments bleed into each other, each breath sharp and fleeting, but somewhere amid the blur of pain and fading vision, the voices begin to grow more distant. The chaos around you settles into a steady rhythm—softer murmurs and the movement of people working. You feel hands on you, their touch careful and practiced, pressing and adjusting with an urgency that pulls you back to the present.

A new cool cloth is pressed to your forehead, the sudden chill shocking you back to awareness. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering as the pain in your side radiates with a sharp bite. A voice, belonging to the woman, drifts through the haze.

“We’re lucky. The bullet went clean through; didn’t hit anything vital, from the looks of it.” Her voice, while tinged with worry, carries a note of relief. You try to focus on that, the small sliver of fortune.

Hands work quickly, removing torn fabric and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. The sting of antiseptic sears your skin, sharp and biting. The world wavers, edges blurred with fatigue, but the cool touch of the cloth remains. You shift slightly, feeling the taut muscles in your side tense as the cloth is replaced with bandages, rough and raw but securing the wound with an iron grip.

Arthur’s voice cuts through the fog again, low and steady, urging you to stay with him. You can feel his grip tightening on your arm, firm yet gentle, as if trying to beacon you back to the world around you.

The muffled sound of boots pounding on the dirt fades into the background as you force yourself to take another breath. You’re grateful for the simple fact that the bullet went clean through. For a moment, you allow yourself to think that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be alright. The voices around you blur into a comforting lullaby, soft and rhythmic, as if time has slowed to match the steady press of hands and the pulse of life still burning within you.

“Arthur…” The whisper escapes your lips, rough and barely audible. The sensation of your voice feels distant.

You feel his presence this time before you hear him, the shadow of him falling over you like a protective veil. He leans closer, his face etched with concern, the firelight casting deep lines across his features. “You with me?” His voice is urgent but gentle, like he's fighting against something he can’t control. “I need you to stay with me now, you hear?”

A tiny nod escapes you, barely perceptible, but it’s enough for him to catch. His breath catches, just a fraction of a second, before he exhales slowly. “Good,” he murmurs, the words so soft they might be meant for himself. “Just a little longer.”

But the camp around you seems to blur into nothing, a fading hum in the distance. The voices become indistinct murmurs, the movement of people turning into the background noise of a world you're slowly drifting away from. Each breath feels harder to pull in, your chest heavy with the weight of it, and your vision narrows to a thin line now.

You can feel Arthur’s grip, firm but tender, his calloused hand against your skin, grounding you as you fight to stay conscious. “Hold on, almost done,” he says again, his voice wavering once again.

The air feels colder now, the world spinning faster, and your breath comes in short, jagged gasps. The firelight feels far away, distant as the shadows stretch longer. The voices grow muffled, like you're sinking deeper into water, and the weight of the night presses down harder on you.

“Damn it,” Arthur's voice growls, low and fierce. “You’re gonna make it through this. Just hold on, spitfire.”

The nickname cuts through the haze like a beacon. Spitfire. It ignites something faint but stubborn—a flicker of warmth in the growing void. You cling to the sound, not for the word itself, but for the way he says it. It’s not a command but a promise, wrapped in affection and fear. Your lips twitch, almost a smile, but the effort is too much.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion. The cold gnaws at you, threatening to drag you into a place you won’t return from. For a moment, you surrender, letting the darkness cradle you. But his voice pulls you back.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, fierce and pleading all at once. “Stay with me. You hear me, spitfire? Stay awake.”

The nickname strikes you again, a whisper of warmth against the encroaching chill. You latch onto it like a lifeline, the way it curls around you, soft and steady.

The edges of your vision finally fades into a dark blur, the firelight fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns. Your body sinks into the cold, bone-deep and unrelenting, but his hand doesn’t let go. You don’t think you’ll make it back this time, but as the void rises to claim you, his voice cuts through one last time.

“Spitfire.”

The world vanishes, and the darkness swallows you whole.

                                    ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

I hope you enjoy the first chapter! I’m always open to your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. AO3 : Chapter 1

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

Gossip

Masterlist Word count: 550 Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Summary: You know that John likes you. You know that Arthur likes you. They know about each other, but the others don't. Gossip spreads and, what feels like a ticking time bomb, turns out to be unconnected. 

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'I don't think he knows,' Abigail says as she sits, knitting with Mary-Beth and Tilly while watching you and Arthur talk. John has gone out hunting with Charles to learn how to use a bow as he is useless with it. Arthur had asked Charles to do so but Abigail suspects he had other motives for getting John away from camp.  'I think he does,' Tilly argues with a grin, 'why else would he ask Charles? Everyone knows John is too impatient to learn how to use a bow.' She's got a point, Abigail figures.  Things had been weird ever since you joined the gang. Sadie had found you in Valentine and recognized you as an old friend. In fact, the friend who set her up with her husband. She told the others you seemed lost and needed some place where people have your back. Most were sceptical but your turned out to be a hard worker and a great hunter, bringing in huge game for the camp whenever you went out. Dutch had almost considered letting you take a wagon along so you could bring enough to sell it.  That great aim of yours also pulled in different attention. Both John and Arthur became more than smitten with your friendly and kind demeanour. Mary-Beth had suggested that Arthur liked you for your kindness and willingness to listen while John liked you for your viciousness and rough edges. Both great attributes that make you who you are.  'Well, either way, they're both fools,' Mary-Beth claims, ending the argument.  'Do you think she knows,' Tilly questions.  'For sure she knows,' Mary-Beth answers as all of them watch you gently touch Arthur's shoulder as he makes a joke not worthy of the laughter that comes out of you.  'She's really toying with them, ain't she,' Abigail grumbles. Despite liking you quite a bit, she fears what it might do to the gang if Arthur and John are pinned against each other. It's a bad predicament to be in and since the year that John left the gang is still a sore spot for Arthur, Abigail fears things might explode with the littlest of meddling. When her and John put an end to it, she was slightly relieved, but this is just insanity. 

'Do you think they know,' Arthur questions you. You shake your head with a grin.  'No, they probably think I'm hopping between you two. They wouldn't be gossiping about us as much if they knew.'  'Fair point.' He puts a gentle hand on your waist to pull you closer and watches at the jaws drop across camp.  'Are you trying to rile them up, cowboy,' you tease as you take a step closer to him. He shrugs. You roll your eyes and press a kiss to his jaw. 'Come on, let's go join Charles and John.' Arthur looks over at the women once more as he leans towards you.  'If only they knew about Charles.' You shove him away with a laugh.  'Oh, stop it. I liked you better when you were still being shy about liking me.' 

[ergman777]

did john look for arthur?

What are yall's thoughts/headcannons on what John did after he left Arthur on that hill? How long do you think it took him to go back and look for Arthur, if he ever looked at all? Because at the time ofc his focus was to escape while protecting Abigail and Jack, and I'm assuming the area would be swarming with agents for awhile after, making it hard for him to look (cause hes not sneaky like charles).

But I like to think that even though he knew Arthur was sick and probably wouldn't make it, he still hoped his brother was able to slip away like he always had. That maybe Arthur giving him his hat and satchel wasn't a final goodbye, but a promise to come back and retrieve them later. I also like to think that he'd risk going into town and getting the newspaper to see if there was any word, or use Arthur's old binoculars to spy on the sheriff's "wanted" poster board from afar, to make sure his bounty wasn't taken down.

I imagine he held onto hope for a little while like this, maybe a few weeks, few months, maybe even the whole first year of Arthur being gone. Even if that hope was only an excuse not to mourn, or face the realization of his brother's death.

Maybe he made sure no one touched the things in Arthur's satchel for awhile, figuring it'd be rude to riffle through his things if he ever came back.

but he never did

Idk I feel like we never realize it bc our minds are usually elsewhere when chapter 6 ends (just like FULL ON sobbing) but 8 years is a MASSIVE canonical gap between John seeing Arthur for the last time and Charles confirming he indeed buried him- 8 YEARS FOR THIS KIND OF ANGST BABE

(also forgive the sketchiness, I did this on a trackpad bc I left my drawing tablet back in the states T-T)

[finniestoncrane]

Anonymous for obvious reasons; can I request some nasty foul Micah non-con? Something about him just…taking what he wants from me. Maybe at gun point, definitely violent…Please don’t judge me >.<

Micah Bell x Fem!Reader, word count: 5.5k anon i would NEVER judge you for real ❤️ i do think something is wrong with me, or us, based on how into him i am like some of his voice lines are??? and all of his actions are questionable and irredeemable and yet here i am so thank you anon for allowing me to indulge this prompt is perfect for him he is so punishable by immediate death ❤️ request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: noncon, rape, coercion, dead dove seriously, threats, guns, rough vaginal sex, throat fucking/face fucking, fingering, breeding kink, slapping, choking, degradation, brief OH SO TINY insinuation that micah would fuck you dead if he had to

So far, Clemens Point seemed perfect. It'd only been three days since everyone had packed up and quickly retreated further South, but in those three days you'd found peace like you hadn't known for months, years maybe. It was nice, having a sense of community, being in the safety of close quarters, but finally getting some leg room was worth the minor sacrifice of not having to wake up looking at Swanson every single morning.

Yes, you were all running and hiding. Yes, that wasn't the plan. But this camp, for now at least, provided you with a chance to escape from what felt like your own relentless hunter.

At Horsehoe Overlook, you couldn't exhale without Micah being there to seemingly inhale your breath. There wasn't a way to wash and dress in the morning without his eyes leering at you, or any of the other girls. Not even the piercing, ill-wishing stare of Miss Grimshaw seemed to stave him off for any decent amount of time.

The outskirts of the camp provided safety, solitude. The trees dampened the sounds of the others, blocked you from their view. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shoreline deafened you to the talking, the shouting, the snoring, the laughing, the drunken singing. All of it was good, in moderation, but sometimes you needed the escape. Silence, alone. It was good, until it wasn't.

"There she is."

The voice was low, gravelly, something cruelly mischievous underneath the words. Unmistakeably Micah.

Before you could turn to face him, offering him a few choice words of your own, you heard another sound. A quick but familiar click as he lifted one of his revolvers to the side of your head. As you let out the breath you were holding, he began to chuckle.

"Oh, ho... not quite quick enough, were you."

He walked around you, gun still pressed to your skull, the cold metal unfortunately pleasant against your skin in the sweltering heat that persisted even into the dark of night.

"I ain't much of a hunter, but you're just about the perfect prey. Completely oblivious, head in the clouds. Daydreaming about what? Me?"

You scoffed, the sound still low as your disdain for him allowed your fear of him to override it. He was weak in morals, in constitution, in loyalty and goodness. But he was physically strong, and you knew better than to put him in a bad mood.

Micah circled around you, the gun now holstered once more. You weren't going to run, not yet, and he knew that.

"I see now why you like it out here so much. Quiet. Can barely hear the camp..."

You swallowed the lump in your throat as quietly as possibly, trying not to let him know that his strange monologuing was getting to you.

"... I guess that means that they can't hear us."

It was now or never. You were so certain he was bluffing, confident that he wouldn't actually hurt you. And while you were still new to the group, relatively, you had quickly learned how things worked in the Van Der Linde gang. Surely, the hierarchy, the unspoken and loudly spoken rules hadn't been forgotten by him.

But as you moved to take a step you felt a dull thud against your collar bone, a swelling, radiating pain that shot out through your nervous systems in ringing echoes. He'd smacked you with the butt of his gun, and while the realisation that he had struck your body was a surprise to you, Micah was calm, smiling, like he'd known it was going to come to that at some point or another. And as if the sudden physical violence hadn't been enough, he brought his body into yours and pinned you to the three, keeping you there by minimal physical force, mostly by threat.

"Uh, uh... think carefully, you ain't that stupid."

He pressed the revolver against your temple once more, watching as you winced as the barrel came into contact with your skin.

"What is the point in having all of you useless women around if it takes a gun to the head to get you to fuck me."

In a moment of bravery, sensing that this might be your chance to go out with a fight, you spat out your words.

"What makes you think that your gun is going to persuade me?"

Micah laughed, a deep, cruel chuckle that echoed in among the trees. He was deeply amused by your insolence, able to sense the shaking in your voice, the cowardice that failed to back up the words. He cut his laughter short with a grunt as he stepped into you, pressing your back against a tree, clicking the hammer of his gun and leaning into your face. You could smell the whisky on his breath, feel his hair against your cheek as he threatened you.

"Because if you don't, I will not hesitate to pull this trigger, you silly bitch."

Your eyes flitted towards the camp, wondering if it was worth it to scream or shout. How quickly could they get to you? And which of them would care enough to rush?

It was almost as if he was in your head, his filthy fingers scraping through your mind and reading your thoughts.

"Pointless. You mean nothing to them. You don't bring in money. You don't offer up your services. How many socks do you think - need - darning?"

He punctuated his words by dragging the tip of his tongue along the shell of your ear, letting his lips linger before he started again.

"I could say I saw you stalking around the trees, shot you before I realised who it was. Maybe I've done us all a favour? Shooting a sneaky little thief? Or a rat? Maybe I shot you for good reason? And who are they going to believe?"

There was no response you could think of that wouldn't make things worse. None that would make it better either. So you kept quiet, instead focusing your attention on him. Intense eye contact that told him, silently, that he wasn't quite intimidating you as much as he hoped he might. It didn't deter him, and he continued speaking, his breath lingering in the air in front of you, rancid and sweet, tobacco and whisky.

"What is it that you come out here to do anyway, huh? All on your own. Just lusty ideas and busy fingers, I bet."

The insinuation strucka chord within you. He can't have known, surely. And besides, it was hardly the most sinful act. At least you weren't doing it on your sleeping roll next to anyone else, not like you'd seen some of the men do.

"I've seen the way you look at the men in camp. Hot and bothered when they're shirtless. Desperate. Pathetic, really. And yet, you've turned me down so many times. Why is that? Really pisses me off, you know?"

His words were so pleading, as though he were desperate for answers that he already knew. But how happy would he have been to hear your truth? That he was repulsive, cruel, disgusting, vile. That you'd rather take Strauss than him. As you wondered whether it was worth the risk to put him down a little, you were interrupted by the sound of him grunting.

Micah's free hand was working at the belt of his pants, unbuckling it and loosening it enough to slide it through the loops in one single, fluid motion. He slung it over his shoulder and then, when his hand was free once again, he cupped at his crotch, a visible and until now unnoticed bulge at the front signalling what his intentions were.

"I'm only going to ask you once more politely. Are you gonna fuck me, or not?"

"In your dreams."

He smiled wide, chuckling with a snort before the grin faded, teeth gritted as he spat out his words.

"Well, I'm glad we cleared that up."

You watched him carefully as he moved closer to you, his body pressing against yours, keeping you locked in between him and the tree. You closed your eyes tightly shut as he leaned in to whisper into your ear, your whole body cringing, a grimace pulling at the corners of your mouth as his lips grazed over your skin.

"Let's just get this started then. And I'll remind you. Keep. Quiet. One little peep of anything other than a moan or some well-deserved praise on my part, and I'll hunt you down and make sure this little secret dies with you. Understand?"

Although you nodded, the second he seemed to bring his focus to his trousers to unfasten the belt, you decided you had to take the risk and shout for someone, anyone, to hear you.

"Please hel-"

The ill-advised scream for assistance was cut short quick enough that it could have been mistaking for the yelping of a coyote, for a squeal of a nearby bird. Micah's hand was over yours,

"You shut your mouth, whore! If anyone comes running to us, I'll ruin you. Not exactly like you're a willing participant now, won't make a difference to me if you're not breathing either."

His hands fell from his pants, now curled around your wrists as he held you far too tight, making sure his point was made. You nodded, this time in complete understanding and truth, turning your head away from him as he smiled so cruelly at the tears that welled up in your eyes.

"Crying won't help much. It just adds to the delight for me. Now, I'm on the verge of losing my appetite for you..."

He growled, the words hissing, stinging, as though they were meant to encourage you to give way to him, like this was a favour he was doing for you.

"... so I think we should get started. You wanna take the lead?"

Micah gestured to the tent at the front of his stained white pants, and you responded with confusion.

"You want me to...?"

"I'm not in the mood to do all the work here, woman... Just get on with it!"

Slowly, and not meant to be sensually, you pulled his pants down, freeing his cock and noting that he wasn't wearing any underwear. The scent of his sweat was overwhelming, even on the breeze. Certain you'd be forced to take it eventually, you studied him. He was thick, above average in terms of what you'd seen of most men, although he was fully erect so you imagined that helped to make it seem more threatening. Below his stomach there was a mound of thick, unruly, dark blonde hair which coverered his balls and reached just short of the round of his belly. You wondered if it would feel the same against your skin as the scratchy handle-bar moustache that covered most of his face did.

A quick glance up to him was met with an expectant expression as he waited for you to do what you both knew was coming. So you took a hold of his cock, curling your fingers around the shaft, letting your palm grip it as you began to pump your fist slowly up and down. The moment your hand started stroking, he tossed his head back in satisfaction and relief. You were doing exactly as you were told, and he was oddly grateful, though he had no intentions of thanking you. Instead he hissed out a nasty comment, hoping to remind you of your place despite his groans of pleasure.

"That's it... you're good for something after all, huh?"

Despite yourself, you offered him a grunt of dismissal, knowing that any indication of you being present in this was more than he deserved, but just what he was trying to get from you.

"I gotta say though, girly... your hands, they're awful soft. Ain't seen a single day of hard work have they?"

You remained silent, not wanting to give him anything. There was no right answer, no correct reply. If you could just focus on this, on letting him finish up, then you could go back to the camp and work on pretending this never happened. But Micah answered in your place, a thinlt veiled threat.

"Well, I'll make sure to work you to the bone, lady."

Focusing on the task literally at hand was your only saving grace, but it meant you had found yourself getting a little carried away. Your hand was firmer, wrapped around his cock tight as you noticed the stronger your grip, the more he bucked his hips. The happier he was, the less likely he was to kill you, you reasoned. And if you could just get him to finish, as quick as all the other men you'd dealt with, then he might not have the energy to fuck you or to make you put his disgusting cock in your mouth.

Your free hand worked it's way towards his balls, cupping them gently before holding them in the same grip as his cock, watching as Micah hissed and squirmed, almost losing his balance. You loosened up, afraid you might have gone too far, but he thrust his hips back towards you.

"You can't promise that and then take it away. You got nothing better to do than rile me up?"

There was a distinct satisfaction in causing him pain, even if it was a sting that only served to arouse him further. Digging your fingernails into the tender skin of his balls gave you pleasure, but the twitch of his cock, the throbbing veins against your hand, quickly wiped anything good from your mind. Micah's strained whines turned into a choked laugh as he spoke, knowing you didn't care to hear anything he had to say, good or bad, about the experience.

"Oh, I knew you were a dirty girl. It might have been hiding under the surface, but I bring it out of them. I always do."

He grabbed your chin, lifting your face, directing your gaze to his. It was a brief moment of raw intimacy that made your stomach churn, your blood seemingly squirming through your veins as he spoke to you, lips carefully forming the words as his eyes took you in. Subservient, at his feet, there to please him.

"I love to see a pretty little thing working hard."

You tried to keep your face neutral, desperate not to sneer in his face as he continued through his own smirk.

"Why don't you put those purty lips around it, see if I taste as good as I look, HA!"

That one sharp, arrogant laugh was followed by a ridiculous giggle which ended with a snort as he inhaled. He moved closer, taking his cock from your hand, wrapping his own palm around it as he shook it in front of your face. Sensing that now was not the time to argue, you opened your mouth, only slightly, as he pressed the head of his cock, slick with precum, against your lips.

"Don't test me, woman. Open your god damn mouth. Wider."

You were slow to move, letting your lips fall open hesitantly, unable to make the process any quicker as your body refused to agree. Your jaw swung open in shock though, as the back of Micah's hand cracked against your cheek.

"Now, lady! Hurry the fuck up."

It pained you to obey his instructions, but you did as you were told regardless. Letting your lower jaw open, you found it quickly filled with his cock as he gripped it at the base and pushed it in along your tongue. THe brutality of the motion, clumsy, without regard for either of you, meant your teeth scraped along the top of his length. Micah placed his thumb and forefinger on either side of your chin, tugging it down to open you up more with a hiss.

"Be careful with those teeth, lady."

The taste of him was one you wouldn't forget. You could already feel it settling against your tastebuds, seeping into them, thick and musky, the tang of his precum at the back of your throat as he let himself really enjoy the experience.

Bringing your hands up, you rested them on his protruding stomach, ignoring the pang in your heart as you realised the affectionate insinuation it brought in favour of the control it gave you. At least in this position, you could push against him, stop him from pressing his cock further down your throat. He was already choking you, the head tapping against the back of your tongue, making you gag as he laughed in delight. Your saliva dripped down your chin, spilling from the corners of your mouth as you coughed and spluttered.

Micah's lips curled into a smile, pushed out into a silent "oh" with a pout as you tried your best to encourage him to cum there, flat against your tongue, hitting the back of your throat. You'd hate it, the taste of him lingering, no option but to swallow quickly, but at least it would be over. It seemed he had other plans, though, as he had noticed that your mind was wandering from the task at hand.

Instead of punishing you, as he wanted to for this lack of enthusiasm, he grinned a wide, false smile and his voice dripping in a sickly sweet and very put on tone.

"Aw, you feeling left out? Well, don't you worry. Micah Bell knows how to share the wealth around."

With a loud pop, his cock was pulled from your lips. Strands of drool dripped to your chin and the ground, sticking to the grass and glistening in the moonlight. As he adjusted himself, his cock bounced, glinting similarly with your saliva.

You realised that this was going to be a longer ordeal than you anticipated, and you scrambled for any excuse to get him back in your mouth so you could finish the job, standing up from your knees and trying to face him straight on so he could see the desperation in your eyes. It was a ridiculous notion, that you could appeal to any morals within him, but it was worth a try.

"No, it's... it's fine. Please, let me focus on you. Was I not doing a good enough job? I can try harder? Please? Please just-"

He wasn't having it. Before you could move your head out of the way, his hands were reaching up towards you, holding his belt between them and pressing the leather into your mouth, your head banging roughly against the tree behind you, held in position as he buckled and tightened the belt against the bark on the other side.

"Hng... mmmm... icah... ease... on't, ease..."

The words were muffled, formed poorly as your lips strained to meet each other.

"Don't strain yourself, you'll like this. I promise."

He sank to his knees, an odd sight to see. But his dominance was unquestionable. There was no denying he was in control, and enjoying every second of what he viewed to be a little bit of servitude, a little bit of pleasure, but definitely a lot of cruelty as he held your undesired pleasure in his hands.

Micah's fingers pinched the hem of your skirt, teasing at it before he began to lift it little by little, exposing your calves, your thighs, and then, much to your dismay, your cunt.

"No drawers? Well... aren't you just full of surprises."

He breathed in deep with his chuckling, nostrils flared as he leaned closer to you.

"I can practically feel the heat coming off of you! Tempting... very tempting."

Your body twitched in response to the soft ghosting of his fingers against the tuft of pubic hair, his fingertips dropping to your warm lips, cupping his palm over your cunt between your legs. He held you there, gripping tight, before he slid one finger between your lips, bringing it round to the front, his hand curling back out from your thighs, that one pointed finger tapping over your clit as he retreated. With his hand in front of his face he sniggered again.

"You can't tell me you're having a bad time, not when my fingers are covered in evidence to the contrary, lady."

In a move that made you shiver involuntarily, whether that was in excitement or disgust you couldn't tell, he brought his slicked fingers away from your body, lifting them to his nose to inhale your scent. And then, serpentine in the way it moved, he pressed his tongue out and tasted you on him. The satisfactory groan he made settled in your chest as you waited for him to return to you. But instead of reaching for your swollen cunt, he gripped at your skirt, pulling at it, tugging it down your waist.

"Let's get this off you then, sweetheart, and we'll see just what you got underneath. Gotta get a good look at what we're workin' with here."

Now half-naked against the tree, you let your eyes dart towards the camp, unsure if you actually wanted people to come find you now. The fear of being seen, completely embarrassed, the risk of them misreading the situation made your blood run cold. And worse than even that, you realised that the revolting arousal coiling in your stomach was only growing. Each stroke of his rough fingers against your cunt was only making you hotter and more desperate for any kind of relief. Micah was teasing you, successfully. He was a bully, towards everyone at camp, anyone he deemed weaker than him, and more often than not, those that he knew were stronger than him too. There was no difference between the snide or sleazy remarks he hollered at people as they walked past him and the cruel way he was holding you in the palm of his hand. But past the irritation, there was something pleasurable in the tortuous way he had taken control.

Micah's fingers slipped in and out of you with ease, your arousal wet and welcoming as you felt yourself closing in on an orgasm. You knew he could sense it. Your muscles tensed, your breathing was laboured, and your throat had relaxed enough to let loose a small, continuous whine that brought another, devilish smile to his lips. And yet, he didn't stop. He was going to make you cum. He was going to be responsible for your climax. And you were surprised that he would do that, let alone bother to get this far. He had always struck you as a selfish man in every regard, not least of all in dishing out any semblance of joy to others. And especially not in relation to any women. But here he was, calloused fingers pumping in and out of you while his thumb tapped against that seldom regarded bud that made you whimper and tremble.

"You're getting there, huh? I told you before so many times, I ain't as bad as you and all the others think I am."

He paused, looking to see if there was any change in your eyes, in the way you viewed him. You hoped he wouldn't see that glimmer of recognition of his more positive attributes.

"You regret spurning my advances now, lady? Wish you hadn't been missing out all this time? Well, we can always remedy that. You and me... we got a lot of lost time to make up for."

His sentence closed with that same chuckle, ending in what was becoming his signature snort. A sound you'd regarded in public as grotesque but which in private you had to admit added a certain amount of innocent, almost falliable charm to him.

As you considered the sweet sound, innocent in its way, your back arched away from the tree. Your nec strained, mouth still bound by the belt, trying to keep your balance and losing the strength of your muscles as they tensed into a complete, dull, numbness.

"You can bite down on that belt if you want. I'll wear your teeth marks like a sign of my achievement."

With that crude sentiment you felt your body tremble into release, surges of pleasure chasing after your nerve endings, reminding you of the way that the spark of the plunger let the flames rush towwards dynamite. And there it was, your own explosion. Micah's arm was around your back, holding you as he kept his fingers pumping in and out long after your muffled groans had petered out. He let you rock yourself on him, soothing your body as you came down from the high, hushing you, stroking your hair and kissing your neck almost tenderly as he lowered you back down against the tree.

"Sh, sh, sh. There, there, that's a good girl."

You were murmuring against the leather, not even sure of what you were trying to say, when he reached for the belt buckle.

"I did something for you, now you're going to behave for me, yeah?"

You nodded and he unbuckled you from the tree, keeping you pinned there with his body against you. You weren't going to run though. You were close to the end. It would have been a fool's move to try and escape when you'd already given up so much, and were this close to the freedom you had known just a short time before. And besides that, he was correct. He'd done something for you. And you were undeniably grateful, as much as you loathed to consider that fact.

"Not long now, girl. We're almost done. But you gotta let me get mine now, that's just polite."

Without stopping to think, you nodded, agreeing with him a little more enthusiastically than you wanted to. Anything to have this over with, that's what you could tell yourself, and anyone else who found out. The sooner he commenced with that was coming, the sooner you could go back to camp and scrub yourself clean in the river. If you were quick enough, you might not have to let the fact that you were enjoying yourself settle in. You could forget it ever happened, never have to fear returning to this moment in your nightmares, or more likely, your more pleasant dreams.

"Now, did you know that it's been quite a while since old Micah Bell has seen any action?"

It did, actually. For all that he was away from camp, you imagine that he might be in brothels or saloons, paying for what he wanted or taking it by force as he was now.

"We're just so busy these days, on the run from the law. Can't find the time to woo a girl proper. And none of you in camp are interested. You all think you're too good or me."

It was as if he had angered himself just by thinking about it, irritated enough by your previous rejections that he grabbed your arm, fingers pinching your skin, and turning you around forcefully. Then, his palms were on your shoulders, pushing you to your knees once more, the worn toe of his boot between your shoulder blades as he kicked you onto all fours.

"In fact I think the last time... yeah, it was Jenny! You never met her, but boy, she was a dirty little thing. Not quite as filthy as you are though. You're much worse. Which believe me, is far better. You feel better, even. Taste better too."

With very little grace he began to pull his pants down, shuffling unceremoniously until they were at his ankles. His legs, now exposed, were a concerning sight. Sparse, light blonde hair covered his limbs and did a poor job at concealing the extensive bruising on his skin. In what you imagined must have been a painful move, given the scrapes that currently marred his knees, he sank down to the ground, lowering himelf to your level. He knelt on one leg at one side of you, the other side trapped by his foot which was planted firmly on the ground. And then he pulled at your hips, bringing you closer to him. The heat of his cock, the sticky texture of his precum, settled aganst your rear as he shifted between your cheeks, trying to work himself to the correct angle.

"It's a shame what happened to her, you know. She could've been carrying Micah Bell the fourth for all I know. And then she was snuffed out."

There was almost a sense of regret, of genuine sorrow, in his tone. But he quickly snuffed it out with a continuation of the crude remarks you knew so well.

"No problem, I can try again with you. Let's see if we can't carry on this great lineage after all. You'd make fine breeding stock."

He made a playful grab for your hips, palms sliding underneath you as his fingers gripped at your stomach before he pulled them away from your body to his own. He spat onto his palm and rubbed it along his length, gripping his cock at the base and positioning it against your ready, swollen lips. And then he pushed himself inside of you with a deep and pleading grunt.

"Stallion like me? Who wouldn't pay for me to stud. You're lucky you're getting it for free."

Micah began rutting into you, his cock throbbing against your walls, stretching it as he pressed deeper into you. Your walls clenched, body tense as he grabbed desperately at your waist. Each grunt seemed higher in pitch, weaker towards the end as his voice trailed off into a whine. You could feel him trembling, his knees shaking almost immediately, which meant he was close to finishing. The ordeal was almost over, and yet you noticed yourself clenching tighter, muscles contracting around him, trying to keep him there within you for just a few more seconds. You were taking pride in the soft praise he was muttering, words about how warm you were, how inviting you seemed, wet and waiting, a fool for rejecting him, clever enough to take him up on the offer next time.

"You're all so prissy... hng... so scared of me... But it's really not that bad is it? Heh... You can tell them all ...ah... if you want... tell them... tell them Micah Bell did you good."

He tossed his head back, a feeble whimper caught in his throat as he bucked into you hard, a sudden warmth filling you. He stayed there, twitching inside of your cunt, his cock keeping his cum inside of you until he eventually pulled out and watched as the creamy residue dripped out of you and onto the grass. His hand reached out, and for a moment you thought he might be offering it to you, a gentlemanly aid to get you off of your knees, but instead he gripped your skirt and wiped his hands on it. Then, he pulled at the fabric, rubbing it over the flushed head of his cock, cleaning himself before he started pulling his pants back up.

When you had scrambled back up and onto your feet, you were quickly pulled into a kiss, one that felt neither romantic nor necessary. It was almost as though he thought it was a courtesy, the right way to end what had just happened. You could smell yourself on his lips, and as his moustache brushed against you, the kiss deepning into something far more crude and animalistic than a pleasant goodbye, you could make out the dark smell of whisky and cigarettes, and something far more acrid lingering below even that.

Luckily, he pulled back before you began to choke for air, or gagged on his tongue which had begun to slide itself down your throat. And as you stared at him in disbelief, still not sure of how to process everything that had just happened to you, he put out his hand again, this time in a genuine gesture.

"Will you accompany me back to camp, miss?"

The shift in his tone was so strange. It sounded like there was genuine feeling, hope, behind the words. You looked at his palm, then up to his eyes, confusion settling on your brow before a grimace curled over your lips. Jilted once again, Micah spat at your feet.

"Fuck you then, lady. I don't need everyone asking questions about you and me, anyway. There's plenty of other women who could... I got better things to be doing than playing house with you."

As he walked back towards the glow of the campfires you watched him carefully, not daring to move until you were certain you could make it back safely to your mat with the other girls. And your blood ran cold as he stopped and turned on his heel, a sneer pressed into his cheeks as he spoke.

"I wouldn't go blabbing about this. If you start showing, I might make an honest woman of you. Until then..."

He pressed a finger to his lips, silencing you, before walking off with another giggle, the snort echoing between the trees as you watched his disappear at the treeline.

[twola]

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the widowed survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Chapter I: Limpany Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Chapter II : Diablo Ridge Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Chapter III : Owanjila Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VII

➵Related Art➵ Calluna Warm Prairie Breeze Under the Cypress Shade Like So Many Times Before

[eveomo]

bounties and blessings - arthur morgan x f!reader

chapter 1 (SFW, will probably be edited in the future)

next chapter -> 2

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ synopsis : after meeting a seemingly dangerous yet kind outlaw during a bounty, your world seems to get turned upside down after you can't seem to stop running into each other. could this be the beginning of something you've both been longing for?

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ warnings/tags : MINORS MAY INTERACT WITH SFW CHAPTERS (NSFW WILL BE TAGGED), depictions of violence, arguments, angst, eventual smut, unprotected piv sex, guns, gun violence, swearing, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, soft arthur, animal death, PTSD, mentions/depictions of abuse, attempted SA (very brief and for plot purposes only), NO PREGNANCY, NO BABIES, MC isnt a frail weak girl who constantly needs saving, often grammatically incorrect (probably)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ contains : arthur morgan x f!reader, no use of y/n, reader changes the plot for the better

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ wc : 1.9k

posted to AO3 here

It was a blazing summer day, sweat collecting along the brim of your hat as you rode your palomino arabian into Valentine, slowly making your way to the sheriff's office. As you approach the front of the decrepit building, you swing your foot over the saddle and dismount, grabbing the reins to hitch your horse. 

You pulled your bandana up a touch higher and pulled your hat down to cover your eyes before entering the building. Approaching the board, you scan for any bounties that would truly be worth your while. Then, your eyes caught a poster. 

$75 for some idiot that decided to shoot a rancher's son and a lawman for one cow? Easy money. Was it the biggest bounty you’d ever done? Absolutely not, but it offered more money than anything else pinned to the board. You tore it down and folded it before shoving it into your pocket and nodding at the guard seated at the front of the office. Turning on your heel, you exited the building and mounted your horse. 

          “You ready for some fun girl?” Patting her golden coat, you clicked your tongue and tapped your heels to get her moving. As you rode, you reached back to grab your canteen, guzzling down at least half of it with your horse huffing underneath you. 

          “It’s hot ain’t it, Lenora?” You soothed, petting her mane as you kicked your heels once again to get her into a gallop, welcoming the breeze on your face as you rode. Turning off the path, you began to wind and turn throughout the forest, seeking the abandoned cabin the man you were after was hiding in. Your heart skipped a beat as you spotted it in the distance, excited to have some income once again after having to run from the law after a bar fight gone wrong in another town. Having finally arrived at your destination just north of the Dakota River, you dismount and leave Lenora in the brush, sighing as you pull your bandana over your face and retrieve the lasso attached to your black leather saddle. 

Taking effortlessly light steps, you approach the back end of the cabin before hearing two other voices just west of your location. You crouch behind a broken down wagon sitting in the field surrounding the home as you take a deep breath and tune into the words drifting towards you through the wind. 

          “John, if you’re messin’ with me after last time I’ll give you a real reason to run from camp.” One gruff voice huffs out, while another insists that he saw something duck behind a wagon. Your eyes narrow and you peek your head around the wheel, deciding the coast was clear before darting out and crouching down below a window next to the back entrance. Confident that you were going to secure this bounty before unwanted competition appeared, you darted up to peek into the window, seeing your target shine his gun. Quietly, you edge the door open before taking light steps towards the balding man. With an incredible speed, you grab your revolver from your holster and knock the man unconscious with the grip. 

Letting out a pleased hum, you put your gun back in its holster and grab the lasso from your side and begin to secure him tightly. Before you can truly process the creaking of floorboards, you whip out your gun and turn around, pulling back the safety and pointing the barrel at the intruder's head. Unsurprisingly, the sight of a barrel pointing in between your eyes greeted you. 

         “‘Scuse me Miss, I don’t mean to be a bother but I think you’ve got some’n that belongs to me and my friend out there.” The man speaks first, a deep gruff voice with a clear southern drawl. You sized him up quickly, he was tall and broad, a blue button up with a brown leather jacket, a clearly very old hat concealing his head of hair, and a black bandana covering the rest of his face. Obviously another bounty hunter or an outlaw. 

Scoffing, you reply, “Clearly, Mister, this dope here is comin’ back with me. I knocked him out, I tied him up.” you emphasized, pointing behind you. Taking a step closer, you point the end of your gun closer to his head. “I’ve killed men much bigger than you for much less than this.” You watch his eyes narrow as he sizes you up, making you shudder. Admittedly, you were nervous. Somehow you had forgotten that there were others nearby, focusing on being quiet and quick rather than paying attention to your surroundings, and in front of you was a very large, clearly much stronger than you, man. 

          “Look, darlin’. You hand ‘em over, and the three of us can split it. Whatddya say?” One of his eyes squints while the other remains the same, revealing his hidden smirk. 

          “If you think you’re gonna intimidate me into splitting a $15 bounty, you’ve got me mistaken, sir.” Before he can think to answer, his friend calls out. 

         “Arthur! What’s taking so damn long in there? Thought’chu said it’d be empty!” As he looks to the side, you take his momentary distraction as an opportunity to pull a throwing knife from your thigh and dart around him, wrapping your arm around his throat and pulling him to the ground, disarming him and knocking his hat off in the process. He grunted with surprise as you pressed the blade to his jugular and leaned down to whisper in his ear. 

          “Here’s what’s gonna happen, Arthur. Unless you want to bleed out right here, yer gonna get up, walk out, and tell yer little friend that my friend over here-“ you nod your head to the direction of the still unconscious man laying tied up on the floor “-wasn’t here and y’all need to search for some other bounty. Whaddya say?” You drawl, mocking him for his earlier offer. He chuckles lightly before removing his instinctive grip from your arms and raising his in front of him in defeat. 

          “Alright, girl. You got me, okay? We’ll be outta yer hair now.” He grunts as you remove your vice grip from his throat and sheath your knife back into its strap, allowing him to stand. He picked his hat back up and placed it on his head, and then retrieved his revolver from across the room. As he did so, you heaved the large, unconscious man over your shoulder with a grunt and gestured for the outlaw to leave first. 

         “Damn girl, you are one strong lady.” Arthur comments with a laugh, shaking his head as he walks out with his hands up in an attempt to make you trust him. You roll your eyes and watch as he takes a step to leave before stopping. You raise a brow and sigh frustratedly. This wasn’t your first time fighting over a bounty, but the result of this particular conflict left your hands clean and your mind confused. 

          “What are ya doin? Git!” Your free hand falls down to your side, hovering over your gun holster, shooting a heated look in the outlaws direction. 

He scoffed before answering, “Would you relax? Was gonna ask if you was all alone out here.” 

You laughed and shook your head.

“Why on earth would I tell you that?” You’re not stupid, you know he could’ve killed you if he had wanted to, but he didn't. It’s not that you aren’t strong, in fact you were very strong,  but when you had him on the ground it wasn't hard to tell how abnormally strong he was. It would’ve taken nothing to pull your arm away and either stab or shoot you, but he didn’t. Why?

          “I dunno, maybe you’re lonely out here. You’re clearly strong,” he chuckles when he says this, gesturing to the man on the floor behind you, “but it ain’t very safe for a lady out in these parts.” He shrugged, seemingly trying to figure out why he even asked in the first place. He didn’t seem the type to care all that much about the going ons in other people’s lives, in fact he seemed like he would otherwise be guarded and closed off. 

        “I ain’t no lady, sir. I’ve done a lot of very bad things to a lot of people. Good and bad.” You shook your head, and continued. “It ain’t very safe for anyone out in these parts. Everyone robbin’, killin’, shootin’, I ain’t the only one that has to look out for myself.” With a sigh, you place your gun back in your holster. ‘Is this guy leaving soon or what?’ you think to yourself. He seems to think about what you’re saying for a minute, pulling down his bandana to scratch at his stubble. And oh, oh god. He’s hot. So hot you swear the colour drained from your face and immediately came back as a bright red. Your breath hitches in your throat and you clear your throat.

         “Well, I s’pose that’s true. Bye now, ma’am.” He speaks, snapping you out of your brief trance. You watch as he leaves, nodding at you as the door shuts behind him. You wait about 2 minutes to see if ‘Arthur’ and his friend ‘John’ would re-enter the small cabin, guns drawn. However, they didn’t, and so you secure the unconscious man onto the back of your Arabian, and leave.

𐂂

Truthfully, Arthur didn’t want to hurt a woman, whether she was pointing a gun at him or not. He could tell that she was bluffing the moment he unholstered his gun and pointed it right back at her, too clear that she wouldn’t have shot him unless he tried to hurt her. This worried him, why isn’t her first instinct to kill an intruder, especially a male intruder? Besides this, the gang could use someone who was strong, capable, and actually stealthy. You would be perfect for late-night stagecoach robberies, silently slinking into barns while someone else distracted the homeowner. Even if this was true, he knew Mrs. Grimshaw would be quick to make you clean laundry and chop vegetables. 

“Arthur! Are you even listening to me?” John speaks, interrupting his thoughts. 

“No.” Arthur replies cheekily, looking at John under the brim of his hat. He wasn’t listening, how could he? He had just missed an incredible opportunity to bring someone useful to the camp, and he didn’t. 

“I was asking what happened with that bounty, asshole.” John scoffed, riding alongside Arthur on their way back to camp, $50 sitting in each of their pockets from a couple street robberies. 

Arthur sighed before speaking, “There was a girl, she got to him first.”

“And you just left? Let her take him?” Astounded, John shakes his head and picks up his pace. “What is happenin’ to you, Arthur Morgan? Lettin’ some girl take our bounty?” 

“What’d you want me to do John, shoot ‘er? Dutch told us to keep a low profile, not to go around killin’ young girls for a $75 bounty.” He scoffed, hearing voices appear in the distance and the rather unappetizing scent of Pearson's stew. Whatever John said next, he didn’t hear.   Arthur hitched his horse and strode over to the collection box, giving $30 and keeping $20 before retreating to his tent and bedroll for the night. He kicked off his boots and sat down, retrieving his journal from his messenger bag to write about his day. He pondered what to write about, but he already knew. 

He wanted to write about you. 

PLEEEEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS!!! i really struggle w accurately writing characters to how they are !!! if anything is corny/needs changes LET ME KNOW!! ok love u all hope u enjoyed!! chapter 2 should hopefully be out by next week<3

(also pls like + reblog ok thanks BAIIIII)

[atlasalexanderwrites]

IMAGINE...being there with Arthur when he goes to Thomas Downes for his payment and interfering before things can go too far (preventing Arthur from catching TB)

WORD COUNT: 953

WARNING: none that I can think about, Arthur may be OOC some.

OTHER: reader is gender neutral; no gender specifics given to the reader so your choice!

A/N: the brain rot is real with RDR2 and with Arthur Morgan; I've been feeling icky for the last few days and the others in my house are all coming down with stuff so I needed a comfort character aka Mr. Morgan himself.

A/N2: I've been wanting to write an alternative to the scene where Arthur gets sick where...well...he DOESNT get sick. Originally, I attempted writing him as more low honor Arthur and then instead got this instead lol

A/N3: ENJOY!

“Arthur stop.”

“Arthur this has gone on long enough.”

“ARTHUR DAMMIT!”

Your weren't overly, physically strong by any means, but your partner wasn't in his right mind and was swinging blindly at the poor, frail man he had pinned to the ground. Arthur wasn't thinking clear enough that you were able to knock him to the ground and off of the man who immediately rolled to the side and started coughing, blood splattering all over the ground.

You held a hand to Arthur's chest, praying like hell he had the sense not to start swinging on you as well. “Mr. Downes, I am so sorry about this. I…it seems the heat has gotten to my partner. Is there somewhere that we can speak, calmly and peacefully?” The man had been upset the entire time you and Arthur had been there. Whatever reasons he had for borrowing from Strauss, you knew that you and Arthur didn't have even half of the story. And while you ran with the Van Der Linde gang, the last thing you enjoyed doing was swindling poor people who clearly were unable to repay the loan.

“Arthur, go clean your hands off. Now. And stay with the horses.” You demanded, openly glaring at him and silently warning him against arguing with you.

He grumbled and spat at the ground, but knew you well enough not to push his luck.

You waited for him to stomp off before turning back to the Downes family. 

They were watching you with hesitation and distrust, which you couldn't blame them at all for, but you could also see something hidden just beneath the surface. Something akin to hope.

You sat with them for over an hour, listening to their troubles and how they had ended up this way. They truly were just misfortunate souls who had landed on bad times that seemed to only get worse.

Mr. Downes was sick. Really sick.

It had affected his ability to work as he once had. Taking aloan from Strauss had felt like the only thing to do at the time. Even if the man knew it was a bad idea.

“Get well, please. You won't hear from myself or my associates again.” You promised, biting back the raw anger building in your stomach for Leopold Strauss. What the hell had that man been thinking loaning to these people?

He's a fraud. Just like the rest of us in the Van Der Linde gang. Liars, cheats, and no-goods.

How could you have expected anything but this?

“Feeling better?” You asked Arthur, coldly, as you met back up with him at the horses.

“Oh don't start with me. What the hell was that back there? I nearly had the payment.”

“You nearly guaranteed your own death, Morgan, don't get an attitude with me. That man is sick, his family is struggling, have some…some compassion. This isnt you, Arthur. You're not a thoughtless, careless asshole who beats up the helpless.”

“Oh what the hell do you know about me?”

You rolled your eyes and pulled yourself up into your horse's saddle, “I know you’re better than this. I know you're not meant to be the next Dutch. And I know that all of this eats away at you at night; whether you want to admit it or not.”

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes, “Yeah well, you think you’re so smart, dontcha?”

“Smarter than you’re acting,” you grit your teeth and pulled at your horse’s reins to turn away from him, “Get your head out of your ass, Arthur, and stop trying to act so damn tough. The others might like you like this, but I don’t. And I can think of a few others who don’t either.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur was sitting atop his own horse now and rode up alongside you. He was still upset, but his tone was lower and more gruff than anything else, “I was handling things just fine back there.”

“Sure, Arthur.”

“I didn’t need you to step in.”

“I know that, Cowboy.”

“Will you stop answerin’ me like that?” A sigh slipped from your lips as Arthur’s hand suddenly reached across the small distance between the horses and wrapped around your wrist, keeping you from taking off and trying to force you to pay attention to him. “You’re still too soft on people, ya hear? He knew what he was getting into when he accepted Strauss’ loan.”

Meeting his gaze, you nodded and responded with, “Yes, he did, but people make mistakes, Arthur, and it shouldn’t be met with a stiff fist to the face. He’s ill, Strauss took advantage of that. Thomas Downes and so many more are simply trying to get by. Just as we are. It doesn’t matter now. The debt is settled, I’ll handle things with Strauss.”

It was easy enough to see the look of thought behind Arthur’s blue eyes, and you could tell he was thinking over everything that had happened and all you had said. Finally, he nodded stiffly and let go of your hand. “Alright then, Partner. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Really?” You questioned, brow raised.

Arthur shrugged, “Don’t sound so surprised. Don’t I always do as you say?” His tone had returned to a more teasing nature, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in amusement.

“No, you don’t. If you did, we wouldn’t always end up in these situations.”

Humming, Arthur rubbed at his chin and asked, “Would you have me any other way?”

A laugh escaped your mouth before you could stop it and this time when you rolled your eyes it was out of fondness instead of irritation as before. “No, Arthur Morgan, I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

*

Hey! I hope you all enjoyed! If so please consider liking and reblogging! Thank you!

Please stay safe!

~ Atlex Writes

[devnmon]

dating dutch van der linde hcs

a/n: i am on such a dutch kick these days. my writing inspo has come back and somehow i'm even more down bad for dutch van der linde these days so... here you go!!!! enjoy xx

sfw and nsfw below the cut <3

SFW

Contrary to popular belief that Dutch is all rough around the edges, I firmly believe he'd have a soft spot for his partner. Sure, he shows his kindness to folks who need it, but for you he has a special place in his heart.

He melts when you smile, when you laugh, when you look his way or walk past his tent. His dark eyes can't help but lock onto you like magnets. He's entranced by you- by everything you do.

Dutch learns what you like very quickly; your favorite book, meal, color, favorite spots in the local towns... like the back of his hand. He's very observant.

Though he speaks well and often, there's nothing to him like sitting and letting you rant about anything you'd like. Your voice is a river of honey and he'd gladly dive head first just to enjoy the time spent with you.

Like I said, Dutch pays attention; it's no wonder when he returns from the city with a new outfit for you, specially made with the highest quality fabrics and production he could find. He knows what flatters your figure but also keeps in mind what you like to wear.

So when you walk into camp wearing it, just for him, he's speechless. Hand on his chest, out of breath speechless.

Dutch lives for your compliments and flirting. Absolutely lives for it. From you, oh it's absolute heaven. He feels like a god being fed bread and wine while sat on a throne. There's nothing like it to him. Nothing compares to your praises.

You'd allow him to recite his favorite passages from Evelyn Miller whenever he was feeling up to it; you loved hearing him talk about absolutely anything as long as he was speaking to you. And he makes philosophy seem so much more intriguing with that gruff voice of his. If I had to give it a scent/taste, dark chocolate or whiskey would be most accurate.

Dutch is the typical gentleman: making sure you're safely escorted around if he cannot accompany you, and when he does, it's with a hand on the small of your back or while your hands are interlocked. He must be maintaining contact with you whenever possible... it's his guilty pleasure.

The more time you spend with him, the more your routines intertwine and line up perfectly, making the days seem ages longer than they are. From waking up and sharing warm coffee to winding down and resting together, he makes sure to share quality time with you.

Dutch has a habit of cradling your head when you're hugging or lying in his arms. It's his protective instincts kicking in whenever you're around him.

When you're tired after getting back from a long trip, he'll carry you bridal style to his tent, undressing you while you sit upright, half asleep. He does so with multiple kisses on your cheeks and forehead, delicately helping you wind down with his soft touches.

Kissing Dutch is a joy in itself because he knows exactly what he's doing with his tongue, nevermind when his hands come into play. He's such a lovesick fool whispering "I could kiss you forever..." in your ear like that wouldn't just make you want to test that theory.

You love running little errands for Dutch or with him, stocking up on extra bullets and hair pomade so he can look his best. Making sure his shirts are always spotless and ironed. You also take pride in being the one polishing his gold chains adorned on his favorite vest (and think they compliment his waist and proportions very well).

I can also imagine him letting you run your hands through his hair while you lay together, something that relaxes him after however long and hard a day he might have had.

Sometimes when you're kissing and talking, he'll chuckle into the kiss and that'll just draw you into him even more, arms wrapped around his neck with his around your waist.

Dutch doesn't know how you pull the brightest and biggest of smiles from him, but he's damn sure he doesn't want to stop. Not even when his cheeks hurt. He holds you very dear to him.

There are days where you just want to listen to his voice, so you ask him to read you his favorite passages from the American Inferno or another philosophy book he keeps around. "Forgive me if I fall asleep, your voice is just so calming." and he wouldn't take offense to it, he'd only maintain his voice at a certain volume so you could rest peacefully.

NSFW

Dutch van der Linde is a man who draws everythingggg out. Sometimes he likes to make it worse by whispering in your ear while he touches you. (Or taunting you throughout the day with not so subtle touches)

He loves it when you disobey him because it just gives him the excuse to be rough with you. He'll make you suck him off, pushing you down on his cock before fucking you roughly.

Honorable mention: making you kiss his rings before using that very hand to deal you a spanking punishment. The cold metal makes it hurt a little more but if you've been disobedient, he won't hold back.

Dutch is a slut for pet names; in fact he will only use your first name when you've made him mad, otherwise it's "darling, miss, dearest, my love" etc.

On the other hand, you call him sir out of respect, not knowing how it absolutely wrecks him. You have to be careful lest he get all worked up and have to drag you away from your chores. Sometimes he does, whispering to you "Do you know what that does to me?" "It's out of respect sir I-" "Hush. You shouldn't address me as anything but. I just... god, you make me crazy."

Absolutely takes advantage of the clear power dynamic the two of you have, him being the leader of a very powerful gang definitely gives him that ego boost.

Loves to give and give and give. He would spend hours between your legs making you come multiple times on his tongue, just because he loves how you taste.

He's not into somno per say... but if you're exhausted and he has pent up energy, he'll take out his frustrations on you. That is, as long as you were feeling up for it.

When you sit on his lap it's only a matter of time before he gets touchy and his hands start roaming your body, exploring which spots are more sensitive than usual and taking note of your favorites.

Imagine him letting his rings get cold and fingering you so that the metal is extra stimulating on your skin. He especially loves letting them run over your nipples to watch them harden.

His morning voice is gruff and gravelly but that wouldn't stop you from dragging your hand down his broad, hair ridden chest to get him off early in the mornings. Say he had an issue he had to deal with that he put off from the night before, and he's dreading getting up and to his duties, but first you give him just a piece of heaven before he gets up to start his day.

If one day he comes back with a crick in his neck or some kind of back pain, you're the one to suggest you massage him. At first it's harmless touches that bring him such relief, but then you get carried away, dragging your hands up and down his sides as if to rile him up purposely. It's not long after you're whispering for him to relax while you take care of him, sucking him off or just simply worshiping his body with your mouth.

Loves to praise you as easy as breathing. Things like "always so ready for me, my sweetest," and "there you go darlin', taking me so well".

One night he comes back to his tent with you dressed in only his vest, your cleavage on display for him while he spots the amount of arousal between your legs. He buries himself inside you, letting you know how alluring you look for him.

You can't walk away from being in bed with Dutch without any new marks. The minute you jump his bones his mouth is all over you, placing mark after mark on your neck and down your chest. You try and convince him to not leave marks where the gang can see them, but he doesn't care. He has the power and he'll do as he wishes.

His favorite punishment for you is having you over his lap and a. either spanking you until you can't sit correctly for a week, or b. making you come over and over until you plead for him to stop. It's only then he finds whatever lotion or oil he has and massages the skin he's just bruised. Dutch may take pleasure in seeing you cry for him, but he'll be damned if he doesn't clean you up and wipe your tears before lying his head down to rest.

Aftercare consists of him still being a little cocky if he's gotten you to come multiple times, but you also see the sweet side of him while helping you clean up and making sure he didn't push you too far. Though he loves the power, he has enough self control to know when you need a little comforting touch or a bath afterwards. He'll gladly carry you there himself and help relax you for the night.

[noxsspace]

in another world, Arthur would be at peace with the love of his life, drawing her until the sun sets and brushing his horse without any worry at all.

[laylasredemption]

I know Micah Bell is the bad guy, but hear me out, I have a few headcannons for dating him

warnings: might be toxic y'all gotta excuse me cus i've just got out of a toxic relationship myself that's how i deal with it; also smut (i really gotta write a whole smut based on these headcannons) pls guys stay away from toxic men irl read at your own risk, might be a lil messed up

The first time Micah lay his eyes on you, he knew he had to have you, and he knew how to get what he wanted. You were much younger than him, probably somewhere in your early to mid 20s, and he knew how to talk you into thinking he could be the big, scary guard dog, protect you from the evil of this cruel world.

Maybe you even had the tendency to fall for the bad men, and he quickly found that out. Let's be real, he could read you like an open book, so it didn't take long for him to realize how naive and impressionable you are. It was so easy to manipulate your emotions however he wanted to, and you thought he's the only one who truly understands you.

Other gang members would notice that, of course, and they would try to make you realize how wrong this is. But Micah would make sure you don't chat with them too long. He'd barge into the conversation, say something to the other person about not bothering his girl, and drag you away.

He wouldn't physically punish you, or that's what I want to believe, but his words would cut deep into your heart. Almost as if his words were bullets and you were his favourite target (nessa barrett referance), he'd especially try to shatter your self esteem, calling you stupid for believing even for a moment what others say.

The emotional rollercoaster, god, Micah could be so sweet to you one moment if there was something he wanted to gain from you, if he wanted you to believe in his good side. You'd often ditch your morals for him, and he'd reward you with affection, maybe a kiss if you're being really good.

Then his mood could change in a moment. Like walking on eggshells, you make one wrong move, and in the best case he's giving you the silent treatment. In other, less pleasant, cases he would again call you stupid, dumb, anything to tear your self esteem down.

GASLIGHTING!! I totally see him saying stuff like "You must be crazy if you think I [insert something he definitely did]."

He'd never make the relationship official, but at the same time he'd say he'd kill any man who tried to take you from him.

Lying, lying, lying. He'd lie to you so much you wouldn't know what to believe anymore. This and false promises to get on your good side again.

Now the NSFW part

POWER PLAY he'd love to be in charge in bedroom as much as outside of it, having you submit to him is what gets him off, he'd love pushing your boundaries, testing how far he can go with you. He has some dark fantasies and he'd try to get you to try them out.

He's never gentle. We all know he's a lil sick in the head, so he'd always be rough in bed. The louder you scream the better.

His fav position would be doggy, partially because he could push your head into the bed, the ground, or whatever there was underneath you, and partially because he could just grab your hips, digging his nails into your skin, and slam all the way in and out of you, the head of his cock bruising your cervix.

You'd always be sooo sore on the next day, not just inside from all the pounding, but also outside from the bites and scratches he had left on your body. And your ass would be definitely bruised because y'all can't tell me this man ain't into spanking the hell out of you.

During sex he'd love to tell you that you belong to him. He'd keep making you say it, asking you who you belong to. Especially if he'd seen you talking to any male gang members that day. Oh, and of course, he'd say something like "Bet he could never fuck you like this."

As much as he doesn't want to commit to you, he'd love to see the marks he left on your body, indicating you belong to him.

He would make you cum, just because he wants you to think no one else can bring such pleasure to you. But there would be absolutely no aftercare. He's cold and distant. He got what he wanted, that's all that matters for him.

I feel like he would definitely use sex as something to distract you if he makes a mistake. And if you make a mistake? He either fucks your brains out or he turns you on just to not let you even get undressed nor touch yourself.

Honestly, he wouldn't mind people overhearing. Hell, he'd be even into getting caught. At least that would show others that you belong to him and no one else can touch you.

I feel like he'd be into gunplay, using his guns on you during sex, holding a gun to your head while he's fucking into you or when you're sucking him off. You'd have no idea about it, but he wouldn't take the bullets out beforehand. He didn't plan to pull the trigger, but if the gun was to fire on its own, the danger only added to his arousal. He's a sick man, what can I say?

[sheriffaxolotl]

Rough Hands and Gentle Strokes (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

In the rugged wilderness outside of Blackwater, a hardened outlaw crosses paths with a woman who challenges everything he’s ever known. A kind-hearted and resilient art teacher, she bears the weight of the world’s judgment, especially regarding a woman’s place in it. As their lives intertwine, he struggles with feelings he can’t make sense of, questioning his very purpose. In a world of harsh realities, can he dare to let someone in? And will she allow herself to soften enough to find love where she least expects it? Together, they come to heal, challenge each other, and discover what it truly means to fight for something worth living for.

Additional Tags: Romance, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Pre-Blackwater Massacre (Red Dead Redemption), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism

Chapter 1: The Touch That Lingers

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

The sun hung high over the quiet town of Willoughby Creek, its golden rays dancing over the bustling main street. Children’s laughter floated through the air, mingling with the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels and the hum of distant conversation. Arthur Morgan tugged his hat lower over his eyes, squinting against the glare as he guided his horse, Boadicea, toward the general store. He wasn’t planning to linger—just pick up supplies and get moving. The less time spent around people, the better.

Compared to Blackwater, Willoughby Creek felt like a world apart. Where Blackwater thrummed with the energy of a growing town, a hub of commerce and the occasional confrontation, Willoughby Creek was still finding its rhythm—quiet, more laid-back, with a slower pace of life. The folks here went about their business in a way that reminded Arthur of the earlier days of civilization, before progress changed everything. A lot more open space, fewer buildings, and none of the modern hustle and bustle. In some ways, it suited him. But that didn’t mean he felt like sticking around long.

The creaking of an old wooden sign as it swayed in the wind drew his attention for a moment, but he quickly shook it off, focusing on the task at hand. He wasn’t here to get lost in thoughts of how things used to be—he had a job to do.

But as he passed the edge of the small park by the church, something made him pause. A group of children sat cross-legged on the grass, their faces alight with concentration as they hunched over wooden easels. In the middle of it all was a woman, her voice soft but carrying a melodic quality that drew his attention. She moved among the children, her skirts brushing the ground as she knelt to examine their work, offering encouragement or gentle advice.

Arthur’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard laughter like that—pure, unrestrained, and joyful. It was contagious, and before he knew it, he’d stopped entirely, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Mister, you here to join the class?” piped up a small voice.

Arthur’s eyes darted down to a freckled boy staring up at him, a mischievous grin on his face. Arthur shook his head, glancing around as if to make sure no one else had heard.

“Nah, kid. Just passin’ through,” he said gruffly, shifting his weight. “Don’t reckon I’d be much good at somethin’ like this.”

The boy wasn’t deterred. “Aw, c’mon! It ain’t hard. You just gotta try. Here, I can show ya!”

Arthur took a half-step back, his hands coming up in a warding gesture. “Listen, I—”

“Mister!” the boy interrupted, his tone insistent as he grabbed Arthur’s sleeve and gave it a tug. “It’s real easy! Miss Harper says anyone can draw if they give it a shot.”

“Miss Harper?” Arthur repeated, glancing toward the woman now, who was crouched by another child and hadn’t yet noticed the commotion. He was about to gently extricate himself when the boy cupped his hands around his mouth and called out loudly.

“Miss Harper! This man says he can’t draw!”

Arthur groaned inwardly as several heads turned in his direction, including hers. The woman straightened, brushing her hands on her skirt as she approached, her expression curious. Her eyes—clear as a mountain stream—locked onto his, and for a moment, he felt rooted to the spot.

“Oh, now, don’t be shy,” she said with a smile that held both warmth and mischief. “We’ve always got room for one more.”

Arthur shifted awkwardly, one hand scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t think I’d be much good with all that,” he muttered, his voice gruff.

“Nonsense,” she replied, gesturing to an empty spot on the grass. “Art’s not about being good. It’s about trying. Besides, I’m sure the kids would love to have you join us.”

“Yeah, mister! Draw somethin’!” the freckled boy chimed in, tugging on Arthur’s sleeve again.

Arthur sighed, glancing between the boy and the woman, whose expectant gaze didn’t waver. He opened his mouth to protest once more, but the boy’s grin widened as he thrust a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal into Arthur’s hands.

“Here! Just try it!” the boy said.

With a resigned shake of his head, Arthur relented, muttering under his breath as he lowered himself onto the grass. The woman’s smile softened, and she crouched beside him, her presence unexpectedly calming.

“Here,” she said, demonstrating a quick, simple outline of a horse. “Just start with basic shapes. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Arthur’s first attempt was, in his opinion, a disaster. The horse he drew looked more like a lopsided mule, and the weight of so many curious eyes made his hands feel clumsier than usual. He wasn’t used to drawing where anyone could see—his journal was a private refuge, where lines flowed easier without the pressure of an audience. Here, under watchful gazes, it felt like every flaw was magnified. He half-expected the kids to burst out laughing. But when he glanced up, he found the woman studying his sketch with a soft smile.

“It’s got character,” she said. “And look at how strong those lines are. You’ve got a steady hand.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Arthur replied, his voice tinged with self-deprecating humor.

She laughed, a sound that made something in his chest loosen. “I’m not. Art’s about expression, not perfection. And you’ve got plenty of expression here.”

By the end of the lesson, Arthur’s initial awkwardness had faded, replaced by a reluctant sort of enjoyment. The children’s chatter and the woman’s easygoing demeanor had a way of disarming him, and he found himself lingering longer than he’d intended. As the children began to pack up their supplies, she turned to him with a curious tilt of her head.

“Thank you for joining us,” she said. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Arthur, Arthur Morgan,” he replied, adjusting his hat, his voice faltering slightly.

“Well, Arthur, it was a pleasure having you in class. You’ve got an artist’s spirit, whether you realize it or not.”

He snorted softly, brushing a hand over the brim of his hat. “Don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of that before.”

She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. There was a kindness in her face, a softness that felt out of place in a world that seemed to grow harder by the day. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. I’m Miss Harper, by the way. If you’re ever in town again, feel free to stop by. We’re always here on Wednesdays.”

Arthur nodded, tipping his hat politely, but before he turned to leave, his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed. Her hands, pale and delicate, bore faint smudges of charcoal, a small testament to her craft. Her dress was simple but well-made, the soft blue fabric catching the sunlight in a way that reminded him of clear summer skies. A loose strand of hair had slipped from her bun, framing her face in a way that made her look younger, almost carefree.

She didn’t seem like the sort who belonged to a place like this—Willoughby Creek, with its rough edges and tired faces. She carried herself differently, with a quiet confidence and a grace that made Arthur feel a little self-conscious of his own mud-splattered boots and worn clothes.

“Take care, Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice pulling him from his thoughts.

“You too, Miss Harper,” he replied, his voice rougher than he intended.

As he walked back to his horse, he could feel her eyes on him, and for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, that thought stirred something unfamiliar in him—something cautious, but not unpleasant.

When he swung into the saddle, he hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting back toward the park. The sound of children’s laughter carried on the breeze, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. Miss Harper was crouched beside a young boy now, showing him how to hold a piece of charcoal properly. She laughed at something the boy said, her head tilting back slightly, her expression open and genuine.

Arthur scratched at the back of his neck, feeling an odd warmth creeping over him. It wasn’t like him to pay much attention to anyone, let alone a schoolteacher in a quiet little town he had no real reason to linger in. Yet, as he turned his horse toward the trail, he couldn’t help glancing back once more.

The memory of her smile stuck with him, as did the image of her standing there with the sun framing her like some kind of picture. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—something warm and unsteady, like the first rays of dawn breaking through the dark.

And as he rode away from Willoughby Creek, he found himself wondering if, perhaps, he might take a little longer to pass through next time.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

The ride back to camp was quiet, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the trail. The gentle clop of his horse’s hooves and the occasional rustle of the trees were the only sounds accompanying him. Arthur kept his eyes on the road ahead, but his mind drifted back to Willoughby Creek, to the park, and to Miss Harper.

It wasn’t often someone stuck with him like that. Most folks he passed through towns barely left an impression. But her, with her calm voice and that unshakable, easy smile, had rooted herself in his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

By the time he reached camp, the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in hues of deep blue and purple. The gang was scattered about, some gathered around the fire, others tucked away in their tents. Arthur exchanged a few nods and muttered greetings but made a beeline for his own tent. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, not with the thoughts stirring in his head.

Once inside, he lit the small lantern on his makeshift desk and pulled out his journal. The leather-bound book felt familiar in his hands, the pages worn and filled with the fragments of his life—sketches, musings, and bits of poetry he’d never admit to writing. It was his way of making sense of the world, of keeping a piece of himself in a life that seemed to take more than it gave.

He flipped to a fresh page and began writing, his hand moving slowly at first.

“Passed through Willoughby Creek today. Nice enough place. Kids were laughing in the park. Seemed like the kind of town that don’t see much trouble, at least not yet. Met someone too. A teacher. Miss Harper. She said I had an artist’s spirit. Can’t say I know what she meant by that, but she weren’t mocking me, I think. Funny how some folks can see something in you that you don’t see in yourself. Maybe she was just being kind.”

He paused, tapping the pencil against the page. His jaw tightened as he stared at the words. It felt strange to put her down in writing, like it made the memory of her more solid, more real. With a quiet huff, he set the pencil to the side, rubbing the back of his neck.

But instead of closing the journal, his fingers lingered, his mind drifting back to the way she’d looked, standing in the park with the sun on her dress. Without thinking, he reached for the pencil again, the movements of his hand slower, more deliberate this time.

The lines came hesitantly at first—a curve of her face, the loose strand of hair, the faint crinkles around her eyes when she smiled. Arthur wasn’t much for portraits, but there was something about trying to capture her that made him focus in a way he hadn’t in a long time. The memory of her dress, that soft blue, kept coming back to him, and he shaded in the folds, the light catching just so.

When he finally sat back, hours must’ve passed. His fingers ached, and the lantern’s light had dimmed, the flame flickering low. He stared at the page, at the image he’d sketched—a rough rendering of Miss Harper, caught mid-smile, with a faint outline of trees behind her.

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn fool,” he muttered to himself.

His gaze drifted to the small table beside his cot, where a worn, silver-framed photograph stood. Mary. The sight of her smile, frozen forever in that picture, made his chest ache in a way he’d grown used to but never truly stopped feeling. His calloused thumb brushed the edge of the frame, tracing the curves of her face. She had looked at him like that once too, full of hope and possibility, before it all fell apart. Before he let it fall apart.

A familiar weight settled on him, that dull ache of knowing how much he’d lost and how much of it had been his own damn fault. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat stubborn and unmoving, and set the photo back down gently. For a moment, he just stared at it, the silence of the night pressing in around him.

Then his eyes shifted back to the open journal on the desk, to the rough sketch of Miss Harper. The lines weren’t perfect, the proportions a little off, but her smile—he’d gotten that right. It was different from Mary’s, lighter somehow, like a breeze instead of a storm. It wasn’t better, he told himself—just different.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath as he studied the drawing. That ache in his chest was still there, but now it felt... tempered, softer, like a wound starting to scab over. For the first time in what felt like forever, the thought of tomorrow didn’t feel quite so heavy.

And just before he drifted off, he thought again of Miss Harper’s laugh, of the way she’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another shadow passing through. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt the edges of hope creeping into the corners of his mind. And he didn’t hate it.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

The days passed in the usual rhythm of camp life—chaotic and loud when it needed to be, quiet and tense when it wasn’t. Thursday came and went with a botched supply run outside of Blackwater that ended in an argument over who’d gotten the directions wrong. Friday blurred into a long, cold ride through the mountains with Hosea, chasing down a lead on a gang of highwaymen. By Saturday, Arthur was back at camp, fixing a broken wagon wheel while Dutch rambled about their next big score.

Life didn’t slow down, not for a moment. Yet, in the quiet spaces between the noise, Arthur found his mind wandering back to Willoughby Creek. To her.

It wasn’t deliberate, at least not at first. He’d catch himself thinking about the way her hands moved as she worked, smudged with charcoal but still delicate, or the way the sunlight had lit up her hair, catching on the loose strands.

He’d been cleaning his gun Thursday night when the memory of her voice drifted in, unbidden. “You’ve got an artist’s spirit.” He’d chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head, but the words lingered. What had she seen in him that made her say that? Surely not the man he was now, the man who spent his days riding hard and his nights drowning out the sound of his own thoughts.

On Friday, during a break in the ride with Hosea, Arthur had found himself idly sketching in the dirt with a stick while they rested. The lines he drew made no sense, but his hand kept repeating shapes he didn’t notice until later—curves like the hem of a dress, the outline of a tree, even the faintest hint of a smile. Hosea had teased him about looking distracted, but Arthur just grunted in reply and went back to saddling his horse.

By Saturday afternoon, as he worked on the wagon wheel, he caught himself staring off into the distance. It was a fleeting thing, just a moment of stillness in the midst of camp chaos, but in that quiet, he wasn’t in camp at all. He was back in Willoughby Creek, standing under the shade of those trees, hearing the laughter of children and watching her crouched beside a boy, guiding his hand as he drew.

“Arthur! You listening to me?” Dutch’s voice snapped him back, sharp and impatient.

“Yeah,” Arthur replied, shaking himself out of it. “I’m listenin’.”

As the days passed, Arthur tried to push the thought of her from his mind. There was work to be done, things to keep him occupied—patrolling, hunting, keeping an eye on the camp. But in the back of his mind, she lingered, like a quiet hum, always present.

Monday morning found him sharpening his knife by the fire, his thoughts drifting once again to Willoughby Creek. He wondered if the park was still the same, if the children still laughed and ran through the grass. His hand paused mid-motion as he remembered how she’d looked at him, so calm and steady, and how he’d felt like just another drifter passing through. Yet, something about the way she hadn’t turned away when he spoke to her, how she’d seemed interested, had made him feel... noticed.

The sound of a twig snapping nearby brought him back to the present. He glanced up, seeing John and Bill coming back from the river with supplies. Arthur gave them a quick nod, but his mind was elsewhere. His hand returned to the knife, but it wasn’t the blade he was focused on. He found himself absentmindedly carving small, jagged shapes into the wood. Faint outlines of trees and curves that looked a lot like the one he’d seen on her dress.

Tuesday came, and with it, another long ride out to check on the progress of a deal with a neighboring gang. Arthur kept his focus on the job at hand, but as the hours passed, he couldn’t help but feel the distance between himself and the men he rode with. Their conversations felt distant, like noise he couldn’t quite tune into. The laughter, the insults, the stories of past misdeeds—none of it really reached him. He was there, but not fully.

He found himself scanning the landscape, the sparse trees, and distant hills, as if searching for something—or someone—that wasn’t part of the life he had. His mind was somewhere else, half-wishing he were back on that road to Willoughby Creek, wondering if she might be walking down the street, or sitting in the park again, perhaps drawing quietly in the afternoon sun.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, Arthur could feel the weight of it, the pull in his chest. The thought of returning to Willoughby Creek was on his mind constantly, as if his body had already decided. He told himself he was just passing through, that there was no harm in a quick stop—just another day of rest on a long journey.

But deep down, something had shifted. He wasn’t sure if it was the pull of her smile, or the way she’d spoken to him, or the feeling that there might still be something good left in the world for someone like him. But he knew he couldn’t keep pushing it aside.

The morning light on Wednesday was crisp, and the air smelled different—fresher, almost. He saddled his horse with the usual motions, but this time, they felt deliberate. There was a purpose in his steps that hadn’t been there before.

As the camp began to stir with activity, Arthur rode out, his mind already miles ahead, heading toward Willoughby Creek once more.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly, or if he would even find her there. But the thought of seeing her again, of hearing her voice, filled him with a nervous anticipation that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And for the first time in days, his heart beat with something resembling hope. He didn’t know where it would lead, or if he would regret it. But for now, he was content to let that small, foolish hope guide him toward something he couldn’t quite name.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────° The ride was long, the familiar landscape blurring past him, but Arthur felt none of the usual impatience. His mind wasn’t occupied with the weight of the past or the worry of what the future might bring. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of Willoughby Creek, the sound of children’s laughter, and the faint memory of her smile. Each mile felt like an unwritten story, one he wasn’t sure he was ready to live—but it was pulling him in anyway.

As the afternoon wore on, the town’s silhouette finally appeared in the distance. It looked just as he remembered—quiet, unassuming, with the same rows of buildings, the same dusty streets, and the same park tucked at the heart of it. The closer he got, the more he felt a strange flutter in his chest, like a bird trapped in a cage, beating against the bars. He’d come here once before, without much thought or expectation. But now…

Arthur slowed his horse as he rode into the heart of the town, giving the familiar buildings a cursory glance. His heart rate picked up as he approached the park, the place where he had met her. The children were still there, running around in the sun, their laughter filling the air. But he was looking for something else.

He dismounted, the soft thud of his boots hitting the ground drowned out by the noise of the bustling park. Arthur scanned the area, his gaze landing on the familiar figures of mothers, fathers, and townsfolk, but not her.

For a moment, he considered leaving, just turning around and heading back to camp. It wasn’t like he’d promised anything—hell, he hadn’t even told her he was coming back. But something told him he had to stay, even if it was just for a little while longer.

And then, as if by fate, there she was.

Miss Harper was standing near the edge of the park, crouched down beside a child, guiding his hand as he drew. Her soft blue dress fluttered in the wind, and her hair—loose and wild in the breeze—seemed to shimmer like sunlight through the trees. For a moment, Arthur just stood there, watching her, feeling the weight of something both familiar and foreign stir inside him. He hadn’t expected to feel this nervous, to feel his heart race like it did when he was face-to-face with something he wanted but didn’t know how to reach.

She looked up, her eyes catching his almost immediately. A soft gasp escaped her lips, quickly followed by a tentative smile.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice warm and surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

For a moment, Arthur couldn’t find his words. He’d imagined this moment a hundred times over the past week, but now that it was here, he felt strangely tongue-tied. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Didn’t mean to surprise ya,” he said gruffly, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured I’d pass through.”

She smiled again, and it was like a weight had been lifted off his chest. “Well, I’m glad you did.” She gestured to the empty space beside her. “I’m just showing this young man how to make a proper tree. You’re welcome to join us.”

Arthur glanced at the child she was speaking to, a boy no older than eight or nine, holding a piece of chalk in his small hand. He looked up at Arthur with wide eyes before quickly looking back to Miss Harper.

“I’m no artist,” Arthur muttered, his gaze flicking back to Miss Harper, who raised an eyebrow playfully.

“Not yet,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “Come on. I already know you have a steady hand.”

Arthur hesitated, but the offer was genuine, and the warmth in her eyes made him take a step forward. He crouched down beside them, his large hands seeming out of place beside the small child, but he did as she asked, picking up a piece of chalk and tracing the outline of a tree on the pavement. It was simple, nothing special—but it was enough.

For a long while, they worked in silence. The child drew beside them, occasionally looking up at Arthur’s rough attempt at a tree and giggling. Miss Harper’s soft voice would occasionally offer guidance, and Arthur found himself listening to her without realizing it. Her words, like everything else about her, seemed to settle into him, easy and natural, like the feeling of home he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

The peace between them stretched on, the quiet hum of the afternoon blending with the sound of chalk on stone. Arthur’s mind was surprisingly clear, filled only with the image of the tree he’d drawn—a simple, crooked line, but something about it felt... right. He caught himself smiling, despite his usual grimness. It was easy here, in this moment, with her, surrounded by children and the laughter that filled the air.

But just as he thought he might finally relax, a voice cut through the air, sharp and unwelcome.

“That’s enough, Miss Harper.”

Arthur’s hand froze mid-stroke, the chalk slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground. He glanced up, his brow furrowing as a man in a long coat and flat cap approached them, his gaze fixed firmly on Miss Harper. The man was stocky, his chest puffed out like he carried the weight of the world, and his tone was anything but friendly.

Miss Harper looked up, her smile faltering just slightly. “Excuse me, sir?”

The man jabbed a finger toward the group of children, his face contorting in a mix of disdain and authority. “It’s improper, you know,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “For a woman like you to be out here, teaching them... especially teaching these girls. It’s one thing for them to learn how to read a bit of writing, but this—this nonsense, drawing and such—is no place for a lady.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened at the man’s words, something dark flickering in his chest. He could feel his muscles tensing, ready to rise and say something, but Miss Harper was already speaking, her voice calm but firm.

“I’m not teaching them nonsense,” she replied, standing up straight, her gaze unwavering. “I’m teaching them to create, to express themselves. There’s nothing improper about that.”

The man’s face twisted with outrage. “It’s unnatural,” he spat. “A woman’s place is in the home, not out here, teaching this kind of thing to young girls. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Miss Harper.”

Arthur’s hand clenched into a fist at his side, his eyes narrowing on the man. He knew the type—men who thought they had the world figured out, who believed they knew their place and everyone else’s. This wasn’t a man who saw women as anything more than tools for family and housework. It burned in Arthur’s gut, seeing her challenged like this, in front of the children who looked up to her.

But Miss Harper didn’t back down. Her voice was steady, though there was an edge to it. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir, but I don’t believe I asked for your opinion. I’m teaching them what they deserve to know. You’d do well to mind your business.” She glanced over at the children, her expression softening. “Now, go on, all of you. Let’s finish this tree.”

Arthur could feel the tension crackling in the air, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. But he admired her, how she stood her ground, her face resolute and calm even as the man’s anger bubbled up.

“Now you listen here—” the man started, stepping closer, his voice rising.

Arthur stood up slowly, the ground beneath him seeming to settle into place with each movement. He had no particular desire to get involved in this kind of fight, but something in him bristled, instinctively wanting to defend her.

“Is there a problem here, sir?” Arthur asked, his voice low, but unmistakably firm.

The man turned to face him, sizing him up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Arthur’s broad shoulders and the unmistakable presence he carried. There was a moment’s pause, the man seemingly calculating whether or not to escalate things.

“I’m merely stating a fact, friend,” the man said, taking a step back, his bravado faltering slightly as he looked up at Arthur. “A woman has no business doing such things.” He shot a venomous glance at Miss Harper. “It’s a shame. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, teaching these girls such ideas.”

Arthur took a step forward, his hand hovering near his hip where his gun rested, just a reminder of who was standing here with him. “You’re mistaken,” Arthur said quietly, a cold edge to his voice. “Now you best be moving along, rather than standin' around, talkin’ down to women like you seem to enjoy doin’.”

The man’s eyes flickered to Arthur’s hand as it rested near his hip, a subtle but unmistakable warning. His bravado faltered for a moment, the cocky expression twisting into one of irritation as he took a half-step back. He seemed to reconsider his position, no longer willing to push things too far with a man who clearly wasn’t one to back down.

“Fine,” the man muttered, his voice dripping with venom. “I’ll go, but mark my words, Miss Harper—this isn’t over. A woman has no business teachin’ those girls how to think for themselves. I’ll see to it that someone puts a stop to it.” He shot a final look of contempt at her, eyes narrowing, then turned sharply on his heel and walked away, his heavy footsteps leaving a trail of tension in the air.

Arthur watched him go, his jaw clenched tight, but he didn’t say anything more. The man wasn’t worth the trouble, and Miss Harper didn’t need any more of his nonsense. She stood silently for a moment, the weight of the encounter pressing down on her, but she didn’t let it break her. Arthur could see that, see how she straightened her shoulders and took a breath, as if shaking off the shadow the man had tried to cast.

“Don’t worry about him,” Arthur said, his voice softer now, though the edge of anger was still present, a remnant of the tension in his chest. “He’s just talk.”

She glanced over at him, her eyes meeting his with a small, appreciative smile. “Aren't they all?,” she said quietly, though there was a subtle tightness in her tone. “Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

Arthur nodded, his hand shifting away from his hip and resting at his side. He didn’t know what else to say. The kind of world they lived in—where women had to constantly fight for respect, just for being who they were—was one he didn’t fully understand, not like she did. But he could see it now, the quiet toll it took on her, the way she had to pick herself up every time someone tried to put her down.

She sighed, looking back at the children who were still drawing, their laughter slowly returning to the air. “Thank you for stepping in,” she added, her voice softer now. “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the moment pressing in. “I don’t take kindly to men talkin’ to women like that,” he said, his tone steady but firm. “You don’t deserve that.”

She smiled, a small but genuine curve of her lips that eased some of the tension between them. “Well, I appreciate it all the same. But you’re right—he’s not worth dwelling on. I’ve dealt with far worse.”

Arthur watched her closely, his gaze lingering on the way she carried herself, her shoulders squared, her face steady even after the man had left. There was a quiet strength in her, but it wasn’t the kind that he imagined she wanted to wear all the time. But what if she didn’t have to? What if she didn’t have to face it all alone, shoulder to shoulder with the weight of every fight?

The thought lingered in his mind as he shifted on his feet, watching her interact with the children, a soft smile lingering on her lips. There was something about the way she carried herself, like she was always poised, ready to meet any challenge head-on. But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t pushing in on her, she seemed so different. He wanted to see more of that side—the one that wasn’t always hardened by the world’s cruelty. The one that wasn’t always on guard.

Before he could dwell on it for too long, he felt her hand on his arm, a soft touch, delicate but warm. Her fingers rested there for a brief moment, and it was like the weight of everything else faded away. She looked up at him with a kind smile, her eyes reflecting gratitude, something soft and sincere in her gaze.

“Thank you again, Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, her voice gentle. “I truly appreciate it. You didn’t have to step in, but I’m glad you did.”

The simplicity of the gesture—the warmth in her touch—struck him more than he expected. For a moment, he felt his heart skip, something unexpected stirring in his chest. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, especially not this close. His breath caught, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe properly. His chest tightened, the way it did when he was caught off guard, like the world had tilted slightly on its axis and he hadn’t quite found his balance again.

He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden rush of warmth flooding his cheeks. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but the words tangled in his throat, slipping away before he could form them properly. His usual gruffness, his tough exterior, suddenly felt inadequate. It wasn’t like he was a man who stumbled for words, but in front of her, with the gentleness of her touch and the softness of her gaze, he found himself out of his depth.

He shifted on his feet, his hand moving slightly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. His fingers twitched at his sides, the calluses from years of hard work suddenly feeling like they didn’t quite belong. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to find his footing again, but the warmth of her touch lingered, a constant presence that made him feel oddly exposed, yet strangely... safe.

“Ah… uh… yeah. Nothin’ to thank me for,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, a little quieter too, like he was unsure of how to match the softness she was giving him. “I just... I don’t like seein’ people talk to ya like that.”

His words came out a little jumbled, as if his mind wasn’t quite catching up with his mouth. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the awkwardness that had crept into his chest. But it didn’t help. He still felt that strange flutter in his stomach, like he’d forgotten how to be around someone who didn’t look at him with suspicion, or fear, or just plain indifference.

She smiled again, a soft, understanding smile that only seemed to make him feel even more flustered. Arthur’s gaze dropped briefly, looking anywhere but directly at her face, though he could still feel the weight of her attention on him.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice light and reassuring, “you’re a good man. I appreciate it more than you know.” Her hand lingered just a moment longer, a light touch on his arm before she gently pulled it back, though the warmth of it stayed, as if it had seeped into his very bones.

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Arthur mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck again, his mind still racing as he tried to regain some sense of normalcy. “Steppin’ in for folks. Ain’t my place, and I... I ain’t no hero.”

She chuckled softly, and the sound was like music to his ears. He risked a glance up at her, seeing the twinkle in her eye, the gentle amusement that softened her features even more.

“I think you’re more of a hero than you give yourself credit for,” she teased, her voice light and playful, but with that same quiet sincerity. “Least, today, you can be my hero.”

Arthur’s heart thumped in his chest, and he suddenly realized he couldn’t quite remember how to stand properly. His hands shifted at his sides, his boots scuffing the ground beneath him, and he gave her a sheepish look—something close to a nervous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His mind wandered just briefly, noticing how her presence felt calming in ways he hadn’t expected. She had a soft scent to her, like wildflowers mixed with the faintest trace of lavender, and it lingered in the air around him as she stood so close. He wasn’t sure how he’d never noticed it before, but now it was almost impossible not to.

He blinked, his thoughts scattering a bit. It wasn’t just that though. There was something about the way she moved, the gentle fluidity in her motions, like the world around her didn’t need to be rushed. The way her hair framed her face, soft curls catching the light in a way that made him want to reach out and touch it—though he didn’t, of course.

"Maybe..." he said, his voice a little lower than usual, unsure of the weight of her words but feeling a strange warmth spread across his chest all the same. "Maybe just a little bit."

He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, but the smile that tugged at his lips remained, a little hesitant, a little shy, as though he was still trying to figure out what exactly it meant to be someone’s hero. The quiet joy in her gaze, the way her words hung between them, was enough to leave him feeling like he was standing on shaky ground—but for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t a feeling he minded.

Arthur stood there, still a little off balance from the strange warmth she’d ignited in him with just a few words and a simple touch. He had always been good at keeping his distance, but right now, with her standing so close, it felt like the world had suddenly gotten a little softer. Her presence was something he didn’t know how to handle, but he was starting to like the feeling of it.

When the moment stretched on, and the air seemed to hum with something unsaid, he cleared his throat, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the quiet fluttering in his chest. He looked over toward the path leading back to town, where the shadows were beginning to stretch long, the light fading as the sun dipped lower. The thought of her walking alone, that man possibly still lingering somewhere in the back of her mind, didn’t sit well with him.

"You know..." Arthur started, scratching the back of his neck, unsure of how exactly to word it. "I’d be happy to walk you home, Miss Harper. Don’t think I want that man bothering you again." He glanced at her, offering a quick but genuine smile. "I reckon you’ve got enough to deal with without folks like him getting in your way."

The suggestion felt strange coming from him—like he was trying to do something good, even if it didn’t come naturally. But it was the right thing to do. Besides, he found himself wanting to keep her safe, to make sure she didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone, not when he could help.

He shifted on his boots, suddenly aware of how clumsy his words had sounded, and he added, “If you don’t mind the company, of course.”

Miss Harper regarded him for a moment, her gaze soft but searching, as if weighing his offer. Arthur shifted on his feet, suddenly self-conscious of the silence stretching between them. He didn’t know what he expected—maybe her to turn him down politely or give him a teasing remark, but when she finally spoke, her voice was warm, thoughtful.

"I’d like that," she said, her eyes meeting his with a quiet sincerity that made his chest feel a little lighter. "I appreciate the offer. I really do."

Arthur felt a small, relieved smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He nodded, more to himself than anything, before turning slightly toward the path that led out of the park. His steps were a little slower than usual, like he was reluctant to rush this, but at the same time, he felt a strange sense of rightness in walking beside her, not as a guard or a protector, but just... as two people sharing a quiet walk home.

They fell into step beside each other, a comfortable silence wrapping around them. The distant chatter of the children, still lingering in the park, faded as they walked away from the lively scene, the evening air growing cooler with each passing minute.

Arthur couldn’t help but glance over at her now and then, though he tried to keep his attention on the road ahead. He found himself noticing little things—the way the setting sun caught her hair, making it shimmer like gold in the last light of the day, or how the faint scent of lavender seemed to follow her with every step. It was subtle, but it was there, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, it made him feel like he was walking through some kind of dream.

As they neared the edge of town, where the dusty road met the outskirts, Arthur found himself thinking about how easy this felt. Like it wasn’t just a simple offer to walk her home—it was something more, something that felt right, like he was supposed to be here with her.

"So," he started, breaking the silence as he turned his gaze to the darkening horizon, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the conversation instead of how his heart seemed to be beating a little faster. "What’s it like... teaching these kids? I mean, I can’t imagine it’s the easiest thing, especially in a place like this."

He glanced over at her again, his expression curious. It wasn’t just the teaching that intrigued him—it was the way she’d handled everything, the way she’d stayed so composed even when people tried to tear her down. He wanted to know more, to understand more about her, about what made her the way she was.

Her eyes flicked toward him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face as she considered his question. “It’s not always easy,” she said after a pause, her voice carrying a quiet strength that seemed to come naturally to her. “But it’s worth it. These kids, they deserve a chance to learn, to grow up knowing there’s more out there than just what’s around them.” She smiled slightly, a soft, wistful look in her eyes. “I just wish... I wish more people saw that. Saw the potential in them, in me.”

Arthur’s heart tightened at her words, and he glanced down at the dirt road beneath them. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must be, always having to prove yourself to the world, to constantly be pushing against the current. He wondered what it would feel like to just be able to exist without that weight pressing down.

“You don’t have to prove a damn thing to me,” Arthur said quietly, his voice low but firm, though there was something almost tender in his tone. “Not for me, or anyone else.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, she gave him that small, quiet smile again, the one that made something flutter in his chest.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “That means more than you know.”

They continued walking in comfortable silence, the night growing darker around them as the stars began to twinkle overhead. Arthur couldn’t help but feel like this was a moment he’d remember, one that was almost too peaceful, too perfect, to be real. But in that moment, he didn’t want to think about anything else—just the quiet rhythm of their steps and the warmth of her company.

As they approached the small house at the end of the road, the comforting quiet of the evening wrapped around them. The flickering light from the window illuminated the soft, rustic simplicity of the building, a humble cottage nestled against the edge of the town. Arthur slowed his steps as they neared, not wanting the walk to end. Something about it felt different—like it had meant more than just getting her safely home. The idea of saying goodbye had an unexpected weight to it.

When they reached the front gate, Arthur glanced over at her, his voice quiet but tinged with curiosity. “Well, here we are,” he said, hesitating before adding, “You got someone inside waitin’ for you?”

The question hung between them, light yet weighted, and he found himself almost bracing for her answer. He wasn’t sure why it mattered to him, but it did. His eyes flicked to the house, then back to her, wondering if he’d be handing her off to a husband or another man, someone who might look at her the way he wanted to.

Her eyes softened as she met his gaze, and there was a faint amusement in her smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes in the same way it usually did. “No,” she replied, her voice steady but not without a touch of something else, something private. “No husband.”

A small, unexpected relief flooded through him at her words. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d been holding his breath until it was released. He hadn’t thought about it before, but in that moment, a part of him was grateful that there was no man waiting for her, no one to claim her, to take her away from the quiet moments they’d shared.

“Well, I—” Arthur cleared his throat, feeling a bit awkward. “I didn’t mean to... I mean, I just didn’t want to be handin’ you over to anyone. Figured if there was a man, he’d be worried, you know?”

Miss Harper’s smile softened, and she gave a little shake of her head. “I understand. But no, no one’s waiting for me.” She paused, as if considering something before her eyes met his again, this time with a hint of something more vulnerable, more sincere. “I appreciate you walking me home. I know I can handle myself, but... it’s nice to have someone watch my back, even for just a little while.”

Arthur shifted on his feet, a little caught off guard by the sincerity in her words. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come right away. Instead, he just nodded, his heart feeling uncharacteristically light in his chest.

“Well, you take care of yourself, Miss Harper,” he said, his voice gruff but soft, the way he always spoke when the moment felt important. “You don’t have to worry about anyone botherin’ you while I’m around.”

She gave him a small nod, her smile more knowing now, as if she saw something in him that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to acknowledge. But it was there, and it made something twist pleasantly in his gut.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, her tone full of unspoken meaning. “I’ll be alright. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Arthur hesitated for a moment, standing there in front of her small, quiet house. He wasn’t sure what to do next—whether he should say something else, or just leave it at that.

As they neared the small wooden porch, Arthur’s boots scuffed softly against the gravel path, and the quiet hum of the evening seemed to press in around them. They were standing at the base of the steps now, and without thinking, Arthur found himself stepping forward, his hand reaching out toward her.

"Here, let me help you," he said, his voice a little rough as his fingers hovered near her elbow.

She glanced at him in surprise, then down at his outstretched hand, her brows furrowing slightly, but there was a softness in her eyes that made something in him tighten. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing—he just knew he wanted to offer her something, some small gesture to make sure she got inside safe and sound.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it might seem, but her smile, warm and gentle, eased the awkwardness in him.

“That’s kind of you,” she said quietly, her voice soft, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the simple act of him offering his hand. But without hesitation, she placed her hand in his, the warmth of her fingers sending a strange spark through him.

He helped her up the steps, not saying a word, but somehow it felt like the simplest, most natural thing in the world. He was conscious of the way her hand fit in his, the way her presence seemed to fill the quiet space between them, the sound of her soft breath just beneath the night sky.

When they reached the top, she paused, turning to face him with a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes meeting his, and there was something in them, something unspoken that made Arthur’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur muttered, his heart beating a little faster than it should, his hand lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pulled it back. “Just don’t go doin’ any more of that stuff, alright?”

She chuckled softly, a warm, genuine sound that made his heart skip a beat. “I won’t. But I’m glad you’re here. I truly am.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak for a moment, the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t used to moments like these, to soft touches and quiet smiles that lingered in the air.

"Well, you take care, Miss Harper," he finally managed to say, his voice a little rougher than usual, and as she stepped back into the doorway, he turned away, his mind buzzing with all the things he hadn’t said. As the door closed behind her, he hesitated, standing there for just a moment longer, before turning and heading back down the path.

Arthur walked a few paces away from the porch, his boots making steady crunching sounds against the gravel. He kept his gaze forward, not daring to look back. But the feeling in his chest, the strange warmth in his blood, refused to let him go. His heart thumped against his ribs like a wild thing, and the heat of her hand, where it had briefly touched his, still lingered on his fingers, as if it had somehow settled deep into his bones.

He finally came to a stop, his boots shifting slightly as he rubbed a hand over his face, the same hand that had touched hers. A low, frustrated groan escaped him, more from the feeling than the words he couldn’t quite manage to say out loud.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, shaking his head as he dropped his hand back to his side. His breath was a little unsteady, like he couldn’t quite catch it. He could still smell her—something sweet, something soft and natural, mixing with the crisp evening air. And for some godforsaken reason, it made his blood feel hot, too hot for the night.

His fingers twitched, like they were still waiting for her touch to return, and the thought of it made him grit his teeth. "What the hell’s wrong with me?" he grumbled to the night, kicking a small stone in frustration. His mind raced, chasing around the moments of the evening, the way her smile had made his chest tighten, the way her touch had felt like the most natural thing in the world and somehow, still, the most terrifying.

He stood there for a long minute, breathing deeply, his thoughts tangled with the heat in his blood, trying to make sense of it.

Finally, he gave a low, frustrated sigh and turned away from the house, his steps more purposeful now, though the unease in his chest lingered like a shadow.

One thing was for sure—he was far from done thinking about her.

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I haven’t edited this yet, but I’ve been craving to write something sweet and different from Bleed, Survive, Remember. I wrote until I was happy and giggling about it, and I’m excited to see where it goes. I’ll make sure to edit it later!