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isolatedrose · 6 days ago

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A Message In The Water (Part I)

Part I

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Mermaid Reader

Summary: Arthur picks up your precious jeweled comb, leading to a chance encounter between the two of you. He thought you were the stuff of legends. Reader is a mermaid.

Word Count: 3.9k AO3 Link

You have never been this close to the shore before, much less this close to a human. But what could you do? The burly man with the hat and the gun (plus whatever weapons he could have on hand) took your jeweled comb. You cursed yourself for being so careless.

The man sat on a stool at the edge of the wooden pier along with all of his other belongings scattered across the wooden planks, your precious comb included. Luckily, his holster and gun were laid to rest with the rest of the items as well. You just needed to be quick and stealthy, at least in theory.

Your tail swished back and forth in the water as you kept yourself in one spot, the water lapping at your face as you tried to hide as much of yourself underneath the surface. While your main objective was to retrieve your comb, your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the man. This impressively large human you noticed, hulking in form, was actually hunched over a notebook, silently sketching on the parchment pages. What could he be doing, you wondered. A man as intimidating as him could kill not just one, but several men, and even more easily a mermaid. But his intent seemed to be capturing the picturesque view of Flat Iron Lake.

You brought your hands together and dived into the depths, bringing yourself closer to the edge of the pier, circling around it to avoid his field of view. You broke through the surface of the water, and reached out to grab the wooden post closest to your comb, keeping yourself steady against the lake’s currents. You craned your neck to peek at the man, and seeing he was still focused on his notebook, you dared to stretch your arm out on top of the wooden planks. You were so close, the comb glittering in the sun as if to beckon you to return it to its original owner.

Just a little more, you thought, outstretching your arm and fingers as far as they could reach, your other hand gripping the edge of the pier. Your fingertips were just about to graze the comb before you heard the unsheathing of metal. You froze in shock and horror at seeing a knife lodged in the wood, just millimeters away from piercing the palm of your hand.

“What in the hell—”

Your frightened eyes darted to the knife grasped in the owner’s hand, and then to his face. His journal was discarded to the side, his lethal reflexes taking priority over his leisurely activity. His expression mirrored yours, eyes widened and lips parted in surprise and shock. You snatch your hand back to clutch to your chest, eyeing the man warily. You were this close to closing a limb and your comb.

He’s speechless, his mouth moving to attempt to form coherent words. While Arthur Morgan has robbed and been robbed, he’s never thought someone would use underwater tactics to get the one up on him. But when he took a closer look at you, he was coming to a realization that something was off. Your wet hair was clinging to your skin and trailing behind you in the water, and he swore he saw something sparkle in the water, reflecting light.

He slowly pulls out his knife that was jammed in the wood and returns it to its sheath. “Miss?” Is that the appropriate title to call you, he wondered. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He raises his hands up to show his nonviolent intent.

Your head lowers in the water as your eyes nervously flick between him and your comb. He takes notice of this and directs his attention to the object. He remembered he picked it up along the shoreline of the river, fascinated by the jewels adorning it. He’d never seen anything like it before, as it gave off its own luminescent reflection and glow. He thought it could pick up a good price if it got sold, and he could add the earnings to the camp ledger. But the gems looked to be so otherworldly that he wasn’t even sure if the pawnbroker would accept the piece unless it was clearly made of gold or diamonds.

He gingerly picks up the comb, and your eyes follow it. How can she hold her breath for that long? “Is this yours?” His voice sounds gravelly to your ears, but softens at realizing what you were looking at. He holds it out to you in his large palm.

You still don’t move as you cautiously look between him and your comb. What if he pulled that knife out on you again?

“Go on.” He nods towards his hand, extending his arm further to you. “It belongs to you right?”

You lift your head fully out of the water now, realizing that he truly was trying to return your comb back to you. You drift closer to him and grip the edge of the dock while your free hand reaches for the comb, water dripping from your outstretched arm. Your fingertips grip the comb’s spine, but not before your skin makes contact with his palm, which was rough and callous to the touch. Being so close to a human, even touching one was such a novel experience for you.

You allow yourself to take one last curious glimpse of him, but you made sure to not overstay your welcome. You fully enclose your hand over the comb and swiftly draw your hand away, whipping your body around to dive back into the lake’s depths.

Before you took off running, or swimming as Arthur was witnessing, his jaw hung open at seeing your iridescent tail flick up at the surface of the water and disappear along with you.

—————

You thought you would stay away and keep your distance, attempting to be cautious after your last visit to the lake’s shore. But all caution was thrown out the window at every instance you would see the same man from before at the wooden docks. He didn’t come everyday, but it was more frequent than the usual human visitors. Sometimes he’d come with his journal like last time, others he’d bring a fishing rod. If he’d exhausted every other activity, the man would just sit there with his stool, gazing along the water’s surface as if he was waiting for something, someone.

You dove head first in the water, and kicked your tail behind you to make your way to the wooden dock, avoiding his line of sight. You circled around a wooden pole just like last time, quietly inching closer, plank by plank until you were near enough to catch a whiff of his cologne. The scent was unfamiliar to you, as it one that couldn’t exist underwater. Everything you’ve observed so far from this particular human was so intriguing to you.

You thought it would best to gently alert him of your presence. Hopefully he wouldn’t be equipped with his knife this time. You softly knocked at the wood by his feet with your knuckles.

He immediately sits up straight, his ears perking at the sound. He turns to the source, and his eyes settle on you. He stares at you in disbelief, awe and wonder clear in his expression. The man takes off his hat and holds it to his chest, as if doing so would better clear his vision at seeing you again.

“It… it’s you!” He exclaims breathlessly. “I thought last time I was dreamin’ in broad daylight.”

You remain silent as you quietly observe him, taking in all of his features. You wondered if all humans looked like this one. He carefully draws closer, taking down to one knee on the wooden plank you were holding on to. This time, you allowed your tail to lay buoyant on the water’s surface, the water lapping at the scales catching the sunlight. His eyes are gawking at it in astonishment, realizing that he wasn’t imagining things.

“You are real.” He grasps his bearded chin, amazement clear on his face now knowing that the tail did belong to you. You still remained wordless during this exchange.

He shakes his head and collects himself, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry about last time. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just, you startled me, that’s all.” He rubs the back of his neck. He’s beginning to feel restless at your silence.

You nodded your head gingerly, hoping to show him that you understood. His blue-green eyes light up with relief at getting an actual response from you, a small smile touching his lips. Were you imagining things, or was your heart starting to beat just a little faster?

“My name’s Arthur.” He thumps the rim of his hat against his broad chest and then tips it towards you. “And you, Miss?”

You opened your mouth, but no words left your lips. The sound was as if you were fogging up a glass windowpane.

“You… can’t speak?”

You shake your head. You lift yourself onto your elbows to hold onto the ledge.

“Well, here.” He turns to reach inside his satchel to grab something. “I got a pen and some paper. You can write it—”

Your arm springs forward to stop him, your fingers enclosing around his wrist. His eyes widen as he freezes in his tracks but lets you guide his hand closer to you. You look at him intently and motion with your eyes to your joined hands, entreating him to follow along. Arthur begins to get the message as he angles his torso towards his palm as you hold it up for the both of you.

You begin to draw into his palm, the residual water from your fingers leaving behind a trail of letters. Your index finger slowly drops off at the edge of his palm at the last letter, and you turn your head back to look at Arthur.

“Is that your name?” Despite the water-etched letters already disappearing, he keeps his eyes on you with rapt attention.

This time a small smile graces your own lips, and you nod, pleased at his understanding.

“You know, I’m with a group. Our camp’s just a couple miles down that way.” Arthur cocks his head inland, a place impossible for you to set foot without any feet to walk on. “I asked them if they knew anything about mermaids.” He shakes his head and chuckles at the memory. “I damn well could’ve grown a second head the way they laughed at me.”

You listened to him intently despite being clueless to what he was talking about. For some reason, you could listen to his voice for hours. But your meeting was cut short at the sound of hooves rapidly approaching.

“Oh, that must be them.” Arthur glances over his shoulder. “Wait! You’re leavin’?” His brows furrowed in dismay as you were about to dive off into the water.

You conveyed your concern with your eyes as you looked between Arthur and the trees. While you exposed yourself to a human, he was the only exception. You didn’t want your existence to be known by others with less than good intentions.

“I understand. Look, I won’t keep you.” He places his hand down on the space of the wooden dock right in front of you. “I’ll see you again though, right?”

You hesitate with your reply, but you couldn’t lie to yourself. You did want to see him again.

“I’ll be here tomorrow, same time. Promise me you’ll come back?” His eyes pleaded with you, and you knew it would hurt you to say no to him.

You quickly nodded your head. You didn’t wait for his response once you saw horses and their riders beginning to break through the trees, kicking your tail to propel yourself under the water’s surface.

—————

You met him every day after that. While there was a communication barrier between the two of you, you both made do with your hand gestures and his guiding questions. Once, he asked you where you came from, and you realized that pointing in the general direction left much information to be desired.

Arthur brought with him a map the next time to show you. He unfurled the parchment, and you placed your finger on the Lannahechee River before following the river’s path until you reached Flat Iron Lake.

“Why did you leave?” He asked.

Your eyes turned solemn, your fingertips brushed against the city that was Saint Denis, its bustling industrialization tainting the waters and forcing you to leave your home.

And he continued to bring many things to show you, as well as your own treasures, despite little in quantity they may be. A lone mermaid such as yourself in these waters couldn’t afford to have many worldly possessions. This was why you were so determined to retrieve your comb at the risk of being discovered.

Arthur even one time brought his horse to introduce to you. You were stunned at seeing one for the first time, and you hesitated at first to approach it as Arthur led the horse to the shoreline where you were waiting.

“She doesn’t bite. Well, she does but only if you cause her grief.”

You looked between him and the foreign creature in awe, a thrilled smile forming on your lips. It comes closer to you as it bows its head, but you couldn’t help pulling away in surprise.

“She wants you to rub her head. Go on.” Arthur keeps a hold on the lead as he beckons you forward, bending down at the waist with his palm facing upwards.

You allow Arthur to guide your hand to the horse’s muzzle and feel its breath puff against your forearm. Your hand delicately moves back and forth against the creature’s coat, fascinated by the foreign sensation against your palm. The horse bobs its head to encourage your pets, and you let out a breathless laugh.

Arthur gives you an approving smile as he pats his loyal steed’s neck. “I reckon she likes you.” While your attention is trained on the horse, his eyes are transfixed by the image of you full of wonder and amazement. He’d brand the scene in his mind if he could. But the closest he could get was sketching in his journal. The next time he’d see you, maybe he’ll build up the courage to show you how he sees you in his eyes.

—————

You absentmindedly traced the cracks of the dock’s wooden post, occasionally peaking over the planks hoping to see a familiar figure. By now, Arthur would hitch his horse and make his way towards the shore, his face brightening at catching sight of you.

A couple days passed by, and you weren’t too concerned. But then those days turned into weeks. The worry transformed into fear at the possibilities. Has he grown tired of you already? Or even worse, he told your secret to his group? Even with all of the negative thoughts swirling in your mind, they all converged to one point. You missed him. You wanted to see him, just as much as when he begged to see you again all those meetings ago.

Just as you were about to dive back into the water’s depths, your ears perked at the familiar sound of hooves galloping in your direction. Caution was thrown out the window as you lifted yourself up on the wooden dock in full view to hopefully catch sight of the person you wanted to see most.

You were elated to find that it was Arthur. But his usual friendly demeanor was replaced by a grave expression on his face. He hitches his horse nearby and makes his way towards you in the water.

He kneels down at the dock. “You should’ve checked that it was me before you showed yourself.” Arthur admonishes you but not unkindly.

Your tail flicked restlessly in the water as you looked up at him and drank in his features. You cocked your head to the side, curious as to why he hadn’t paid you a visit in so long.

Arthur looks over his shoulder to double check his surroundings. “I’m sorry I haven’t come in a while. Our group’s been put through the wringer, and we lost one of our own, a kid. We also got enemies on our trail, so we had to leave the area.” His explanation comes tumbling out, and you did your best to listen and make sense of it.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back again.” Upon seeing your crestfallen face, Arthur is quick to reassure you. “But I swear I’ll come find you again. I just need to take care of some things on my side.”

You nodded hesitantly, not sure of the implications of his situation, but there was nothing else that you could do.

“Our camp’s moving towards the swamps, closer to St. Denis. Place called Shady Belle. It’s near where you used to live.”

Arthur looks back again, a more urgent tone rising in his voice. “I have to go.” Just as he was about to stand, you reached out to grasp his arm, a silent cry coming out of your mouth to stop him momentarily.

His eyes widened in surprise to be stopped in his tracks. You entreated him to give you his hand, and you placed the same jeweled comb that allowed the two of you to meet into his palm.

“No I… I can’t take this.”

You shake your head and urge him forward by closing his fingers over the comb.

Arthur hesitates at first, but then he turns to stow away your treasure in his satchel. “I’ll keep it safe. You know, it’s like I have a little piece of you I can carry around.”

A warm flush envelopes your face at the idea, and you nod in agreement.

“I’ll see you soon.”

—————

You didn’t wait for him to come. Instead, you went to him. If the alligators didn’t eat you, that is.

The swamp waters were harder to navigate, with all of its algae and murkiness. You were careful to avoid any vegetation that would catch onto your tail fin.

Eventually, your head peeked out of the water, and you saw the outline of a worn down, two story mansion, with a camp set up along the front porch. You kept your distance though, remembering that Arthur was with not just one but multiple humans.

You swam along the outskirts of the swamp until you reached the backside of the mansion, finding purchase on a wooden dock similar to the one at home.

Meanwhile, as Arthur was upstairs in the dilapidated mansion, his eyes caught the glint of familiar iridescent scales flitting through the swamp water. He could recognize them anywhere. He rushes down the stairs as quickly as possible without drawing suspicion from the gang, occasionally looking over his shoulder.

He kneels down at the dock and urgently whispers your name. At the sound of his voice, you emerge from underneath the water, a bright smile on your face that Arthur swears makes his heart ache.

“The hell you doing here for?” He’s all astonishment.

Out of all of the times, you wished you could speak now, form the words you wanted to say to Arthur. Express how you feel. How you missed him so desperately that you sought him out yourself. But the only thing you could do was reach for him.

Arthur catches your hand without hesitation. Your breath hitches at him pressing your palm to his cheek, not caring about the water touching the scruff of his beard.

“What if someone saw you?” His brows furrowed in worry. “The water here’s not safe, you know. It’s teeming with alligators.”

He notices the bits of algae caught in your hair. “Look at you.” His fingers move to pick them out of your locks. “You’re too pretty for a swamp.”

You close your eyes, and Arthur takes this chance to dust his knuckles over your cheek. A shiver runs down your spine and all the way to your tail at the intimate touch.

“You should’ve waited. I would’ve gone to you.” His voice is soft.

You open your eyes at that and shake your head, your expression forming into a sulk.

“I… I have to tell you something.” He’s hesitant, a little fearful even.

You cock your head to the side in curiosity.

“The way you look at me… the way you make me feel. It almost makes me think I’m a good man.” He smiles bitterly.

You shook your head fervently. Why wouldn’t he be anything else but good?

“No, I’ve done bad things, horrible things. All for the sake of… well now I don’t know anymore.” Arthur’s eyes are distant as his gaze is trained on the ripples caused by your tail undulating in the water.

You sensed that you were losing him. You reach up and clasp his face in your hands, trying to ground him back to this moment. He’s startled at first, but then his eyelids lower as your fingers smooth out the lines in his forehead, tracing his eyebrows. Your thumb gently rubs back and forth across his cheek.

“You make me want to be better.” His voice is a low murmur. He lowers his head towards the water, towards you, as his lips press against your forehead. Your heat picks up pace in your chest, a rosy pink staining your cheeks. He stares at your lips in longing, and you didn’t realize how you unconsciously raised yourself out of the water to meet your lips with his.

The two of you were just a hair away from a kiss before noises erupt from the camp, and the two of you whip your heads towards the source. You heard Arthur curse under his breath.

“They’re back.” Arthur returns his attention to you, but his eyes are now frantic. “I can’t have Dutch see you. You gotta get out of here.”

You didn’t know who this Dutch was, but based on Arthur’s tone, he was a person that was a danger to your existence. You nodded resolutely.

“Go, now!”

You give him one final look before you dove under the surface of the swamp.

—————

You didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye. There was no guarantee you would see him again. And like how Arthur said, the swamp was a danger to you. You could’ve been an alligator’s next meal.

Just as you thought the water was getting clearer as you swam, you didn’t realize the dark shadow that was descending on you, a fishing net to be exact.

An underwater gurgle escapes your throat as the net latches around you. You darted back and forth, clawing at the netting to try to escape its clutches, but it was no use as you were being lifted out of the water.

You weren’t able to fully process the sensation of completely being a fish out of water as the net dumped you on the floor of an massive, industrial-looking fishing boat.

There were shouts and exclamations from a group of humans at witnessing what they just caught. Other crew members rushed over to see the commotion.

“What the hell?!”

You were breathing fast, hyperventilating even as you thrashed about, your tail fin lodged in the net’s openings.

You felt helpless as these foreign humans crowded around you to catch a glimpse of the once thought mythical creature.

“Captain, what do we do with it?” One human speaks up, his eyes practically bugging out of his eyes at the sight of you.

The leader of this fishing boat was also left speechless. But he eventually collects himself.

“What we always do with a catch. Sell it.”

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #reader #x reader #angst #romance #fluff #reader self insert #arthur morgan x reader

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arthurmorganist · 1 day ago

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WIP WEDNESDAY ✮

once again, here’s a not so little snippet of riverdance, the first chapter of two most wanted 🩸 i’ve been reworking it for the past couple of months and i’m glad to say that i’m finally happy with how it’s coming together ⭐️ thank you so much dearest @cassietrn for tagging me ❤️‍🔥

1899

He’s seen that mare before.

Arthur sits on the edge of his cot, the roof of his canvas tent protecting him from the chilly wind whipping through the trees, ruffling their leaves and making them sing a haunting melody. He’s been itching for a smoke since earlier today, since the very moment he woke up at the crack of dawn after another night of restless sleep, body sore and mind clogged with one too many worries. He’s been too busy, as usual, always the working dog, being sent from one point of the map to another, not allowed to have even the slightest moment to himself.

So, before he bothers to get his hands on his journal, he pats his coat in search of a rolled cigarette.

The weather is cold tonight, clouds don’t threaten the skies above any longer but the smell of the past afternoon’s rain remains in the midnight air. His horse is hitched to the trunk of a nearby tree, munching on the tall grass that surrounds him, if he can judge by the sounds that reach his ears. The silent presence of his most loyal companion is enough to bring him a sense of security in this uncertain moonless night.

Pulling a single crumpled cigar out of his breast pocket, he lights it up with the stray match he finds along with it, using the sole of his boot to strike it into life. When he takes the first drag, he feels his lungs expand with it, filling up to their limit, as a dry cough builds up in his throat. He holds it in for a second, just to expel it through his crooked nose a minute later, the heat burning the inside of his nostrils on its way out of his chest. He can feel his body begin to warm up, his broad shoulders sagging, his back cracking as he stretches, finally finding relief after all the pent up stress of such a hard day.

He should lit a fire, eat some of the cooked meat stored in his saddlebags and sleep, sleep until the birds or the sun wake him in the morning. It’s been months since the last time he ate and rested properly, since before Colter, or even longer before that. But the last months of his life have turned such natural and easy tasks into something impossible for him, and the dreadful events of the last several hours have done nothing but add more knots to his already tight stomach.

After a couple more puffs, he stabs out the remaining of the cigarette on the dewy grass, tossing the crushed butt into the thick blanket of darkness that expands in front of him. His hands go to his face, rough fingertips rubbing circles around the parched skin of his eyes. They move later to his temples, sliding through his hair until they reach the wavy strands of his nape, finally clasping them together over his neck. He rubs his palms over that spot and the movement seems to bring back the thought from earlier to the forefront of his mind, forcing him to rest his forehead on his knees. It doesn’t go unnoticed by him the way in which his heartbeat pathetically picks up against his own will.

You ain’t a kid no more. Echoes the voice inside his head, always too loud for his liking. You've been persecuted your whole life. By bounty hunters, other gangs, the law, the government, the Pinkertons. So why the hell are you—

One of his hands unclasps from its confines and, once again, travels all the way to his chest, right above his heart, where a strange burning sensation has resided for the past couple of weeks. Something akin to the pain of an old wound that aches when the temperature drops. He tries to scratch it away in no vain, the tips of his fingers tingling with the futile effort he just made. If only he had the proper words to name this feeling, he could get rid of it.

Taking a deep breath, he opts to drag his worn out body inside the tent at last, removing his boots and placing them to his left, before he unbuttons his blue-colored coat to take it off as well. The lantern he brought is providing not only light but also warmth, allowing him to sit comfortably just in his shirt, pants and woolly socks. He turns around and reaches for his satchel, which had laid forgotten in the back of the tent for a few hours by now, when he began to set up camp while the sun was still setting on the west. Rummaging through it, he comes in touch with his leather bound journal first, pulling it out and placing it in between his thighs. His free hand continues to fish around the bag for his pencil, touching everything else except for what he’s looking for, until he finds it tangled up in the cord of an old golden pocket watch he stole from a dead O’Driscoll ages ago.

Aimlessly, he opens it and chooses a random page in between instead of the one where he wrote last. The tip of the pencil hovers momentarily over the blank sheet as Arthur closes his eyes over again, recalling the shape of the animal.

I’ve seen that mare before.

(no rush and no pressure at all!) tagging: @zae-heeyyy, @lotvsflwrr, @dilf-luvr-4evr, @redwritr / @wipidek, @stottlemorgan, @heartsickspider and whoever wishes to participate 🦌✨

#my writing 📝#tag game #cassie tag #lovely moots #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x oc #oc: star #starthur #⭐️ x 🦌

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strangesthirdeye · 5 days ago

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John Marston: what's that look for?

Y/n: what? I'm just looking at you.

John Marston: you look at me like you're judging me. I don't know what the hell is wrong with you.

Y/n: John, I'm not a person who easily judges people based on their looks or behavior, but when it comes to Micah-

Arthur Morgan: *shouts* let me join you!

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #john marston x reader #john marston #incorrect rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 #rdr2 memes #red dead fandom #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #john marston x you

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appalachiancowboy99 · 1 day ago

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I'm always in awe of your writing ability, C! The way you word even the simplest of interactions gives them so much more meaning and depth than I ever thought possible. I swear, each time I read something of you'rn, I'm always pulling out my notebook and jotting things down because I'm always left thinking like "OHHHHH THAT IS SUCH A GOOD WORD," or "WHAT? I SHOULDA THOUGHT OF THAT!" Anywho, enough of my rambling 😂. You should be extremely proud of the work you've managed to create in your spare time. I'll never not be amazed by you and your big brain. Love you so much, C!! 💕

Leather and Lace - Chapter 26: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Summary: You get caught up in town with Micah when running for supplies, and Arthur is none too pleased about it.

*This image is not mine but comes from Pintrest, posted by Duknan

Word Count - 14, 290 (Sorry this is a long one!)

A/N: This one took me awhile and I was about to post it, and then decided to rewrite and reorganize some passages. I know there are strong opinions of Micah Bell out there, but don't hate on me. This will have some sympathies towards our favorite antagonist. Just trying to delve into his character a bit.

Special thank you, as always, to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my cheerleader and beta-reader.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter - still in progress but there are a handful of future chapters that were posted ahead of time

The convoy of wagons and horses carefully snakes its way down the narrow mountain path from Colter. The crisp, frigid air is filled with the sounds of creaking wood and squelching mud as the horses plow through melting snow and sludge underfoot. The last remnants of delicate snowflakes dance in the wind, skipping about like crystalline winter fairies before landing on riders and wagons alike.

Dutch has decided that you all have been hiding up in the wicked winds and snow of the Grizzly Mountains for long enough and it is now time to leave due to several factors. The robbery of the train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall was a success, there is a new addition to the group with Mrs. Adler (who is still recovering from the loss of her husband and home), John is slowly on the mend from the wolf attack, but most importantly, there are O’Driscoll’s afoot in the area. While Dutch is not intimidated by Colm O’Driscoll, he is certainly well aware that his own gang is wounded and not up to snuff as they usually are. It’s best to move the group while he can, getting you all to a more temperate area, and regroup with a new plan for the gang’s future.

While Arthur is still a little cantankerous about what happened in Blackwater and, of course, the events after, you and he have at least reconnected to some extent, which has calmed your nerves a bit from the calamity that led to the gang’s abrupt escape to the mountains. It is hard enough to deal with what has happened without having to fret over your still fairly new relationship with a man who has spent years barricading himself off from anyone else.

Sometimes, you can steal Arthur away and get him to relax with you, finding comfort in warm embraces and delicious kisses, to feel warm, strong hands holding each other when it seems like the world around you is about to fall apart. But it doesn’t take much once Arthur is away from you to ignite his vexation once more.

Dutch currently leads the gang through a shallow end of the frigid river and across the rocky riverbed, which wreaks havoc on the wheels of the old wagons. This is probably not the most pleasant path, but it is a more direct route to your destination and the sooner you are off this damn mountainside, the better.

But of course, as luck would have it, the wagon that Arthur and Hosea are driving barely makes it to the other side of the bank before one of the wheels breaks. The vehicle groans and wobbles before the wheel pops off entirely, causing it to lurch, the axle stubbornly planting itself into the gloopy, frigid mud.

“Ah, shit!” Arthur hollers, tossing the reins down in a heap at his feet in frustration.

Upon hearing the loud snapping of wood, and Arthur’s even louder cursing, the convoy stops. “Everything alright back there?” hollers Bill from up ahead, twisting in his saddle to try to get a better view.

“Does everything look alright to you?” Arthur shouts sarcastically, losing his patience by the second.

“Well, what’s going on?” Javier peevishly asks, curious as to how long this will delay them as he’s eager to get out of the cold and on to the new camp.

“I broke the goddamn wheel!” Arthur’s breath huffs sharply out of his nose like a bull as his burly frame jumps down from the wagontop and he lumbers around the side to assess the damage.

A grunt of aged exhaustion bubbles from Hosea’s weathered lips as he too climbs down from the driver seat where he’s been sitting next to Arthur for the last several hours. The old man works the stiffness out of his joints as he moves to stand next to Arthur, blowing warm air into his hands and flexing as he adjusts his gloves. “Well, no sense grumbling about. Let’s get it fixed, then.”

At this point, Charles Smith has sauntered over to see if he can lend a hand. While Arthur, Hosea and Charles toss playful banter at one another while fighting with the unwelcomed repair, you eagerly capitalize on the moment of reprieve to climb out of the back of the wagon to stretch your legs and back. Taking advantage of being in his close proximity, you opted to ride with Arthur rather than riding your own horse or up with the girls in their wagon, but your butt is not thanking you for that decision at the moment.

Rolling your neck as you rub the tired muscles nestled there, you catch sight of the O’Driscoll that Arthur had caught up by Mrs. Adler’s place. Curious about the new arrival, you take a moment to study him as he stands tethered to the chuck wagon. He seems skittish and frail like a baby duckling trying to stay close to its nest. He doesn’t seem to be all that impressive and even though Dutch thinks this young man may have some valuable information, you are more inclined to think he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arthur is convinced that this little man is trouble, but you are not so sure. To Arthur, the only good O’Driscoll is dead O’Driscoll. But something in the man’s terrified and untrusting eyes tells you that he hates Colm O’Driscoll more than anything.

While the torture has not ensued just yet, the gang has not exactly been hospitable to this hostage. With the others distracted, you take the opportunity to approach the O’Driscoll yourself. You observe him with a piqued interest as you get closer to him. He doesn’t seem to be that dangerous as he shutters and shakes, nervous of every move around him. The hazel eyes nest in deep sockets, ringed with dark circles, and continually dart all around him. And it dawns on you that he is not looking at the convoy of people who hold him captive, but at the treeline and distant hills. It’s as if he’s more worried about the outside threat from someone else than he is about being left with the Van Der Linde gang.

“Hello,” you say softly, your voice low so as to not startle him. The man doesn’t reply when you catch his attention, but just stares at you with wide, distrustful eyes.

But you meet his uneasiness with your usual gentle smile. “I brought you some bread and water.” He watches your hands float to the canteen around your shoulder and then to the linen napkin in your palm. His eyes widen even more with a spellbound awe, the gurgling sound of his painfully hungry stomach filling the awkward silence as you push the items into his cold hands. “It’s okay. Here.”

His hands are still bound, but at least Bill tied them in front of him and thankfully, he is able to hold the food and canteen on his own without you feeding him. You hand him the items, but quickly step back, mindful that this is still an O’Driscoll in front of you.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, his voice feeble as he swallows the bread down. His eyes are sunken and dark from lack of food and his clothing is tattered and ripped. He is a sad sight, indeed. “This is m-mighty kind of you, ma’am. I know you all don’t have reason to trust me. But I-I appreciate the kindness just the same.”

A chuckle crosses your lips as you watch as the O’Driscoll quickly shoves the bread through his chapped lips. “Well, we may be a group of outlaws, but we’re not heartless. But if you do know something, it would be wise of you to tell them.” His chewing slows as he takes in your warning, nodding slightly in acceptance of his fate. “You’re Kieran, right? That’s your name? I’m Y/N.”

“That’s right. Kieran.” A small smile begins to bloom across his dirty face, a shred of relief fluttering in his chest like a butterfly at the act of mercy. But he is soon distracted from your kind face to the commotion going on behind you.

“That man.” Keiran nods past you, eyebrows raised in apprehension at the individual who is still ranting and cursing while fixing the broken wagon. “That’s Arthur Morgan, isn’t it?”

Your demeanor instantly drops at the idea that this potential enemy knows Arthur’s name, alarmed at the mere thought of Arthur being endangered. Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing! I-I don’t mean nothing by it,” Keiran quickly yammers. “It’s just-”

“Just what?” You take a slow, deliberate step closer to him. He cringes when he sees your fiery eyes darken and your shoulders set defensively.

Kieran casts his fearful eyes downward, afraid he may have offended the one person who has shown him any kindness in this situation. “It’s just…I’ve heard talk of him, is all.”

“What kind of talk?” Your once pleasant and sympathetic tone has turned hard and untrusting now that Arthur is threatened.

“He’s just…an enigma of sorts.” Kieran risks a cautious look up at you again, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he wobbles in the cold air. “I heard talk of how he’s bested men when he was way outnumbered, against the odds. H-how he has what’s been told a “dead eye”. You know, where you can aim your gun and…and kill a man with such accuracy that it’s unreal. I heard he can beat a man to death with his bare hands within five minutes! That he once wrestled a wolverine-”

“It wasn’t a wolverine,” you interrupt Kieran’s nervous rambling with a sigh. ”It was a bobcat.”

“Oh.”

“And yes, he is all of those things.”

Kieran nods at your confirmation of his fears. “It’s just funny to see somethin’ you’ve been warned about in the flesh. Like seein’ the devil in person, you know?”

“Well, let that be a lesson to you, then,” you warn, crossing your arms over your chest, tucking your jacket closer to you. “I wouldn’t piss him off.”

“He seems real kind to you, though.” A shred of hope glimmers in Kieran’s eyes that maybe this demon he’s heard so much of is not so bad. Or, that this angel of mercy standing in front of him may be the key to calm that demon.

“Yeah, well, he likes me. There aren’t too many that can say that.”

“Y/N!” Suddenly, you hear Arthur’s gravelly voice calling out your name. Turning your head in his direction, you see Arthur standing with a look of concern plastered across his weathered features. “Get away from that piece of shit and get back over here. C’mom, time to move!” He sharply waves his arm at you, impatient to have you back at his side. Arthur still doesn’t trust this O’Driscoll, which means he wants you nowhere near him.

“Well, Kieran, it was nice chatting with you.” You give him one last tired smile before collecting the canteen and turn to head back to the wagon.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Kieran calls to you, his fitful eyes following you as you retreat back to where Arthur looms in the not-so-far-off distance as he eyes the prisoner with a cold and hateful gaze. Arthur’s countenance doesn’t waver when you smile up at him, placing a loving hand on his forearm. The only crack in his angry, rugged wall is when he gently places a large gloved hand to the small of your back, ushering you into the back of the wagon once more.

Hosea wants to stay in an area called Horseshoe Overlook and with no other idea readily in mind, Dutch agreed. It’s still a bit of a journey from the base of the mountainside so it is suggested that the gang takes a brief stop while someone heads over to the nearest town on the way to the Overlook. Supplies were low before you even left Blackwater all those weeks ago, and you’ve been scrounging ever since for the duration of your stay in Colter. Pearson needs his food stock replenished, and you need medical supplies as everything you had stockpiled has gone to caring for John after being attacked by the wolves.

Safest to travel in small numbers, you offer to go yourself. You know what to look for on both the food and the medical supplies. But Arthur is not about to let you go anywhere on your own in an area he is unfamiliar with, so without question, he will be escorting you.

“Micah, why don’t you head over there with them?” suggests Dutch, puffing away on a cigar, the smoke encircling his dark curls like a vaporous crown from where he sits perched upon his horse, observing the small group of you that has collected in front of him to discuss what the next move will be. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with around here, best to send backup just in case.”

The mere idea that Micah should ride along with you makes Arthur bristle. “I don’t need any ‘backup’, Dutch. Certainly not from him,” he growls, waving a flippant hand towards Micah.

“Fine with me, I don’t want to be baby-sittin’ you anyway, cowpoke,” sneers Micah in response, his hands instinctively settling upon his gunbelt. The gang hasn’t stopped for more than twenty minutes and the air is already charged with the animosity between the two men.

“That was not a suggestion,” Dutch muses back at the two pouty overgrown children. “Now, get going and be careful. We don’t need any attention right now.”

“We’ll be fine, Dutch,” you quickly interject before either Arthur or Micah can launch another insult. “Come on, you two. Let’s get this done, shall we?” Shaking your head playfully at the two bickering outlaws, you head over to saddle Blue for the quick detour.

The lemon-yellow sun of the late morning dodges between rolling clouds as the three of you head out, riding in silence, with Arthur along your side and Micah trailing behind you. The nearest town is about an hour’s ride and is more of a trading village for those like yourselves, traveling between the mountain pass and down into the more populated territories. Upon arrival, you are quick to notice that there is no flourish or panache here. It is a series of rows made up of simple buildings, each marked with their specialty. The outlying area is littered with small houses and cabins nestled into the hillside for the full-time residents. But the trading post is meant for in-and-out traffic, a quick stop between destinations.

“Huh, seems…’quaint’,” you hum, looking over the dusty little village, watching the people lumber about their tasks.

“That’s one word for it,” mutters Micah, clearly unimpressed with the destination. His mustache twitches as he sucks his teeth in disappointment.

“Let’s just get what we need and get outta here,” reminds Arthur, his gaze skimming over the open area. He sits rigid atop Buck, his worn gambler’s hat pulled down over his crystal-blue eyes and assesses any possible threats. “We don’t need to be lingering too long out in the open.”

“You’re such an old woman, Morgan. What could possibly happen in a shitty little town like this?” complains Micah, waving his hand impatiently at the small expanse of buildings.

Arthur pitches back an equally bitter glare. “This old woman will put her boot right in your ass if you keep running your mouth, Micah.”

“Boys!” you snap sharply, raising your hands up at each of them to halt their childish bickering. “Let’s play nice just for a bit, hmm?”

A mocking grin rolls across Micah’s face as he urges Baylock forward past the two of you, causing Arthur to roll his eyes in annoyance.

“Come on, handsome,” you coo sweetly to Arthur. “Forget about that fool and let’s find ourselves some food.”

He turns towards you, tilting his head up just enough for you to catch a lifted eyebrow from under the brim of his hat. “Should I be offended you use the same pet name for me as you do that damn horse of yours?”

A cheeky grin decorates your face, making your eyes glitter mischievously. “Considering how much I love this damn horse of mine, you should be flattered.” You reach down and pat Blue’s neck, drawing a knicker from his wide chest.

Arthur absolutely adores your playfulness, but the mirth slowly drains from his eyes as his gaze returns to Micah who is heading over to the gunsmith. “It’s a good thing you’re here, Y/N. Otherwise, I’d tear that weasel a new ass the minute I get my hands on him.”

“I know, I know,” you muse as you follow his line of sight. “But like you said, let’s get this done and then you don’t have to deal with him for awhile, yeah?” Arthur only nods in agreement as he nudges Buck to follow you down the narrow street to the nearest hitching post outside of what appears to be the closest thing to a general store.

While you and Arthur go about securing some canned goods and clean bandages, Micah has been busy procuring more ammunition from the smith. Reconvening at the horses, the three of you pack the saddlebags with the new supplies. You casually walk around to the other side of Blue to stuff the last bit of goods into the dusty leather bag and you let your gaze wander, taking in the simplicity of the little town.

As you scan the front of the post office, which sits next to the general store, your eye catches something. You do a double-take as the blood drains from your face, eyes wide as saucers.

“Oh hell,” you whisper under your breath. Your blood runs cold as ice when you see a sketch of your likeness and your alias scrawled upon a browning piece of paper that is nailed to the bulletin board of the post office.

Noticing your change in mood, Arthur follows your sight-line and sees the object of your trepidation. He cautiously walks over and yanks the poster down, reading it over as he returns to the horses where you and Micah are standing. And Arthur is none too happy about this, either. You give Arthur a worried and guilt-ridden look as his lips flatten into a hard, angry line as his hands fist around the parchment, crumpling the edges.

Bounty to be paid of one hundred dollars

By decree of Sheriff Franklin Langston, be on the look out for this woman known as Mrs. Evageline Callahan. Wanted for robbery of the Red Rock Savings and Loan and the assault of a law officer. Wanted alive.

The bounty notice details the robbery in Red Rock where you had planted yourself as a decoy before helping Arthur crack the locks and safes, and the local Sheriff there has targeted you as an accomplice. But what the notice does not go into detail about is how the sheriff tried to play on your supposed vulnerability. He had escorted you to a hotel room under the pretense of “protection”. But it quickly became obvious to you that his protection was the furthest from his mind.

While locked in a room with the scoundrel, you secretly drugged him before he could take advantage of you and you slipped out from under his unconscious nose, walking right out the front door with no one the wiser. No doubt the respected lawman’s pride is hurt that not only was he fooled by a woman, but a woman who got the best of him in the end.

Anger and worry swirl violently within Arthur’s chest, making his heart beating rapidly. He has tried to keep you out of harm's way, but it seems he’s failed. He stupidly thought that he could be an outlaw and still keep you innocently protected from the life that comes with it. You are the one thing that he holds most precious, like a delicate flower in the cold morning frost, to be safeguarded at all costs.

He had asked you not to do that job. Begged you, in fact. But how could you tell Dutch Van Der Linde ‘no’? And with you there to pick the locks of the vault at the bank, Arthur and the others were able to come away with a hell of a lot more cash than they would have without you. And, with no casualties, too. But that has also opened the door for you to be implicated as an accomplice and now on the law’s wanted list.

Micah looks over Arthur’s shoulder at the offending paper being fisted in his gloved hands. “Well, what do ya know, she’s an ’outlaw’ now,” he chuckles. “Shit, this day just keeps getting better and better. Don’t look so glum, there, cowpoke.” He lands a teasing swat along Arthur's arm. “Thought you’d be happy knowing you two really are made for each other.”

“Shut up, Micah!” you and Arthur both yell in unison.

“Arthur? Arthur, I’m sorry,” you mutter sheepishly as you place your hands on his bulging forearms. But your plea only makes his teeth grind in anger at himself even harder.

“What you got to be sorry for?!” His nostrils flare slightly when he turns his flashing eyes to meet your anxious gaze.

“Well…”

“Hey!”

Before you can finish your thought, someone’s sharp voice cuts through the crowd. Whipping your collective heads in that direction, the three of you see an older man standing outside the general store, pointing his bony finger at you, his bespectacled eyes wide with shock.

“That’s her! That woman they’re looking for!”

Your whole body freezes, paralyzed with fear as the man’s voice carries through the dusty street, announcing your presence to everyone. A crowd of curious onlookers descends upon the square at the noise. Arthur quickly places himself in front of you like a shield and you shrink behind him, cowering as your hands come up to grasp at the back of his coat as if you could draw courage from his sheer bulk.

“We don’t want no trouble.” Arthur addresses the crowd, holding one hand up in peace. “But if anyone makes one move towards her, there will be trouble.” Your breath catches in your throat as Arthur draws himself up to his full height, widening his stance and shoulders pushed back to make himself even more massive than already is. His neck tightens as his chiseled jaw clenches painfully. His hand instinctively hovers over his holstered gun, a clear warning to those around him. Likewise, Micah takes a defensive position flanking Arthur’s side to hide you from the crowd, both hands just itching to take hold of the weapons on his hips.

It’s as if time stands still, not even a bird making a sound, as a breeze flits through the street, rolling dead leaves about like discarded paper. Arthur can feel your fingers trembling through the thick material of his coat. Your terrified eyes dart in all directions, waiting for someone to make the next move. The bitter, coppery taste of blood creeps into your mouth as you bite down on your bottom lip in anticipation. But you don’t have long to wait.

A single gunshot rings out, planting an ill-aimed bullet a mere yard from your feet. Gasping in panic, you jump backwards into Blue’s side, causing him to whinny loudly as he rears up in fear. Arthur’s arm immediately spins as if of its own accord to find the source, the offending shooter instantly crumbling in a heap with a red weeping hole in his chest.

A woman’s scream cuts into the tension-charged air as things explode into chaos everywhere. Arthur and Micah pull their weapons, firing in a whirlwind of motion with you placed behind them.

“Move!” Arthur roars, shoving you to your feet as you scramble in frantic movement.

The three of you sprint through the streets, trying to elude the townsfolk. But shots are fired from all around, causing you to constantly change directions. Shots ring out, whizzing past your head, and you let go of Arthur’s jacket to cradle your head, but by doing so, you eventually get separated from him.

You get a glimpse of Arthur as he throws himself behind a stack of barrels seeking shelter from the onslaught while you and Micah tuck yourselves behind a wagon on the opposite side of the street. But every time Arthur tries to make a break to you, a spray of bullets knocks him back, holding him in place.

“We gotta get outta here!” hollers Micah over the deafening pandemonium, grabbing your shoulder and trying to pull you towards himself.

“Not without Arthur!” you scream back, shoving his hand off of you.

But you watch in horror as a group of men descend on your outlaw. With the townsfolk distracted with Arthur, Micah grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet. “We gotta go! Big man can take care of himself!”

But you dig your heels in like an obstinate horse. Your eyes shoot back to Arthur, his keen scrutiny moving between the mob and your petrified face. He lifts his hands and begins to fire at the men coming down the street, trying to keep their attention away from you and Micah.

“Get the hell out of here! Go!” he yells at you, waiving you to move on. Too numb with the fear of leaving Arthur to move of your own accord, you absentmindedly allow Micah to drag you away from the square.

Micah leads you down the narrow street amongst the shouting of everyone around you, keeping along the buildings and firing into the crowds to ward off any following. Shards of glass and wooden splinters cascade into your hair as a rain of bullets from all directions ricochet off of the buildings and fills the air with choking clouds of smoke that burns your throat every time a shriek of panic escapes your lungs. Your feet scramble to keep up, desperately trying not to lose your footing and drag Micah down with you. Your head ducks into Micah’s side, blindly following wherever he leads you as your hands maintain a death-grip on his jacket.

You and Micah bolt in various directions, your worn boots zigzagging in the dirt, trying to elude the mob, but it seems there are guns pointed at you at every turn. This may be a tiny town, but they do not tolerate any trouble here, the whole town arming themselves to protect against any threat. Shop owners, the blacksmith, any able body pops out with a gun in hand and aimed at you. Micah skids to a halt more than once to change directions, seeking out an escape route.

The spray of bullets pushes you down yet another alley between the saloon and the small hotel, dodging between smaller barrels and crates that litter the ground. You lost the mob by ducking down this corridor, but dread freezes your breath when you find yourselves at a dead-end. You pause gasping for air with your hands on your knees as your head swivels, scouring the alley for a way out. Off in the distance, you can hear the shouts of your pursuers all around you. And they are getting closer by the minute.

Micah’s back rounds like a cat getting ready to pounce, his shoulders hunched and coiled tight like a spring. His eyes narrow and dart, assessing his surroundings.

And then the damnedest thing happens. Surprisingly, Micah pushes you behind him, holding his arm protectively over you and places himself between you and the oncoming crowd.

“Get ready.” His voice is low and serious, not carrying the usual arrogance and tasteless jokes that spill from his filthy mouth. “Here.” And he pulls another gun from his belt, shoving it in your direction. You stand there staring at the piece in your hand as if it is a foreign object, its cold metal almost burning your skin, before looking to him once more for more explanation.

Micah holds his two guns, both hands angled upwards and ready to fire at the first person to breach the corner, expecting a full-on shootout to erupt in the narrow alley at any moment.

“When they come, bullets will fly and you gotta be ready to move,” he says over his shoulder to you. “You shoot the first thing you see comin’ round that corner and don’t stop. We’ll push our way out. We need to cut a path and make a run for the horses.”

But being separated from Arthur, you suddenly become dizzy and short of breath. “Wait, there’s got to be another way!” Your voice elevates in pitch and volume with a vehement shake of your pounding head. “We’ll get gunned down for sure if we go out there!”

“No time. I gotta get you out of here, princess.” Micah’s sudden concern for your safety confuses the hell out of you, silencing your protests. “Unless you know how to hide in plain sight?”

In a split second, his comment causes an idea to form in your mind. A crazy idea. How do you hide in plain sight? And before he can even comprehend what is happening, you wrap both hands around Micah’s face, drawing him to you and crash your mouth into his. You pull him along with you as you backpedal towards the side of the building.

Taken off guard, Micah stumbles a bit as you pull him overtop of yourself when your back hits the hard wood-siding of the saloon. His eyes shoot wide open with shock, but he quickly reciprocates your actions. Micah doesn’t question your plan or motives in the slightest despite the danger you find yourselves in and, taking full advantage of the close proximity to you, he thrusts his tongue into your mouth. You whimper at the sudden intrusion as the stale tobacco scent that carries on his mustache fills your nostrils. You can taste his foul breath as his saliva mixes with your own and you try not to gag.

Almost immediately, you begin to second guess your little scheme and your trembling hands land on his shoulders about to push him off of you, but the sounds of the encroaching crowd right outside the alley halts your decision. Your eyes split open and look past Micah’s shoulder toward the street and you begin to see the blur of running men, the sunlight glinting off of the guns in hand in their attempt to hunt you down. So instead of pushing him off of you, your fingers quickly fumble as they pull Micah’s jacket and hat off him, tossing them to the ground at your feet, for he’d be recognized for sure if anyone sees that white hat and coat of his.

The hollering and commotion of your pursuers gets louder and louder. Your heart pounds in your ears, sweat beading at your temples. While you are in a panic about being found and gunned down like dogs in the alley, Micah seems to have completely forgotten about the mob on his heels. Having dropped his own guns at his feet once you were pressed against the building, his rough hands are now free to grasp and pinch at your hips as he pushes his pelvis into yours, grinding into you.

The crowd of people are at the end of the alley now and in desperation to sell the facade, you lift your leg up over Micah’s hip, pulling him in tighter to you and cover his face with your hands to shield him from the hoard of men that run past the alley entrance. Thankfully, the mob surges past you without so much as an afterthought, thinking that the two of you are just another drunken lot behind the bar who are too impatient to get a room.

The wave of commotion eventually recedes, the shouting and hollering slowly getting more faint as the mob moves down the street. As soon as you feel you are in the clear, you instantly try to push the disgusting outlaw off of you.

“Stop.” The muffled demand pushes past your lips which are being devoured, Micah’s tongue swirling around your mouth. You shove his shoulders, but he doesn't move, his face still smashed against yours.

You try to turn your face away from him in an attempt to break the sloppy kissing that Micah is desperately trying to prolong. “Stop it.” You push at him again, but his greedy hands clamp down painfully on your hips, refusing to give you up.

“Okay, that’s enough!” you holler, using your anger to summon all of your strength and roughly shove him from you. Heat flushes throughout your whole body as you try to draw slow, calming breaths into your lungs. Micah stumbles backwards a bit at the change of direction, with a huge, smug grin plastered on his dirty face.

Just the mere sight of the greasy man makes your skin bristle with goosebumps. A hateful, contemptuous scowl spreads across your heated cheeks as you spit into the dirt. “You’re a bit of a lunatic, you know that?”

Micah licks his lips as if he’s just tasted a most delectable dinner, his tongue dragging along that repulsive mouth of his as he rocks back on his heels. “I prefer the term ‘eccentric’. Besides, that little performance was all your idea, Y/N”. He waves his finger accusingly at you.

“Ugh, what the hell is wrong with you?” you groan, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as a choking sound erupts from the back of your throat.

“So many things, sweetheart...so many things.”

“Let’s just get the hell out of here, please. We need to find Arthur.” Micah’s conceited grin instantly drops from his face at the sound of Arthur’s name, his sullen eyes following you as you shove past him and stomp your way back towards the street.

Sticking close to the shadows and hugging the storefronts, you carefully make your way out of the village, scanning for Arthur or any of your pursuers.

“There! Over there! There’s two of ‘em!” Your blood runs cold and your heart nearly stops when the shouts of one of the townsfolk alerts anyone within earshot to your and Micah’s location.

“Fuck!” Micah immediately clamps down your hand and sprints, dragging you to your horses which are only a few yards out of your reach now. Upon reaching the hitching posts, Micah hurls you in front of him towards Baylock who is nervously pawing at the ground. The horse tosses his head in agitation, his haunting blue eyes rolled and ears pinned back.

Suddenly Micah lets out a stifled grunt, lurching forward when a bullet bites into the flesh of his shoulder. Like a bear that has been provoked, he angrily spins around, roaring at the top of his lungs and rapidly firing into the oncoming cluster of men, mowing them down in a spray of red to buy you time as you frantically climb into Baylock’s saddle.

With one last defiant shot into an unlucky local’s skull, Micah swings himself up behind you and you take off, heading for the obscurity of the woods and leaving the dirty little town behind.

Your heart thunders loudly in your ears as Micah’s horse pushes hard through the woods to head back to camp. The sunlight peppering through the trees is like a kaleidoscope of color, blurring and swirling and making you nauseous as Baylock races through the brush, snorting heavily as he carries his burden. Your hands are white-knuckled as your fingernails dig into the leather of the saddle horn.

In your adrenaline haze, you vaguely feel Micah pressed against your back. Your body begins to go limp and Micah wraps an arm around your waist to secure you from falling and getting trampled under the horse’s hooves while his other extends in front of you, hand fisted around the reins and urging the horse on.

You’ve been riding for thirty minutes with no other riders on your heels when you finally pull your mind together. “Stop! Micah, please stop!”

“Can’t stop now, princess!” He shouts from behind you.

“Please!” You grasp his hand in yours, squeezing desperately. “I have to stop!”

Your touch instantly resonates with Micah, the feeling of your fingers along his skin radiating through his arm like electricity, and he immediately pulls back on the reins. The horse skids to a halt, dancing in agitation at the abrupt cease of motion. “Woa, boy, woa”, Micah snaps sharply.

You desperately try to catch your breath, your chest heaving for the brisk air as you fold over the saddlehorn. For once in his life, Micah mercifully sits quietly behind you, waiting for you to regain control of your breathing and taking notice of how your body moves pressed against his.

“We have to go back,” you finally manage to breathe out.

“What?” he snaps. “Have you lost your mind?! Ain’t no way in hell we’re goin’ back there!”

“But we left Arthur back there!” A mixture of fear and pleading infuses your voice, matching your tear-rimmed eyes that shine in the fractured sunlight of the trees as you look over your shoulder at Micah.

“He can take care of himself!”

“But what if-“

“Look, you want to go back there, Y/N, be my guest.” He waves his arms back in the direction that you just escaped from to emphasize his point. “But you’re goin’ on your own! I already got my ass shot getting you out! Or did you forget that?”

You bite your lip at his statement, guilt flooding your chest.

“Best thing to do is head back to camp and wait for Morgan there.”

You hate to admit it, but Micah is right. Arthur had a crowd on his tail but nothing worse than what he’s had before. With you out of the way, that leaves him free to worry about his own ass. You know Micah won’t help you find Arthur, and you will be of little use to Arthur now, anyway. And to his point, Micah does have a bullet in his shoulder right now because of you. You both need to get back to camp safely so you can assess the damage. That is where you will be the most useful.

“Alright. You’re right,” you brokenly whisper, casting your eyes to the forest floor in defeat. “Let’s head home.”

“Now, you’re making some sense,” he smirks, his dirty blonde locks swaying over his shoulders as he nods in victory. Micah digs his heels into Baylock’s side and the horse spurs forward once more, heading into the thick of the woods.

The idea of leaving without Arthur is like a knife in your chest and feels so horribly wrong to you, like a betrayal. The trees begin to blur again and seem to be almost suffocating as they surround you, offering you coverage, but also yet another obstacle to your heart's desire.

You twist your neck to look past Micah and back towards the town. There is no sign of the townsfolk, but no sign of Arthur, either. Your heart sinks as you slowly turn to face forward again, a silent prayer on your lips.

—--------------------------------------------

*This image is not mine, but was posted on Pintrest by Len

You and Micah ride into the makeshift camp, quickly dismounting and make your way into the circle of wagons. You are met with looks of confusion and a cacophony of questions from your fellow gang members when they note your frazzled state and Micah’s bleeding shoulder, not to mention that Arthur is not with you. But before you can even string coherent thoughts to answer your friends, the sound of hoof-beats fills the air. Your head snaps back to the tree line and you see Arthur barreling through the trees at full speed with your horse in tow. His eyes, bright and shining, dart in every direction, scanning the group of people, hoping to find your face.

Trembling hands cover your mouth as your eyes flutter with the wave of relief to see him safe. Letting out a huge breath, your wobbly legs sprint towards Arthur. Buck hasn’t even come to a full stop yet before Arthur springs from the saddle, his worn boots barely touching the mud-packed earth before he strides in your direction.

As soon as you are close enough, you hurl yourself into his large frame and throw your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in the crevice of his neck with a choked sob, his heady scent of sweat and leather engulfing your senses. His arms immediately wrap tightly around you, lifting you clean off the ground, relishing the feeling of your warm, able body against his once more.

“Y/N! Are you alright?!” Arthur finally puts you down and leans back, holding you at arm’s length to get a good look at you, his keen eyes skipping around and taking in every inch of you from head to toe.

“Yes, I’m fine, Arthur,” you laugh incredulously. “Are you alright? What happened? How did you get out of there?”

But Arthur just shakes his head, waving off your question. Because it doesn’t matter to him if he is alright. It is you that is his sole focus. “‘Bout lost my mind leaving you with this idiot.“ He throws a nonchalant wave in Micah’s direction.

Your lips press together in a slight grimace. “Well, to be honest, Micah saved my life. If it wasn’t for him, I would be in jail or gunned down in an alley right now.”

Arthur’s body freezes, his head tilted slightly to the side as if he didn’t hear you correctly. “Come again?” He turns to look at Micah who just grins, arms crossed over his puffed-out chest.

“Don’t look so surprised, Arthur,” Micah gloats. “Although, a little gratitude for saving your woman’s life would be nice. But, don’t worry.” He holds his hand up as if to halt any further argument on Arthur’s part. “Y/N thanked me enough already.” He shakes his eyebrows suggestively with a knowing curl of his lip.

Micah's hungry gaze sweeps over you and you feel Arthur's entire body tense. “What the hell is he talkin’ ‘bout?” He spins on you now, eyes flashing and demanding an explanation.

You can feel your cheeks burn red-hot and your chin drops to your chest to avoid looking at either Arthur or Micah. And with a deep, regretful sigh, you relate the story of your escape to Arthur, including how you had to kiss and paw at Micah in hopes of blending into the background behind the saloon to evade the town’s attention.

Arthur stands there listening to your story without a word. His whole body radiates like lightning in a bottle, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes deeply, the muscles in his jaw twitching. You watch him carefully as he processes this unwelcome information, his fists clenching open and closed like a pump.

You can see Arthur’s thoughts flashing like a roaring wildfire across his face. You're not sure if he’s going to punch Micah in the face, or tear into you for pulling such an outlandish stunt. He can’t be jealous, as that was certainly not the intent of your actions. But then again, Arthur doesn’t want anyone else even looking at you, let alone touching you. Least of all Micah goddamn Bell.

Seeing Arthur’s clearly visible disdain for the situation, Micah cannot help himself but to twist the imaginary knife in the outlaw’s gut right now. “What’s a-matter, Morgan? Jealous?” His beady eyes twinkle with a sinister mirth that would make the devil himself blush.

Arthur shoots a death-stare back to Micah. “What the hell do I have to be jealous of you for?”

Micah simply shrugs, the smugness just oozing from his very being. “Maybe ‘cause your woman kissed me? Maybe she liked it more than she’s letting on?” And his vulgar eyes flick to you, causing you to gasp at the audacity of his statement.

And that is the last straw.

Finally, the stress of the day causes Arthur to snap like the tension of a high-strung bow and in a second he lunges at Micah with a speed that belies someone of his stature. The other men of the camp are quick to intervene, prying the two outlaws apart as arms and fists grapple at each other in a blur of force. You try to wedge yourself between them once Bill and Javier carve an ample enough gap for you to squeeze into. You plant your wide-open palms on Arthur’s chest, pushing back against him with all your might. But it is like holding back a waterfall, too powerful and too full of chaotic energy to contain.

“Stop it! Knock it off, both of you!” You come up on your toes, trying to catch Arthur’s burning gaze and distract him from Micah. “Arthur, please!” His chest heaves, but the moment his eyes land on you again, it's like a switch has been pulled. You center him as always, rationality starting to return to his fractured mind.

With Arthur calmed to an extent, you turn your ire onto Micah. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” But the scheming outlaw can only stare back at you, an argument sitting on his tongue, and yet nothing comes out as if weighing his next words carefully.

“I ain't dealin’ with this bullshit,” Arthur seethes, staring down Micah as his arm wraps around your shoulder, curling you into himself and turning you towards your shared wagon.

But Micah Bell just cannot help but throw oil on the fire.

“You’re not even gonna stitch me up after savin’ your pretty ass, Y/N? Typical. You don’t give a shit about anyone else, but Arthur. Mighty ungrateful.” He waves you off dismissively, shaking his head in disappointment.

Before you can even stop him, Arthur spins out of your grasp, closing the distance between himself and Micah in a mere few steps and grabs ahold of a fistful of Micah’s shirt. The weasel can say what he wants about him, but Arthur will not abide any derogatory comments towards you.

“You’re as stupid as you are ugly, you know that?!” hollers Hosea to Micah, his weathered fingers clamped around Arthur’s shoulder, trying to push him back once more.

Arthur’s arm shoots up, about to land a fist into Micah’s mocking face, but it’s halted in place as both of your arms encircle his bicep to keep the dangerous limb at bay.

“He’s right, Arthur. It’s the least I could do.”

Your shaky, yet definitive voice stills Arthur as he turns to look at you in confusion. “What?!”

An apprehensive sort of smile floats across your lips as you cup your soft, warm hands around his face. “Why don’t you get something to eat, head over to our wagon and calm down a bit. Your head is out of sorts right now. In the meantime, I’ll deal with Micah, yeah?”

But Arthur isn’t having any of it. He just shakes his head at the very notion of it. “I just need some time alone with you, is all,” he says sharply, starting to pull you away from the others. But you can’t let things end here like this.

“I know.” You stop your feet from moving to prevent him from dragging you off. “But can you give me a minute, please? Let me get Micah patched up first,” you plead.

“Now, wait a minute,” growls Arthur, his brow drawn in frustration. “I thought you’d be coming with me?”

“I am and I will.” You nervously shift your weight from hip to hip under Arthur’s intense gaze, trying to keep your voice low and calm to mask the rapid beating of your own heart. “Let me take care of Micah first and then I’ll come with you.”

Arthur’s sapphire eyes dart past your shoulder to see Micah standing there in surprising silence, loving the delicious tension he’s created and anxiously waiting to see the results.

“No, he can handle things by himself. He's a big boy,” huffs Arthur. “Or let Ms. Grimshaw do it. C’mon now,” he insists, harshly pulling at your arm.

“Arthur, just wait a second, will you?” you push, starting to get a little annoyed at the possessiveness. “Let me finish what I’m doing then I’m all yours.”

“You know what, forget it!” he hollers, throwing his hands up in frustration as he steps back from you.

“Arthur, please, just give me a damn second, will you?!” Your hands try to grasp his forearm, but he’s quick to yank himself out of your reach, as if the very idea of you is detestable right now.

“Nevermind!” And Arthur storms off, throwing his hands in the air in surrender, leaving you standing there staring after him. You watch his broad shoulders lumber quickly towards the wagon, his whole body radiating an angry energy that is dangerous for anyone to be pulled into.

You should go after him. But then again, he is so angry right now, maybe it’s best to let him cool off, first. He’s probably right, you should just let Ms. Grimshaw handle Micah’s wound. But you do owe Micah a debt. He did save you from that mob. And in a gang, debts need to be paid.

With a deep, regretful sigh, you tilt your head back and close your eyes, knowing you’ve just made a grave error in judgement. Arthur isn’t the only one who has a hard time navigating matters of the heart. Like your own father, you tend to be more pragmatic than sentimental sometimes. But you are only trying to keep the peace.

“Well?”

Micah’s voice cuts into your temple like a nail hammered through a board, pulling you back to the matter at hand. You open your now-throbbing eyes to look over at the smug man, who is standing with an expectant look on his face.

“Come on,” you mutter with an eye roll. “Get yourself over to the table and let’s get this over with, please.”

—--------------------------------------

*This is not my image, but posted on Pintrest by Clem

Unfortunately, since the gang has yet to make a permanent camp, your med tent is not fully set up. You pull out a table and a few crates of the meager medical supplies that you have and whatever you were able to shove into Blue’s saddle bag while in town. Digging through what is available, you pull out your needles and thread and a bottle of whisky you keep for sterilization.

You’ve chosen to set up this makeshift operation far enough away from Arthur, lest he and Micah get into it yet again. But it’s close enough where Arthur can keep an eye on what you’re up to. And simply seeing you in such close proximity to Micah makes Arthur’s skin crawl.

“Alright, let’s see what the damage is,” you sigh with the weight of resignation heavy in your tone. “Unbutton your shirt, please.” You toss the instruction over your shoulder as you pour fresh water into a bowl and shake out a clean rag. You can hear the shuffling of fabric and Micah’s pained grunting behind you. When you turn around, you freeze, eyebrows shooting to your hairline, to see that instead of just pulling back his shirt, Micah has stripped himself of the garment altogether, sitting there topless in just his trousers and a satisfied grin.

You simply stand there, knuckles turning white as you grip the cloth in your hand, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “Really?”

He innocently shrugs. “Just want to make sure you can get to what you need, Y/N”, he says, motioning to himself, a wicked grin creeping along his mustached lips.

A measured sigh and eyeroll leave you as you slowly make your way over to him, careful to leave a gap between the two of you as you move behind him.

You have to give him credit, Micah tries not to flinch when your fingertips dance along the open wound on his left shoulder, assessing the depth of the bullet hole. The cool rag must send lightning through his entire body as you clean the ugly gash embedded into his skin when he shudders under your careful touch. But the fact that you work gingerly is not lost on him. Ever so vigilant to his surroundings, Micah can feel how you delicately touch him, trying not to inflict further damage. His head tilts back slightly, those usually distrustful eyes closing for just a brief moment in silent gratitude.

You keep your discerning eyes focused on the minute work, and therefore you do not notice Micah watching you, his gaze skipping over your face and down to your fingers, small and unmarred unlike his own. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as you work the thread through the needle, the lips of your perfect mouth pulled taught in concentration.

But soon enough, you push the needle through his flesh, pulling the thread through the pulpy meat of his shoulder and proceed to stitch the wound closed. You work efficiently, but quickly, desperate to get this chore done so you can then deal with Arthur who’s stare you can feel burning a hole into you from where he is vigilantly watching like a hawk from your shared wagon.

Sensing when the deed is almost complete, Micah clears his throat and begins with awkward chit chat, trying to prolong your attention by asking about your horse, talking about how it must be better to be out of the cold of the Grizzly Mountains, anything that springs to his mind. His fingers drum along his thighs as his knee begins to bounce.

At first, you just dismiss the odd behavior, trying to focus on the final stitching of the wound. Micah winces slightly, biting his lower lip, as the stitches get pulled a little tighter than they probably should in your frustration at his incessant babbling. Micah Bell has rambled more to you in the last fifteen minutes than he has spoken to you in the entire time you’ve known him.

With your task now complete, you clip the thread with your scissors, tucking the needle into the water bowl to be cleaned properly. You walk around to stand in front of him, wiping your hands with the wet cloth in exasperation.

You narrow your eyes at him, suddenly very suspicious of his good nature. “What do you want, Micah?”

The outlaw looks at you a moment, his head tilts slightly to the side considering your question carefully as he pulls his shirt back over his shoulders. “I’d like you to sit and talk to me.”

His answer floors you, so simple a request with no foul comments to follow. But there has to be more to it than that. “Sit? That’s it?“ you ask in disbelief.

“MmmHmm, and talk to me. You seem to enjoy everyone else’s company, yet we never talk.” He leans back a bit, hands resting on his knees.

A humorless chuckle escapes your lips before you can even try to stifle it, accompanied by a skeptical lift of your eyebrow. “There’s a reason for that.”

He just shrugs, frustratingly quiet to your answer.

“What on earth would we ever talk about?”

“What do you and Morgan talk about?”

“That’s none of your business”, you snap sharply.

That familiar, annoyingly smug grin crosses his face once again as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you talk about me?” he needles, shaking his eyebrows.

“Only about what a pain in the ass you are,” you respond flatly.

“Ahhh, so you do talk about me.”

You shake your head, crossing your arms in frustration at the absurdity of this whole conversation, confused as to what he’s getting at. “Arthur and I talk about everything and nothing.”

“Alright,” he concedes, pointing at you. “Let's do that, then.”

“What is this, Micah?“

He holds his hands up in surrender, a feigned innocence. “This is me trying to be the better man.”

“Better than who?” you challenge.

“Don’t worry Y/N,” he chuckles at your defensive reluctance to his parley. “I won’t jump ya. Unless you want me to.”

For the life of you, you can’t figure this man out. One minute, he’s a disgusting pig. The next, he’s trying to be your best friend. Either way, Micah Bell makes your skin crawl as he’s just as creepy when he’s trying to be nice as he is when he’s an ass.

“Fine. I’ve seen the way you treat your horse. A man who loves up on his horse can’t be 100% bad.” You give him the slightest of grins before you can even stop yourself.

“That's the spirit!” He smiles triumphantly and waves a finger smartly at you. “I can't be 100% bad.”

Assuredly, what you do not realize is that to Micah, you could’ve just given him the world. A kind word or gesture, even just the smallest inkling that you don't completely hate him, makes his black heart race just a bit more.

To you, you see the effort of this conversation as a way to get past the ugliness with Micah. To him, he sees this as a window of opportunity, a moment of weakness in your armor where he can sneak his way in.

But as you stand there motionless, unsure of what to even say next, your hesitancy at Micah’s peace offering is more than enough of an answer for him right now. A defeated chuckle ripples from his tobacco-stained teeth with a slight shake of his blonde head to go with it.

“You know what, Y/N? Forget it. Forget I even asked.” The furrowed line between his eyebrows relents a bit as his eyes soften just ever so slightly as he concedes to what you suspect that he already knows deep down. He pulls his lips inward as if debating on what to say next, leaving an awkward and pregnant silence between you. Your gaze skips about, looking for any reprieve other than staring into Micah’s cold and unreadable expression that can unnerve you like a mouse caught by a viper. “Go on, then. Scoot on back to your beloved,” he says with sarcasm and just a hint of disappointment.

After cleaning up the needle and thread, you head back to your shared space with Arthur to find him brooding, leaning against the side of his wagon as he cleans his gun. He says nothing at first, but you can sense his hostility. You smartly don’t say a word, but set about getting yourself ready for the evening.

“You want to tell me what that was all about?” you finally ask.

But Arthur won’t look at you. Like a silent, stoney mountain, he remains stoic and ominous, his rough fingers still working over the weapon in his hands. Cursing under your breath, you reach over and snatch the gun out of his hand to get his attention. Those steel-blue eyes instantly snap to your own. Brows furrowed with elevated agitation, his hand shoots out to grab for the piece, but you pull your hand back to keep the object of his distraction out of reach. He stares you down, lips pulled tightly with a sharp snort escaping his nose.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” His voice carries low and rumbles deep within his chest.

“Of course I’m on your side. I’m always on your side, Arthur.”

“That so?”

“Of course it is! How can you even question that?” you ask, shaking your head, taken aback by his doubt.

“You’re mine,” he says darkly, his blue eyes settling with the piercing, glowing quality of a stormy sea.

Arthur’s possessiveness is not something new, often rearing its ugly head, but his ire is usually directed at others, not you. And while the idea of being wanted by someone is endearing, you also resent his distrust. “I am not some horse that you own, Arthur,” you warn.

“I should come first with you.” He points at your heart. “I shouldn’t have to share you with anybody.”

“Are you really going to stand there and lecture me about sharing my time with other people? Really, Arthur?” Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, suddenly incensed by his accusation. “Let’s talk about you, then! How many nights am I going to our tent alone and lonely? All because you’re running around for god knows what?”

Arthur’s lips pinch together in an instant, eyes burning at your audacity to throw such a thing in his face. “Hey! That’s different! I am providing!” He shoves his thumb sharply back into his rising chest.

“And I’m not?” you counter defiantly, with a snapping shake of your head, a flush of heat blossoming across your face.

Arthur bites his lip before he says something really stupid, the argument right there on his tongue, dangerously close to exploding like a powder keg. His hands plant on his hips as he paces around the small area in front of you, the nervous energy clearly tearing throughout his body and unable to contain it. “What, you two are all friendly now?” Arthur retorts bitterly, waving off in Micah’s direction.

“Sweet Jesus, Arthur you can’t seriously be jealous?” Your fingers come up to pinch the bridge of your nose before dropping to your side with a deflated slap, your face turned to his in earnest. “No, we are not ’friendly’ but I don’t want to fight with him all the time, nor do I want to endure the disgusting comments anymore.”

You begin to fidget with the pendant of your mother’s necklace you always wear and Arthur’s anger shifts in a new direction. “Has he been messin’ with you? I told you I’d take care of it if he hassles you.”

A deep sigh escapes your chest as your gaze raises to meet his once again. “I don’t want to cause a problem around here, Arthur.”

“You are not the problem,” he hisses. He steps up closer to you now, standing only a foot from you, so close that you can feel his hot breath blow across your chilled cheeks.

“Why are you so riled up about this?”

“Why? That snake has his mouth all over you and you’re asking me why I’m riled up about it?! Why are you not riled up about this?” Arthur's eyes suddenly narrow at you, his head tilting just a fraction, as he looks you over like you were a mark. “Unless he’s right and you did like it.” The very idea of it causes your eyes to shoot open and your chest tighten as the air gets sucked out of your lungs.

“Don’t you even start with that!” you hiss sharply at such an insinuation. “Now, you listen to me, Arthur Morgan. There is nothing, NOTHING, between myself and Micah Bell. You got that?”

Arthur’s silence pulls the escalating argument to a screeching halt. He stops and takes a moment to really look at you, your chest rising and falling with panting breaths, your eyes shimmering with offended, hurt-filled tears. Arthur closes his eyes, hanging his head shamefully, clearly realizing he crossed a line. “I’m sorry.”

“Arthur, why are you so upset about this?” you push softly, setting your hand on his forearm.

“Because there ain’t much difference between him and me, that’s why!” he hollers, finally reaching his breaking point. The revelation sets you on your heels. Your large, love-filled eyes blink rapidly as you attempt to process this new level of self-doubt in him.

“You can’t honestly think that?“ you breathe in wonderment. “What, you think I’m going to leave you for him?”

“No,” his tone lowering with a flat and unsettling calm. “I think you’re gonna leave me because you realize I’m just like him.”

The anger within you from moments ago immediately dissipates like ether as this boulder is dropped. “Arthur, you are nothing like Micah.”

“Really? What makes you say that? Huh? What is really all that different between us?” He stands in front of you, hands on his hips as he towers over you, demanding an answer.

You cross your arms, holding Arthur’s hard gaze. “Well, now that you mention it, you’re both a couple of asses.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he bites back with sharp sarcasm. “I’m serious, Y/N. What makes us all that different?”

“Well, for starters I’m not in love with Micah. Arthur, I can’t keep having this same conversation with you.” You press closer to him, placing your hand over his heart. “This. This right here is what I want.” You can feel the rapid fluttering under his ribcage, the heat of his skin through the worn fabric of his shirt as your fingers splay open like a dove’s wingspan. “The way you make me feel when I look at you, Arthur, is why I won’t look at another man.”

His brows furrow as his eyes fall to your hand, noting how your fingers lay against his chest as if they have always belonged there. Slowly his gaze meets yours, as if searching for the shred of doubt that he is always afraid of finding there.

“You are a good man who does bad things, Arthur. That doesn’t make you a bad person,” you confirm with a calm and enchanting tone. Your hand floats from his chest to cup his face, the curls of his beard prickling the skin as his strong jaw sets upon your palm.

“Oh, well that’s convenient, isn’t it? You got an answer for everything, don’t you?” Arthur sighs as he shifts his weight. “I guarantee anyone else outside this gang will beg to differ on that one,” he pouts, giving a dismissive flick of his hand in the air.

“I thought I’ve made it very clear that I don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks. Stop worrying about what could go so wrong and start thinking about what could go so right, Arthur. We need to work on that.” You reach your arms around his shoulders and hug him tightly to you. His hard body presses to your own pliable one and you can feel the hard line of his chest and torso, his thick thighs. His coat, which is like a second skin, carries notes of forest pine and leather, a comforting aroma that instantly feels like home to you. Your fingers curl through Arthur’s hair as you cradle his head, your nose buried in his honey locks that will forever smell of woodsmoke, bringing your soft lips to his ear. “I would die without you, Arthur.”

Slowly, Arthur’s body relaxes and melts into yours as you whisper in his ear, your warm breath catching against his skin. His rigid chest softens as he presses you against him, desperate to keep you close as if he’d fold you up into his rib cage to wrap you around his very own heart. Sometimes, for Arthur, the worst place for him to be is inside his own head.

A smile cracks at the corner of Arthur’s mouth at your previous statement. Suddenly, the monster of self loathing within him goes silent once more, retreating back into the dark caverns of his heart, as he dips his head into the crook of your neck and wraps his arms tightly around your waist, squeezing with just enough pressure. Once again, you have calmed and centered him, quieted his swirling storm of self-sabotaging thoughts that continue to plague him.

You turn your face into him, placing a multitude of gentle kisses along his neck, drawing a faint groan from him. “It was either kiss Micah or die,” you whisper in Arthur’s ear before placing your lips to the cuff.

Arthur huffs out a grunt that rumbles in his chest and tickles your own as you still stand pressed together so tight that not even air could seep between you. “Still not seeing the choice.”

You giggle at his understated playfulness. “It will haunt my dreams, now. Literally the stuff of nightmares.” You pull back from him to gaze into his troubled blue eyes, your thumbs drawing across his cheekbones before your fingertips roll gently through his beard.

“I love you, Arthur. Don’t you ever doubt that.” Your smile carries a warmth and love for him in this moment that is larger than the very universe itself, like he can see the stars themselves in your sparkling eyes. Arthur gives you a feeling of being safe. And in turn, you offer him that feeling of being cherished. For all we ever want in this world is to be healed, to find that other half that speaks to your soul. To be with that person who will hold your vulnerabilities in their hands and breathe life back into you when you feel lost.

But a dark cloud dusts his features once more. “I gotta admit, Y/N, I’m scared of the kinda love I feel for you.” Arthur’s voice drops to almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid to admit it outloud, the syllables caught in his throat.

“Why is that?”

“Because I know it will ruin me.” He brushes his large hand over your hair before tenderly holding your face. “And I know I’ll let it.”

The emotion overtakes you and you drop your gaze before he sees the tears gathering in your lashes. Because it occurs to you that you’re not sure if he wants this relationship or not. You can clearly see the turmoil in his eyes from it. His new life with you could cost him his old one with his gang.

Arthur is a soul torn between two worlds. He wants you, but he also wants “the outlaw life”. You are not making him choose, but he feels that he needs to. For you. To keep you safe. And you are not sure if you want to broach this subject again with him, afraid that if you push it, you may not like the answer you get.

You wish Arthur could see how wonderful he is in your eyes, how happy he makes you. Arthur may not be perfect, but he’s perfect for you. Those blue-green eyes light up your whole day. You don’t just see a man standing in front of you. You see your whole world.

Arthur is the one who is the most special to you. The one you will lose sleep over. The one you will never tire of talking to. He is constantly on your mind. He makes you smile without even trying. Arthur is the only one you do not want to lose and to always have in your life.

The world may view Arthur as nothing but a despicable outlaw, one forged in lawlessness and brutality. But they do not see what you see. He is a man born out of conflict, a product of his environment. He is stiff and frightening in the eyes of others, an unyielding and merciless force to be reckoned with. But to you, he is vulnerable and tender. Arthur carries the brunt of the ugliness in this world, and yet still claws at the hope of finding a shred of happiness for himself.

You gently press your forehead to his, wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck. “I wish I could make you understand, Arthur.” You hold him to you for a brief moment before looking up into his face, your eyes wide and searching. “You have stolen my heart. You are worth so much more than you think. You are the very reason I keep going. You crossed my path when I needed you the most, after I lost everything. I couldn’t do this without you. You are everything I need. And I don’t ever want this to end.”

Arthur softly draws the cool evening air into his lungs as his tired eyes float across your face, mapping every line, every radiant detail that he has come to covet so dearly. The setting sun shines its copper light down upon you, casting your frame in a warm and almost unearthly glow, as if you are a spirit from another realm altogether, not even meant for this world let alone for the likes of him.

“I really had no idea what I needed ‘til you showed up in my life with every bit of it in one package,” he laments. “One day, there you were, shining brightly like the sun.” He smiles despite himself at the memory of it, lifting a thick, calloused finger to gently pull a wisp of your hair from your eye before settling his hand along your graceful neck. “And for the first time in a really, really long time, I had hope that I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life in the dark.”

Arthur is not a man of many words, but when he does speak in those private, hushed tones with you, it makes your eyelids flutter like butterfly wings. “Please, Arthur. Let me be the temptation that you never deny yourself. I can be your safe place where your darkness can shine without judgement. Without fear.

“I know this is hard for you, Arthur. And I’m not trying to make it any harder. If anything, I’m trying to make it easier for you. I don’t care that we sleep outside on a cot in a tent. That just means I get to hold you closer to me to keep warm. And I don’t care that you’re an outlaw. Because, if anything, that means you will do anything to protect me. But I need you to trust me, Arthur. Just as I have learned to trust you.”

Arthur brings his fingers up to pinch at his temples as if trying to keep his head from exploding. “Why do you put up with me?”

“I thought I just went over that.” You smile at him. “Because Arthur, I may be yours. But that means that you are mine. Remember? I told you that in Colter.”

“Hmmm, that’s right. You did mention something about that,” he grins, his cheeks running pink as he remembers that wonderful night up in your little ramshackle cabin in the mountains. “I guess you were pretty adamant about that.”

“When it comes to you, Arthur, I am always adamant.” Your fingers lace behind his head, woven into his thick hair again as you gently pull him down to your velvety lips for a deep and passionate kiss. When you separate for a staggered breath, you begin to whisper sweet nothings to him, peppering strategic kisses along his chin and neck, along his cheeks and nose and along those plump lips again. “You are mine to kiss…to hold…to yell at…to whisper to…to worry over…to trust…to be angry with… and to love beyond measure.”

—-----------------------------------

Later, the evening has draped its dark blanket around the earth once more. The crisp air fills with the sounds of the first signs of the frogs coming out for the Spring, their chirping so loud, yet seamlessly melded into the landscape at the same time. There is a humid thickness that settles over everything, bathing everything in a dewy layer that carries the smell of yet-to-fall rain.

This is just a quick layover before you reach Horseshoe Overlook in the morning. No sense in setting up a fixed camp, so everyone has a bedroll on the damp ground and congregates around multiple fires, huddled for warmth under their blankets. Everyone is blissfully asleep before the day begins anew again with another set of challenges.

You and Arthur have set up your little nest against his wagon, his bedroll laid out with blankets and a little fire going in front of you to keep you warm overnight. The two of you lay intertwined, perfectly content to be together and away from everyone else. You have finally drifted off to sleep, curled up against Arthur, his bulk and warmth a calming presence. He sits with his back propped up a bit, watching you doze so contentedly as you lay across his torso. His left arm cradles you protectively to him, his fingertips dragging lazily along your arm and shoulder.

The fire is still stoked fairly well at this late hour, casting its soft golden hues across your sleeping form as the heat of the flames envelopes you both. Arthur stares into the fire, watching the hypnotic flames lick up and around the wood, its coals flaring crimson and pulsating like a heartbeat.

He reaches over to his satchel, careful not to move too much and disturb your slumber, and pulls his journal out, lying it upon his thigh and opening the precious pages to write. His thoughts are still swirling from earlier: seeing your image on a wanted poster, leaving you with Micah, and then later fighting with that idiot. But it was seeing you with Micah afterwards that has set his nerves ablaze. But Arthur doesn’t want to burden you with it any more than he has already. You are stressed enough as it is, he doesn’t want to add to it. Losing Jenny and Mac was hard for you, causing you to doubt your abilities as a doctor. You’ve been terrified of losing John to his injuries. You almost drowned trying to save Lenny from the icy waters in Colter. And now, you are hunted, just like the rest of the gang. It burns Arthur from the inside out to see such pain and turmoil behind those serene eyes of yours, always a window to your very soul. So as usual, he opts to pour his thoughts into that leather-bound book of his like it is a church confessional.

We came down the mountain pass today. Sure glad to get out of that awful cold. But, of course nothing is ever easy for us. Maybe rightfully so. The wagon busted a wheel and had to get that fixed. The gang needs things so Dutch sent Y/N to the nearest trading post before the closest town to see if she could round up some food and medical supplies. She’d know better than anyone what we need. Of course I took her, but for some damn reason Micah was sent along with us. That man just irritates me to no end. I don’t know why Dutch keeps him around, but who am I to say anything?

But unfortunately one of my worst fears came true. We was in that village and there on the post wall was a wanted poster of Y/N. That damn bank robbery back in Red Rock. I was hoping to keep her safe from all this ugliness, but looks like I failed at that. Now she’s bound to a life of looking over her shoulder, same as the rest of us. I never wanted that life for her. Seems like everyone who gets near me gets pulled into my kind of trouble.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Y/N got pulled from me and had to rely on Micah to get her out because I wasn’t able to do it. In the midst of trying to escape, she had to kiss that ugly bastard. He had his hands all over her. Makes me see red just thinking about it again. But the worst part is that she had to tend to him once they got back to camp. He wasn’t ugly to her, which is a surprise, but in fact made me even more uneasy. I don’t know what’s going on in that twisted mind of his, but I fear he may have Y/N in his sights. That worries me because I can’t be around all the time to protect her and I have no idea to what lengths he’d go to get what he wants. Things are bad enough after Blackwater, I can only hope I can keep Y/N safe from Micah as well. I do love her so. I think I had to live through what love is not to really understand what it is. She’s a damn fool for loving a man like me, but I’m too selfish to let her go. And I’d die a thousand times if I lost her. I pray Dutch has a plan to get us all out of this mess once and for all. And then maybe, just maybe, Y/N and I can start a real life together.

—--------------------------------------------------------

Several yards away, across the make-shift camp, Micah sits cross legged on the cold, damp ground, poking at his fire with a stick. Half-heartedly satisfied with the glowing embers, he reclines back against his saddle and rotates his arm in the air, trying to stretch the stiffness from his newly-repaired shoulder. A sharp pain cuts through his nerves when his skin pulls taught at your carefully-placed stitches. Micah stifles a yelp as his hand shoots to the wound, his face wincing until the radiating wave of pain finally subsides. The pain is a stark reminder to the tumultuous thoughts that plague his mind that he’s been desperately trying to bury since this afternoon.

With a long, tired sigh, Micah lifts his weary eyes across his campfire and instinctively seeks out your sleeping form that is currently tucked into Arthur’s side. He observes how your face carries such peace and tranquility as you slumber under your lover’s protective arms. Micah shifts uncomfortably as if he can’t be contained within his own skin as the day’s events roll about in his mind, replaying over and over again like that goddamn gramophone of Dutch’s.

He hates you. At least that’s what Micah tells himself. But he doesn’t really. You just make him feel things that he claims don’t exist. Or at least, tries to. It is that lingering taste of you on Micah’s lips that has innocently seduced his cravings for you to run wild in his soul. And now that he’s tasted you, he realizes how starved he really is.

It is becoming clear in Micah’s mind that he is quickly becoming consumed by you, just as Arthur has, attracted to you in ways that he can’t explain and long forgot. He craves your attention like a man in the desert craves water. And he thinks about you more than you realize.

You are both the first and last thing on Micah’s mind each day. You are becoming his weakness, just as you are Arthur’s. He aches for the feeling of your fingertips along his dry, scarred skin. The reality of it is, his heart breaks a little more every time he hears your name. And a piece of his soul dies when he hears Arthur’s, and not his, on your perfect lips. It is a whole different kind of pain when one’s heart cries, but their eyes don’t. But Micah will stare into the blinding sun before he looks into the mirror to see what can be done to fix that.

Micah has always known that the two of you are like oil and water. But he was hoping that deep down, maybe you were just looking for an opportunity to hate him a little less. But he sees now that will never be the case. And that is the thing about it. Not only do you despise his very guts, but you are also that enamored with Morgan. And there are few things Micah can do about that.

Micah would often watch you with Arthur when he thought no one was looking. It is much more than love you have for Arthur. You take care of him, you look after him. You make sure he is fed and clean. You mend his clothing with such precision and care. You rub his shoulders when he aches and your soft fingers dance along his forearms when he’s returned after a bad job.

It is like a knife in Micah’s heart to know that you would never do these things for him. You could cruelly break his heart of stone without even realizing it. But that’s all he has to give to you, as he has never given it to anyone else. In fact he’s not sure any woman ever would accept it. But he’s come to terms with that because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But what infuriates Micah is that he’s sure that Arthur doesn’t either.

Micah pulls his bitter gaze back to the flames in front of him, his lips twisted in a pinched and frustrated expression. He flings the stick he used to stoke the fire into the heated bed of coals with a huff before bringing his clenched fist to his lips. If he had any presence of mind, he’d swipe the unshed tears from his hardened eyes before anyone sees. But Micah Bell hasn’t cried in years, not since he was a kid. It’s such a foreign concept that he isn’t even aware that it's happening.

His vision begins to blur as he watches the burning wisps of red and orange engulf the jagged wood, noticing how they elegantly wrap themselves around the ugly, charred wooden scales like silk, offering warmth and consuming it until the fire and wood are one.

And that is when Micah realizes that you are the fire. And he has been cold his whole life.

*This is not my image, but posted on Pintrest by Lee

Tag List: @rivetingrosie4 @bimbo-dollz @pine4pple-b0i @redwritr @kuri-chans-blog @queer-sadie-adler @joelmillerswifey @gimmethosedaddymilkers @pcotarelo @delilah-grimes @maemortem @wistfulwisteriawitch @lilacxxdreams @mentallyillfrogs @absolutegeek @spurz @sophiaj650 @uniqueclodzinevoid @lookingformaurice @pawoui @randomidk-123 @yyiikes @eddiemetalheadmunson @twola @kmartkiddieisle @red-dead-simp @regwishesshehadmagic @rhehr241 @earwen-x @akariver75 @djennty @nervousmumbling @xliliths @unbotheredbeeeee @onnetonprinsessa @kittiowolf210 @ezrynn @suhiss @arthurmargon @codnerd1999 @queer-sadie-adler @alice-vanderlinde @sweetandstoned21 @j4llyf7sh @spooky631 @m0r4rx @ilovrxats @i-69-urmom @ddbluesie @ivuravix @nervousmumbling @sickvictorianangel @tirededuxhours @ezzythereal1 @chloepluto1306 @ivys-valentine @spiritcatcherxo @brccklynbaby1 @foundynnel @readingcoco @carmelamontezlikr @ultraporcelainpig @sofiaa-xcx @namesaretomainstream @miphy @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @loveheartabby @daisybvck @julialoopeezz @a-court-of-valkyries @oziozzioslo @stargazer-88 @lunawolfclaw @rita-the-outlaw @sixgunluvr @soupiemeowmeow @gohans-fan @mayadodofarts

*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people.

#Y'all go give her some love because she absolutely deserves it!#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption community #rdr2 community #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr #red dead redemption

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threadbearsweater · 2 days ago

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a wip that will probably never be finished unless my writing mojo returns from war. I miss losing myself in my words. gonna start releasing my unfinished drafts into the wild. maybe it will help.

Colter is desolate. Snow is piled high as far as the eye can see, and there isn't another soul around for miles. The horses blow wild plumes of steam as they haul the wagons, crying in protest when the winds blow harder and the mountain passes climb higher.

You almost weep with relief when you see a cluster of abandoned buildings and hear Dutch's command to stop the caravan. You help unload only necessities as quickly as possible while the horses are secured and a fire is stoked in the hearth of the largest house.

Biting winter chill still slices through the gaps in the wood siding, but you huddle around the growing flames with the others for a little while, sharing what little body heat you might cling to. Arthur and Javier scout ahead, searching for John, who went missing somewhere along the frantic, mad dash from Blackwater. You do your best to console Abigail and the boy; Abigail is beside herself, but little Jack seems more concerned with keeping warm and filling his belly than the whereabouts of his father. Smart kid.

There's plenty to do while Dutch and Hosea strategize. Pearson sets up in one of the old stables. Charles tends to the horses with what little food is left for them and finds a stable to at least keep them out of the worst of the wind. You, Karen, and Mary-Beth search the other houses for anything useful. There isn’t much, and the rations on your wagons are sparse, too.

“Hope we ain't stuck up here too long,” Karen says, taking a healthy swig of whiskey straight from the bottle before passing it to you.

“Probably be here at least till the wind dies down,” you say. The whiskey warms your belly, but does little else to fill it. Arthur and you had shared a sleeve of crackers a couple hours ago, but it's been days since you've had anything worthwhile.

Night falls fast this time of year, and the setting sun takes away what little warmth is left, leaving only darkness and a clear, crystal chill in the air, even close to the fire. Lenny feeds log after log to keep it blazing, and you begin setting up Arthur's effects in one of the smaller rooms off the main. You hope against all hope that the thaw will come in the next few days, but if tonight's temperature is any indication, it certainly doesn't bode well.

You really hadn't meant to fall asleep, either. Of course there weren't any rules about who sleeps where, but you tried hard not to make a habit of staying with Arthur in whatever camp you ended up in. Privacy was always at a minimum, and the temptation to indulge in affections of a more intimate nature was far too great for either of you to resist. So you kept to the girl's tent, sleeping alongside Mary-Beth and Tilly, waiting until morning to see Arthur, if he had even returned to camp the night before.

Now that you're in a new place, one with four walls and a floor– nevermind how rotted the wood– the exhaustion of running for days on end has caught up with you. There's a good bit of heat from the chimney that seeps into Arthur's room, and you tell yourself you're just going to sit down. Just for a minute. You're weary. Bone tired. Freezing. You grab one of Arthur’s coats and curl up on his cot.

Just for a minute.

Arthur and Javier return some hours later with Marston in tow. He’s a sorry sight– lucky to be alive– and there’s quite a commotion when they bring him into the house. You don’t hear a thing; too worn, too exhausted. You've found some tiny sliver of warmth in Arthur's coat, and even if a snowstorm blew straight through the house at this point, you probably wouldn't stir.

Once John is settled in and Abigail and Susan sit by his bedside to see him through the night, Arthur is able to relax for the first time in days. He rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck, then scans the tiny cabin for you.

“Think she's in your room. Back there.” Hosea, who sits by the fireplace with his back curled forward, points at the door to his immediate left. Arthur meets his eyes and nods in understanding and thanks. Neither man elaborates further. There's a lot to say, but where to begin is clear as mud. Tomorrow will bring clarity, Hosea said on the way up the mountain pass. We need to get somewhere tonight and rest up. We're not done running. Not by a long shot.

Arthur swears he feels his heart swell when he pushes open the door– slowly, so the hinges don't groan quite so loud– and sees you curled into yourself on his modest cot. You're buried under his coat, brow furrowed even in your sleep, as if the chase continued long after you closed your eyes. The room itself is small and retains a small bit of heat from the fireplace, but the window lets in a sliver of cold night air that cuts right through a person if they're in the direct path of it.

He feels warm when he sees you, though. He wants to stand and just watch you for a while, and he does; the gentle rise and fall of your steady breathing, the way your pretty mouth works now and then, involuntary and sweet. He marvels at how you can curl yourself into such a shape and still be comfortable, but supposes that's what cold weather and fatigue can do to a person. A woman like you, especially, who isn't used to a life on the run like Arthur and the rest of the gang. He stands and works his hands open and shut, trying to get the blood flowing to his fingers again. He worries about you, about whether he's doing the right thing by letting you come along. He wonders if this is really what you want, like you said it was that night he brought you back to camp with just a small sack of your belongings and what was left of your dignity.

He wonders if you'll stay, or if you'll grow weary of the cat and mouse that Arthur has known all of his adult life.

But when he pushes away from the doorframe with his shoulder and takes a couple of steps to where you lie sleeping, he takes one look at your face and finds that he can't bring himself to care much about all that.

#arthur morgan x reader #unfinished wip #my writing

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slutssance · 18 days ago

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like a fucking sandwich.

#joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x you #tlou #arthur morgan smut #red dead redemption 2

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thedilfdiaries · 16 hours ago

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You found me

arthur morgan x f!reader || 1.8k

Summary: A routine trip into the woods for herbs turns violent when a coyote attack leaves you injured and alone. But Arthur finds you, and everything changes.

Warnings: just a lil fluff, Arthur fixing reader, animal attack, drawn out tension between the characters

Notes: This is a very secret spy mission I was on tonight for @thundermartini . this is just a tiny thing to say thank you for being the best of the best, for always cheering me on, for being the bees knees, the cats meow, you are truly one of a kind baby and I love you so much 💖🫂🫶🏼 anywayyyyyyyy I hope you enjoy

Masterlist

You’ve spent so much time in the woods that the rustling of the trees usually comforts you. Today, it doesn’t. Today, you’re too far from camp, your satchels too full, your boots are too muddy, and your thoughts are too scattered. The air is warm but heavy, clouds rolling in slow and low above the canopy. You don’t like the feeling, but you ignore it anyway.

You find the patch of wild mint tucked beneath a fallen log and kneel down to gather it—sharp, green, fragrant. It reminds you of Arthur, in a strange way. Something rough, wild, but useful. Healing.

You smile a little at the thought. You’ve been thinking about him more than you should.

Once, not long ago, you’d sliced your palm open on a rusted nail behind the horseshoe station. Arthur had been the one to wrap your hand, gruff but gentle, his brow tight with concern. “Gotta be more careful, sweetheart,” he had murmured, brushing dirt from your knuckles like he couldn’t help himself. You had laughed and called him bossy. But you’d watched the way his jaw worked after—like there was something he wanted to say and couldn’t.

But he keeps his distance. Like he doesn’t think he deserves to get close.

The Van der Linde gang is family, in its strange and fractured way. Arthur’s always treated you kind—respectful in a way some of the others never quite mastered. He listens to you when you speak, doesn’t scoff when you talk about herbs and poultices like the rest of them sometimes do. And he looks at you, really looks at you, like you’re not just another pair of hands around camp.

You pretend it doesn’t bother you.

The growl is quiet, almost too quiet. You hear it just as you’re reaching for another stem. You freeze, heart skipping.

The coyote lunges before you can turn.

You hit the ground hard. It’s not a clean fall—you twist wrong, shoulder slamming into a jagged root, and the pain is immediate and blinding. The breath rushes from your lungs. Claws dig into your back. You scream, shove, thrash, somehow managing to drive your blade into its side. The beast snarls, jerks away, then disappears into the brush like it was never there.

You lie in the dirt, your body screaming, shoulder thudding with pain so intense it turns your stomach.

You can’t breathe right.

You can’t move your arm.

You don’t cry, but your throat burns like you might.

Your vision sways. You lean against a tree and focus on surviving. The pain blooms and blooms and keeps blooming.

When you hear a horse, you think you’re imagining it.

But then—

“Hey!”

Arthur’s voice is ragged, raw like it’s been torn from his chest. You turn your head, barely, and there he is—boots kicking up dirt, reins dropped, eyes wild.

He falls to his knees in front of you. Grabs your face gently, cradling your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

“What the hell happened?”

“Coyote,” you whisper, dazed. “Shoulder’s—bad. I—I can’t move it.”

His eyes scan your body, hands hovering over you without touching. You’ve never seen Arthur Morgan look scared before.

He looks scared now.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Damn it. I should’ve come with you.”

“I was fine,” you lie.

“No, you ain’t,” he snaps, but there’s no heat in it. Just fear. “We gotta get you back. I can’t do much for you out here.”

You nod, barely.

He slips an arm around your back, another under your knees, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. You cry out without meaning to—the movement lights your shoulder up like fire—and you fist your good hand in his coat, trying to breathe through the hurt.

Arthur presses his cheek against your hair. “I got you,” he murmurs. “I got you, sweetheart. You hold on now.”

Sweetheart. The word cuts through the pain like sunlight.

The trail blurs in your vision, pine trees and dark green, the scent of horses and earth. Arthur's coat is warm against your cheek.

“I thought you weren’t comin’,” you whisper at one point.

“I'll always come for you,” he says, and it sounds like a vow.

Back at camp, chaos stirs the moment you arrive. Miss Grimshaw demands space, but Arthur doesn’t budge. He carries you to your bedroll himself, eases you down with a gentleness you didn’t know he had in him.

Then he kneels. Takes out his knife. Cuts your torn shirt open at the shoulder and exposes the damage.

You look away. You hate how vulnerable you feel.

“Look at me,” he says quietly. “Ain’t nothin’ you need to be ashamed of.”

You do. His eyes are softer than they’ve ever been. Full of something aching and real.

“This is gonna hurt,” he warns. “Bad. But I need to set it before it swells worse.”

You grit your teeth. “Do it.”

He does. You scream. The pain is so deep and so bright you think you might pass out—but Arthur’s there, grounding you, you find yourself grabbing onto his vest, your forehead pressed to his collarbone.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just lets you hold on while the pain crests and fades.

“You good?” he asks after a minute, his voice low.

You nod, your face against his chest. “Yeah.”

His hand comes up resting carefully against the back of your head. “You scared me.”

You pull back enough to look at him. His eyes are storm-dark, gaze pinned to yours. There’s a vulnerability there you’ve never seen before—not from Arthur.

“I didn’t think anyone’d come lookin’ for me that fast,” you whisper.

“I always would,” he says simply. “You know that, right?”

Your chest aches in a different way now. Deep and warm and terrifying.

The air between you feels charged. Strange and thick, like the calm after a storm—or right before the next one breaks.

When it's over—when your shoulder is finally wrapped tight and the sweat cooling on your brow is wiped away with careful fingers — Arthur’s still crouched beside you with his hand lingering on your knee like he doesn’t want to pull back, and you’re still breathing heavy from the pain.

Your eyes meet his.

And neither of you looks away.

There’s something stretching taut in the silence. You feel it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, in the way his thumb brushes the outside of your knee without him even seeming to realize he’s doing it. You feel it in your own chest, the way your breath hitches, the way your lips part just barely.

He leans in.

So slow. Like he’s afraid to spook you. Like he’s afraid to want.

And god, you want.

Your nose brushes his. His breath is warm and smells faintly of tobacco and pine. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw again, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone. His eyes flicker—searching yours like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

He gets so close you can feel the heat of his mouth against yours, your lips nearly brushing.

And then, finally, his lips press to yours.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not rushed, either.

It’s desperate and quiet and full of everything he’s never said. His hand cups your jaw like you’re something precious, like touching you any harder might shatter you. And he kisses you like he’s drowning—like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world. You feel the tremble in him, the restraint in his shoulders, the way he’s holding himself back even now.

He pulls away just enough to breathe—but not far, never far, and then he kisses you again. Slower this time. Reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, like some part of him knows he may never get another chance.

You gasp into his mouth. Your good hand fists in the front of his shirt, fingers twisted in the worn fabric like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

He lets you. Stays there, close and warm and real.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathe hard, chests rising and falling like you’ve just run for your lives.

Neither of you speaks.

The quiet between you hums, charged and heavy, every inch of space that used to exist now filled with something fragile and real.

“I thought I lost you,” he says, voice barely more than a breath. Like it costs him something to admit it out loud. Like it’s the most honest thing he’s said in years.

You press your palm to his chest, right over the thud of his heart.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “You found me.”

His eyes flutter shut. His hand comes up and wraps around your wrist, holding it there. Holding you there. His grip isn’t tight, but there’s something desperate in it. Like if he lets go, you might slip through his fingers all over again.

Then—

“Arthur!”

Dutch's voice cuts through the night sharp and loud, calling him from across camp.

It shatters the moment like glass hitting stone.

Arthur blinks, flinching like someone slapped him. His head lifts. The air between you turns colder, thinner. His hand falls from your face, reluctant.

And just like that, it’s gone. The moment—the kiss—the closeness. Gone like smoke caught in a breeze.

He stands up too fast, like putting distance between you might dull the ache settling in his chest. He clears his throat, avoids your eyes. But then—

Then he pauses.

His gaze drops back to you.

And his hand reaches out one more time—soft, hesitant. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, slow and careful, like it’s the only thing he’s allowed to do. His fingers linger just a second too long against your cheek. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

“Get some rest, alright?” His voice is rough again. Lower. “I’ll bring you somethin’ warm to eat.”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer.

He turns and walks away, the weight of everything unsaid trailing behind him like a shadow.

And you’re left there, lips still tingling, heart aching, hand still curled over the echo of his heartbeat.

The spell breaks.

The moment dissolves like mist under morning sun.

But the feeling doesn’t.

It stays.

#arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fluff #rdr2 #arthur morgan

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m4rst0ns · 2 days ago

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BENEATH THE HATRED.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Warnings: blood, mentions of getting shot, game typical violence, swearing? (I can’t remember lmao), fluff, most likely grammatic mistakes

Word Count: 3.4k

Notes: no use of Y/N (none of my writing will!), probably ooc Arthur (and the other characters mentioned as well lmao)

A/N: this took FOREVER to write, but I wanted it to be perfect and I couldn’t figure out how to end it but I finally got it! More writing will be coming shortly after this as well!

Arthur was practically fuming as he looked at you from across camp. You. Of all people, why had Dutch asked you to help with this? The same you who had robbed them blind of their food months ago? He trusted Dutch with his life, but he questioned some of the decisions he made.

He watched you walk away from Dutch with a scowl. He got up as soon as you were out of sight, his boots thudding as he stalked over to Dutch with fury. “You outta your mind?”

He snapped, Dutch’s chuckle irritating him to his core. “Don’t you remember she robbed us? How almost all of us went hungry ‘cause o’ that?” He was trying to compose himself in front of Dutch, but the image of Abigail giving up her food for little Jack was engraved in his mind.

“Now, now, Arthur. I know what you are thinking, but have some faith in me. Trust me, she’s got a good head on her shoulders. And if she crosses us you’ll be the first one to put a bullet in ‘er won’t ya?” He patted Arthur’s shoulder. “Plus, with Hosea out doin’ his own thing she’s the best we got. As much as I dislike her for what she did, Trelawny put in a good word for her.” Arthur huffed.

Arthur shook his head. “Trelawny ain’t the one who went hungry, Dutch.” His voice was low, strained, but Dutch just smiled, like he always did when he thought he was one step ahead of everyone.

“Arthur, you know as well as I do that sometimes we gotta put our grudges aside for the greater good. You don’t have to like her, but you will work with her,” Dutch said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Arthur scowled but said nothing more.

Arthur turned on his heel and stalked away from Dutch, muttering curses. He wasn’t just about to roll over and play nice, though. If he had to work with you, you were going to know where you damn well stood.

He found you by the horses, checking the straps on your saddle like you’d been part of the gang all along. Arthur’s scowl deepened. “You got some real nerve showin’ your face around here.” He gritted his teeth, arms crossed over his chest.You didn’t even flinch, not sparing him a glance as you tighten a strap. “Didn’t know I needed your permission to be here,” you shoot back, voice cool.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You don’t, but that doesn't mean I trust you.” Finally, you turned to face him, and when you did, it was with that stupid smirk on your face that made Arthur want to slap you silly. He listened to you talk, an amused glint in your eye. “Good, ‘cause I don’t trust you either.”

“Stay outta my way, and maybe, we won’t have a problem.”

“No promises, cowboy.” You smirked and Arthur cursed under his breath as you walked away, his patience wearing thin. This was going to be a disaster.

⇝⇝⇝

Some rich bastard was throwing a party in Saint Denis; one of them always was. Dutch had gotten word that a governor’s associate would be there, with important documents that he wanted to get his hands on. It was a formal event, and as much as you hated the beauty standards, you were made to wear a dress.

Your dress was elegant, a deep shade of navy that shimmered faintly under the warm glow of the chandeliers. The bodice hugged your figure, its structured seams accentuating your waist before cascading into a full, sweeping skirt.

Delicate white lace adorned the off the shoulder neckline, each intricate pattern stitched with precision, tiny pearls catching the light like scattered stars. A small, oval brooch rested at the center of the lace trim. The short, puffed sleeves added a touch of softness to the otherwise regal design.

You observed the room as you waited for Arthur to arrive–the two of you were supposed to have gone together, but Arthur was nowhere to be found when you were saddling up to leave. When you had asked Charles, he had told you Arthur had gone to get a suit last minute. Damn fool.

You looked around to see who looked the slightest bit suspicious, though, all rich people looked quite suspicious to you. As your eyes scanned the room, you heard a voice from behind you.

“Who knew you could clean up nice?” Arthur chuckled and you scowled. “You’re late, Morgan.” You grumble. “You’re lucky I’m even here, now let’s just get this over with.”

⇝⇝⇝

Arthur and you had decided to split up, figuring you could cover more ground that way. In and out, the two of you had said. Neither of you wanted to be there, not with the other anyway.

Arthur had taken the lower levels, which included mingling–Arthur’s words, not yours–with the other party guests. He wasn’t the best with social interaction, but he was better at it between the two of you. You took the higher levels, having to sneak through the empty rooms, watching for the odd guard.

You slipped through the hallway silently, stopping just outside a room when you heard voices.

“These documents must be delivered safely. Do not tell anyone anything about these except Mr. Miller, ya hear? Or there will be some serious trouble, understood?” A man said, his voice intimidating. “Y-yes, sir, I understand.” Another man replied weakly. You pressed yourself up against the wall as you heard their footsteps head over to the door. They walker out of the room and down the opposite end of the hall. You slipped through the door seconds before it closed.

You searched through each cabinet. Miller, Miller, Miller… aha! You pulled out the document and skimmed through it, making sure it was the right one. Once you were sure, you crept out of the room, looking down each side of the hall to make sure no one had seen you before walking out back where you had come from. You go to walk down the stairs when a voice stops you.

“Why do you have that, Miss?” The random man asked. You turned around with the realest smile you could muster up. “Oh, don’t worry, sir, I work for Mr. Miller.” You lied carefully. You held your breath when you saw his skeptical expression.

“That’s funny,” he replied. “Because I work for Mr. Miller.” “Shit.” You punched him as hard as you can and he stumbles. You took the opportunity to run, almost tripping down the stairs because of your dress. You damned the thing to hell as you searched for Arthur.

Your eyes found his and Arthur had known as soon as he locked eyes with you that that look meant trouble. He looked behind you and saw three men all looking around for you. He pushed himself through the crowd and grabbed your hand tightly, dragging you along with him as he ran.

The men chased you both and yelled at you to stop where you are, and it only made the two of you speed up. You heard a loud crack echo through the air, but ignored it. You found your horses hitched down the street and urged your feet to go faster. You both mounted your horses hurriedly and you tossed the document haphazardly into your saddle bag.

Your horses whipped down the dimly lit streets of Saint Denis, eventually losing the men. “I think we lost ‘em,” you breathed as the two of you slowed and Arthur spoke up. “Y’know, the whole reason we let you come along is because you weren’t supposed to get caught.” He said seriously, though his tone was slightly light-hearted. “Well, I got the damn file, didn’t I?” You grumbled and he chuckled, to your surprise.

“What’s so funny?” You asked. “Nothin’.” He replied, a small grin on his lips. You suddenly feel a little woozy. You held your head and Arthur noticed the look of discomfort on your face. He gave you a once over and saw the blood staining your dress. “You get shot?” His voice was worried. The pain came sharply and abruptly.

You held your side, clenching your jaw–the adrenaline must have hid the pain, until Arthur pointed it out. “I’m fine,” you inhaled. “Just keep going.” Arthur was irritated by your stubbornness. “Jesus, woman,” he muttered, “will you just stop? You’re hurt.” He snapped slightly. You wobbled on top of your horse, but kept going, despite the pain and Arhtur’s words. Then, everything went black.

⇝⇝⇝

You came to and felt the rough bark of a tree against your back. You heard Arthur mumbling something about stupidity. He emerged through the trees in front of you and his mumbling stopped. “Ah, you’re finally awake.” He places the logs he was carrying down in the middle of the makeshift camp he had set up, which you had just noticed.

“I, uh, bandaged your wound.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, considering I had to take off your dress—not the whole thing! I just slid down the top, and I assumed you were covered… up there, and you were! You–.” “Arthur, it’s fine.” You chuckled and he let out a breath of relief. It was a funny sight, the big and tough outlaw stumbling over his words.

“Thank you.” You said softly and Arthur just nodded in return. You watched Arthur as he started a fire. He looked good like this, his suit jacket discarded, along with his tie, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, and a few of the buttons undone, showing off his muscular arms and chest.

His hair was slightly messy, presumably from the wind or running away from the party; most likely both. His cheeks were pink from the cool air, showing off the freckles that were sprinkled softly across his face. His sea blue eyes shone brightly as the flames grew. Oh, heavens, what were you thinking? You took a deep breath and collected yourself.

“Here, drink this.” He handed you a canteen of water and you chugged it gratefully, almost moaning as you chugged the liquid. You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were, or how dry your lips and throat were. “Woah, woman, don’t go drinking the whole thing now! We gotta share.” Arthur chuckled and the sight of you gulping down almost the whole canteen.

You wiped off a small droplet of water that had escaped the corner of your mouth with your forehand and a small smile grazed your lips at the sight of the cowboy.

The fire crackled softly, its warm glow illuminating the blond’s face, worn and tired, yet so soft under the early rise of the sun. Neither of you spoke, but it wasn’t awkward—just the opposite. The longer you were around Arthur, the less you disliked him, and, honestly, you hadn’t really disliked him as much as he had you in the first place. You had always thought he was quite the looker. Oh, not again. Pull it together! Oh, but how dreamy he was. He had many of the local women all over him in every place he visited.

Arthur cursed himself on the inside for even looking at you. What you had done was unacceptable! Most of the gang went hungry because of you a year ago. Yet, he couldn’t stop looking.

Your eyes glowing in the fire, your hair blowing slightly in the wind, little wisps of it surrounding your face and he chuckles to himself as you try to blow it out of your eyes. He felt bad, feeling like this, being attracted to you in the slightest. He felt like he was betraying his gang. Dutch had let her on this mission, he thought, I guess it ain’t that bad.

He tried to convince himself it was okay, this growing attraction. Weakly, but it worked, sort of. Made him feel slightly less guilty. Who could really blame him, though? Anyone in their right mind would recognize your beauty. What was wrong with him? He shook his head to clear his thoughts and broke the silence.

“We should get going, don’t think Dutch wanted us gone overnight.” He stood up and brushed his hands on his pants.

He held out a hand for you and you just looked at him for a second before taking it, him pulling you up as if you weighed nothing. Neither of you spoke as you rode slowly back to camp, enjoying the comfortable silence, a contrast to what it would’ve been before last night’s events.

⇝⇝⇝

You had decided to stick with the gang after that, Dutch offering (or, more so begging) and Hosea agreeing with the idea, though still weary. He did think you had great skills, despite what had happened when you had stolen from them and the party. You and Arthur had gotten much closer, him finally befriending you after you had “made up for the food you’d greedily taken from them”—his words, not yours.

Arthur was everything you could ask for in a friend during these times. He was honest, caring, open, and he was a great listener. He was always there as a shoulder to lean on, even when he was gone. You appreciated having someone you could trust, and having a family after so long of being on your own.

As time went on that small attraction from that night, you had labeled it as mere lust, grew. You couldn’t deny the way your heart fluttered when he was near, or the way your stomach flipped when he smiled. A small smile would graze your lips at the way his face contorted with focus as he sketched away in his journal. You were more than just physically attracted to him.

You sat with Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly, talking about anything and everything. Mary-Beth laughed before asking you, “Is there anyone you got your eye on?” Arthur immediately came to mind, but you shook it off.

“Nah, not really.” You replied, but they didn’t look all too convinced, the slight blush on your cheeks didn’t help your case. “Oh, come on! I know you do! I see that look in your eye. Tell us!” Mary-Beth encouraged, the other two women nodding.

As you’re about to speak, denying Mary-Beth’s claim, Arthur strutted by, tipping his hat. “Hey, ladies.” They all smile at him. “Hi, Arthur.” They greeted in unison as he continued walking by.

You hadn’t even realized you were staring until Mary-Beth’s squeal disrupted your thoughts. “You’re sweet on him, aren’t you?” You shook your head, but you couldn’t help but smile. They all laughed excitedly. “I knew it. I see the way you look at him.” Karen claims, taking a sip of her beer.

Tilly leaned forward with a smirk. “Y’know, I reckon Arthur isn’t exactly indifferent either.” Mary-Beth giggled. “He’s always getting all grumpy when someone flirts with you—like that fella in Saint Denis the other day? Thought Arthur was gonna clean punch him in the face!”

Karen took another swig before saying, “Please.That man is so in denial, it’s painful. The both of you are! I swear everyone else sees the spark but the two of you.” You gave them a look. “You’re all delusional. Mary-Beth, are you sure you haven’t been readin’ too many silly romance novels?”

The three girls all looked at each other. Tilly then spoke up. “We got some work to do.” Karen and Mary-Beth nodded. “We need to give fate just a little push.” Karen set her now empty bottle aside.

Mary-Beth gasped excitedly. “Are we matchmaking?” Karen and Tilly shared grins. “Oh absolutely,” Karen nodded. “It’s about time the two of you stopped dancing around it.” You groan. “No plotting, please.”

“No promises!” Mary-Beth said innocently. You groaned and the girls just laughed before Grimshaw came over to squawk about getting back to work. You laughed as they all moaned and you all reluctantly got up to do your chores.

⇝⇝⇝

“C’mon, please?” Karen begged. “Just for tonight, I won’t bother you again.” You watched as she gives you a million reasons as to why you should take her shift of watch for the night.

You sighed, not like you had much else to do anyway, you weren’t much of a drinker and celebrations, parties, and such weren’t really your thing. “Fine, but you owe me.” Karen grinned mischievously before thanking you, running straight to where all the beer was. You shook your head and grabbed the shotgun that lay up against the tree.

You walked through the thick trees, following the path in them that led in and out of the camp. You were surprised to see Arthur in the watch spot, rifle in hand.

“What are you doing here, Arthur?” You asked. He looked up at you surprised. “I took Karen’s watch tonight. What about you, what’re you doin’ here?” You sighed. Karen, the damn woman. “She also asked me to take her watch.” Arthur shook his head. “Must already be too drunk to remember.” You chuckled.

“You can go on back to the party, then.” Arthur said and you smiled and shook your head. “I’d rather stay here, you know parties aren’t really my thing.” You reference the time you both went to the party in Saint Denis months ago—the one where you got shot, and where you and Arthur actually started to get along. “I suppose not, huh?” He laughed and you laughed along with him.

You two settled into a comfortable silence for a while before the quiet moment started to feel heavier, as if something unspoken lingered between you.

“You know, Arthur,” you began slowly, “there's been something I’ve been meaning to say, something I never said that night in Saint Denis.” He looked at you curious, but a warm expression on his face. “What’s that?” He questioned.

You paused, heart racing a little. “I guess… I never really thanked you for what you did. I—well, I don’t know if I would’ve made it without you.” Arthur’s brows furrow slightly, as if he’s not very sure where you are going with this. “I was just doin’ what anyone woulda done.”

“It’s more than that, though. I’ve been thinking about it, now more than ever. I just thought you should know how much it meant to me.” There's a long pause. Arthur’s eyes soften slightly, the usual guardedness easing just a bit as he leans back against a tree.

“You don’t gotta thank me for that. I’m just tryin’ to do right by the people I care about, even if I didn’t care much then.” The words hang in the air between you both, heavy but honest. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve said too much, if it was too soon. But then Arthur shifts a little, his expression softening.

“I’ve been thinking about that night too.” He admits, rubbing his beard—an action you found he does when he’s nervous. “About how we were both there, fightin' for our lives, but more than that—how we had each other’s backs, no questions asked.”

He looks at you, his gaze steady. “I guess I never realized just how much I needed that, until it was right in front of me.”

You swallow, heart pounding, your words feeling like they're coming from somewhere deeper than you'd intended. “I don’t think I realized it either. But it felt... different. You felt different, Arthur.”

Arthur shifts a bit uneasily, his rough exterior softened by your words. "Hell, maybe it was. Ain't like I’m good at this kind of thing, but I reckon I’ve got a bit more of a heart than I show."

He chuckles quietly, his voice low. "But if I’m bein' honest... you’ve been on my mind more than you probably know.”

That admission is like a weight lifting from your chest, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. It feels like a new beginning, but one that still needs a little figuring out.

"Maybe we take it slow," you say, the words coming out more hopeful than you feel. "One step at a time."

Arthur nods, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a small, tentative smile. "Yeah, I think that sounds like a good idea."

For the first time in a while, the quiet feels easy between you two. The kind of quiet that means things are changing—but in a way that feels right.

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