#rdr2 fluff

[ravengards-rogue]

i thought of you so often.

arthur morgan x reader.

✧ tags : fem!reader (gendered language, explicit use of she/her in reference to reader), children / planning on children, generally sappiness, fluff, au where nothing bad happens to arthur hdskjsdkfhsj.

✧ wc : 2.4k (???)

✧ a/n : arthur morgan.... save me arthur morgan....also not a super original thought but i can't Stop thinking about it.

✧ synopsis : a collection of love letters, all unfinished, tucked somewhere you aren't meant to find them. oh, arthur loves you more than you knew.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

You try to keep out of Arthur's belongings.

He's owed some privacy, for one. More than that, you've never felt any reason to look into it. Arthur isn't a man of many words, though you catch moments of his introspection should you pry. He isn't stoic, neither. And above all things, he's kind. Really truly kind in a way that makes him different from other men.

You don't have any complaints about him is what you mean. Unlike the men you've loved before, there are no short-comings of Arthur that would drive you to wanting to investigate his own personal things. Especially something so personal like his journals, prior or present.

On top of that, you were there with him through everything. You were part of the gang and stayed by him when it all fell apart. It was towards the end of that that Arthur came to you near frenzied, told you his plans, his thoughts. Confided in you and no less than begged to go with him where he ran.

You loved Arthur enough to stay, and so things ended - and you ran. There isn't much his journal could tell that you couldn't surmise on your own.

It's been years now, and you've long since left that life. You live with Arthur quietly, peaceful in the moments with a garden and kitty sweet as sugar.

It's a good life. An honest, quiet one sometimes to the point of being boring. You rarely miss the action, though occasionally you'll take up a bounty just to feel alive and make some money.

Mostly though, you live as unassuming folk. No bloodshed, no wardens, no gunslinging.

Been talk between you both about having a baby, recently. Serious talk. You've made some money between here and there, and you've got a good life. You've traveled too. But it gets a little lonely, and you don't really get your fill with just Jack when John and Abi are ways away.

Before anything like that, though - you need to clear some space. Empty out some belongings and things collecting dust. Living in one place for too long creates all sorts of mess, you find. When Arthur is home to help, he does - but he's been busy lately figuring something out with Charles. Some business venture related to ranching that you know nothing about so far. They'll tell you when its ready.

Usually when you're tidying, you keep to just your things, or your shared things - but Arthur has lived more life than you. It shows in that big closet space filled with nick-knacks he has yet to toss.

You'd mentioned it to him not too long ago and he'd given you permission to go through them.

(A kiss to your forehead from chapped lips and hands holding your waist, Arthur hums in acknowledgement as you ask his permission.

"Ain't nothing I gotta hide from you. Do whatever you need.)

But like you said - you try to keep your nose out of his business if it's not necessary for you to be in it in anyway.

You weren't trying to look through his things, really. You started cleaning, worked your way to that last box. Up on a shelf in his closet, a little too high for you to reach easily. You made a misstep and dropped the damn thing. It barely missed your head as the whole thing fell open, and out came journals and papers and photographs.

You've always known Arthur to be sentimental, so none of it has been particularly surprising. A photo of wolves and him on a horse, the picture from John and Abigail's engagement. Some other scraps of sentimental value.

And then there was a journal. Not Arthur's journal that he's always using, but another you've never seen before. You know Arthur journals, seen the thing plenty though you never look unless he shows you first.

A journal with a dark brown stained leather binding, fallen open and your name scrawled out in pencil lead at the top of it.

The curiosity got the better of you, okay? Not your damn fault.

So you're thinking on it.

The fabric of your skirt is pooled out underneath you as you hold the thing in your hands, sitting down on the ground surrounded by things. You've stowed away everything else that fell out from the box after ensuring it was intact, including Arthur's journals. Everything with the exception of the one you're holding.

Some guilt eats at you. You don't wanna upset him potentially by having looked. Even if he gave you permission, looking in the damn thing is a little different. But your name was there so clearly, and well - you didn't think he wrote about you. Apart from here and there, maybe.

You hold the book out in front of you with a sigh, looking fondly at his name ingrained in the leather. You press your forehead against it with, resigning yourself completely.

"Lord forgive my pryin'," You mumble, hoping it's enough to absolve you.

Your heart feels funny as you let your fingers trace over the hard edge of the front cover, one eye shut as you start to open it slow.

The first few pages are nothing special.

A page outlining who the journal belongs to and when it was started, and some doodles of yarrow and oleander. The pages after that filled with mundane entries. About people he met or things he saw, all endearing to you. The corners of your lips tug up slightly.

You really love this man helplessly.

You flip through a few more pages, many of them blank before writing starts to appear again. Little by little, you find passages. You look to the dates up at the corner (though not all of them have one) and trace the timeline. This is from all the way back in Horseshoe Overlook.

It feels like ages ago now.

You look at a page with no date, and reading the writing in it. There's doodles of flowers and trees along the bottom of the page. The words are easy enough to make out - because Arthur has the most unusually beautiful handwriting.

There's some entries about you. At first, they all include your name in some context. Mentioned in the same way Arthur might mention Hosea or Abigail. The further you go, the less you see it. The more you become her and she.

It's a trend. The longer you read, the less there is about anyone else. Just you and all your silly idiosyncrasies tucked between pages. Something lovestruck and foolish lights its match in you.

Saw a body hanging at the tracks at Valentine. A gruesome sight. I told her about it and she laughed. Asked me to take her to see it. A strange woman, by all accounts.

You feel yourself smile a little as you continue to flip through the pages.

She joined me riding into town today. Said she had some business to attend but would not tell me any details. After, she came with me to purchase a new gun. I engraved a snake into it's handle, per her request.

Another few pages littered with drawings of delicate berries and waterfalls before you stumble across more writing. The more you flip, the longer the passages become you.

You can't tear your eyes away.

Rained today. Nothing too terrible or worth mentioning, except that she nearly caught a cold playing in it. I brought her coffee to keep her warm, but could not scold her further upon seeing her delight.

Another passage, this time written with messier hand writing. A coffee stain splatters on the white of the page.

Your heart tugs on itself. Swells about a thousand sizes. To think he wrote so much of your time together between these pages.

You read and read and read - and each passage is a little more mundane at the last. Some pages go on in vivid detail, but others are so short you aren't sure what to make of the fact he wrote them at all. As if such little details were important enough to keep in mind.

I picked a flower for her. I thought it would suit her taste. It was white with delicate petals. I did not know the name.

She wore it in her hair this evening. I find I can't stop grinning.

One passage on the next few pages, longer than the rest, catches your eye. From later in your time together, written when you were in Leymone. Near Scarlett Meadows and before the mess in Saint Denis.

After Arthur had been kidnapped.

I have gone on and on about the business with Colm O'Driscoll in many entries before this one. Yet, I find it difficult to forget. Many times I have come close to death, and still no experience lingers on my mind quite like this one. Everyone has done their best to look after me. For that I am grateful, though I do not care for being looked after. What use am I like this, I wonder? Perhaps, I should simply be grateful to be alive and in one piece, if a little uglier than I was. Alongside Miss Grimshaw and Miss Tilly, she has been by my side while I recovered. Such a carefree woman and yet I have seen her cry and weep over me countless times in the last few weeks alone. The decent man in me is apologetic for causing sorrow. Perhaps, it is the outlaw in me that feels some strange relief or satisfaction. Her fussing does not give me any grief. If anything, I find myself all the more endeared. Such a decent woman does not belong in a place like this. I hope she is able to go somewhere far away and live peacefully. I am not so shameless to want anything more. The time together we have spent, I will make sure to cherish.

Something painful and pitiful tugs at your heart. Even when Arthur admitted his feelings for you, he had started it on a similar tangent. You tell him often that you're the one who feels out of bounds with him. That a man as decent and as honest as him often feels like too much for you to have so easily.

A tear slips from your eye and you laugh at your own sentimentality, wiping it away before it can splatter onto the pages.

The further you read, the more sporadic entries become. You find that there are pages filled with sketches of you, but many of them are scratched out or half erased - like he did not find them good enough. Of your side profile, of your hands, of you pointing at a target with a gun. You feel a strange feeling of love wash over you.

Instead of concrete thoughts, you're met with Arthur's abstract. Subtle complexities and studies. There's honest tenderness in the way he sketches you and the words he chooses to caption each with. Lighter, thinner lines. Smaller doodles like stray daydreams caught onto a page.

You've never doubted Arthur in his love for you, quiet man he is - but it proves to overwhelm when presented to you in such a way.

You get to back pages. There, you're finally met with more writing. Except, instead of journal entries, there's the start of letters. You find your name at the top of the page.

Over and over. Love letters, all unfinished or scrapped. Written over and over and over, but not completed. There's tens of them at least. You've never received a love letter from Arthur before, though it's nothing you fault him for.

Now you're almost glad. You like this much better.

My darling girl My muse The better half of me, I must find some way to tell you all of what I think of you. It seems no words do it justice, I'm afraid. Still, it is in my best interest to try.

Damn that man.

When you find yourself starting to weep, you don't fight the feeling. You merely shut the book closed and set it in your lap before crying into your hands.

Such overwhelmingly happy tears. You feel off balance. If the whole world turned on its head this very minute, you're unsure you'd notice. What a decent, honest man you've come to love. What a tender one.

In the middle of your crying, you don't hear the door open or close. Nor do you hear Arthur's heavy footfall until he's in the doorway, with a voice worried half to death.

"Sweetheart, what in the hell?"

You turn your head to look at him, watching his eyes widen at your tear stained face. You clamber to your feet hurriedly, book dropping onto the ground next to you as you throw yourself at him as soon as you can.

Arthur is a steady enough man not to stumble when you do, though you can feel his apprehension. Eventually, he circles his arms around your waist. His hugs are strong. Bout strong as him and then some. An arm wrapped around your waist, the other crossed over your back all around your shoulder. Full pressure as he squeezes you tight, patting the back of your head.

"I leave you alone for a few hours. What has gotten into you, little lady?"

You pull back and and look at him, wet lashes and all, before leaning up to kiss him. Arthur meets your lips chastely at first before making a noise of surprise as you kiss him further. You use both hands to grab his face as you do, scruff scratching against your skin. His lips are soft, welcoming. He melts into the touch, so easily - blue eyes lovestruck as you pull away.

"You know I love you, don't you Arthur? More than anyone in this crazy world we live in,"

His face softens visibly. He smiles at you, touching his head to yours.

"Somehow, I do. Though, I'm wonderin' what the hell brought this on."

You tuck your face against his chest, feeling his laughter reverb through you at the way you cling to him so fervently. You sniffle as you talk.

"Found your journal. The one about me,"

He goes stiff, then silent. When you look up again, he's blushing red. He pinches his brow.

"Lord, I'd forgotten all about it,"

You shake your head.

"Ain't nothing for you to be embarrassed about. You are so wonderful,"

He pouts at you. Your heart swells. "You ain't helping with the embarrassment."

You hold him further. Hug him so tight, worried he'll disappear if you don't.

"I love you, Arthur."

"You already told me once, didn'tcha?"

"And I'll tell you one thousand times over," You emphasize, pouting at him. "Really. I love you,"

"I love you too sweetheart," His hand cups your face, thumb brushing along your waterline. "Don't cry no more. Spoils that pretty face."

"I'll try but I don't know if it's all out of me,"

Arthur laughs, pressing a kiss against your hairline. "Guess I'll just have to wipe your tears."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

[emmcfrxst]

I just know Arthur has an habit of eye fucking like in camp you can literally feel his gaze and it’s not a creepy one he’s just admiring 😞 can’t himself and I bet he’d get flustered if you catch him staring

i wouldn’t say it’s eye-fucking honestly, most of the time he’s just staring longingly at you, lips parting in awe when you give him one of those bright smiles that make him forget how to function. he’s so in love with you it hurts, and he doesn’t shy away from his feelings one bit because he thinks you deserve to be worshipped <3 he does have his moments of lustful glancing though, especially when you do something you know he finds attractive, a teasing smile on your face as you send him a cute little wink that makes his cock throb in the confines of his pants

[bitin-and-barkin]

Come Back To Me

Currently imagining Arthur Morgans reaction to seeing you again after you supposedly died.

Warnings: Angst, mentions/descriptions of blood/injuries + torture, eventual fluff, no smut (yet), Arthur Morgan x reader, gender neutral reader, religious talk, probably out of character, but he just really loves you okay, so he gets emotional

READ MORE UNDER THE CUT + PT 2 HERE, PT 3 HERE

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Let's say when Dutch was going to meet up with Colm, you offered yourself to act as backup instead, not wanting to make Arthur work any harder than he had.

Infact, seeing how exhausted your husband was, you were about to tear Dutch a new one for trying to make him work even more.

But they needed a sniper. And sure, you were tired. You had just gotten back from another solo job, where you scored a pretty penny for the gang. But you knew Arthur deserved a break. And so you said you'd help instead.

But while waiting on that mountain top for Colm to try something, you got distracted. You were tired, and you got sloppy. You weren't expecting his men to come for you. They snuck up behind you and wrangled you to the ground, with it taking four, maybe five men to keep you pinned down before they finally knocked you out.

When Dutch returned without you, Arthur knew something was wrong. Dutch claimed that you were probably out just doing another job, running off like you always did. Your horse was even gone from where you hitched it. And foolishly, Arthur believed him.

Now, it had been 5, maybe, 6 months after your disappearance. One month in Dutch stopped sending out search parties after they found your hat bloodied in an abandoned house, along with your ring finger.

They knew it was your ring finger, as it still had the wedding band Arthur bought for you on it.

Charles and Javier searched the area for any trails, but all of them were ruined past the point of tracking.

They arrived back to camp, bearing the bad news, that no trail could be found. Dutch pronounced you dead and had a honorary funeral. Swearing they would all eventually get revenge on Colm for this.

Revenge hadn't come.

It became even more of a common sight to see Arthur come back to camp covered in blood that wasn't his. He obsessively picked off O'Driscolls, killing and torturing every camp he found. Questioning every single one; Where were you? Where was Colm? What had Colm done to you? Were you even still alive?

Screaming that if he ever found Colm, he would rip him apart. Telling Dutch he should've killed him when he had the chance.

The image of your severed finger was engraved into his mind. They hadn't even sold the ring. They left it on just to rub it in his face.

He almost collapsed to the floor when he first saw it. He felt like he was dying. Who knew emotional pain could be so physical?

Even after the camp had sat him down and told him you were probably dead, and that he needed to accept that, he had never stopped searching. In fact, he punched Dutch in the face after he told him that.

He drew away from the gang, isolating himself. Dutch, Tilly, Hosea, Marybeth, Charles. Nobody could get through to him. He shut them all out, trying to act like everything was fine.

But nothing was fine. He knew that. He hated the world for moving on without you.

Every night he was drinking himself into a stupor, it was the only thing that let him sleep. He stopped talking or eating much, he was obviously losing weight. Always working, bringing in cash but never staying for too long.

He stopped sleeping at camp. He stopped sleeping much in general. He had nightmares whenever he did.

Your tent reminded him of you. Whenever he did sleep, it was always in your tent. It made him feel less alone.

Nobody ever took it over or moved your things because they all knew Arthur would gut whoever did.

He always thought of you, and whenever he did, he couldn't help but blame himself.

Why did he let you take his place? Why hadn't he searched for you the second Dutch came home without you? He couldn't do anything right. The same thing that happened to Eliza and Issac had happened to you. And all he did was sit around like a fool and let it happen.

How many days, weeks, had they tortured you before you died? Months, even? God, did they even wait for you to die before they took your finger off? Could you still be alive? You've always been a fighter, he knows that. If anybody was to survive being at Colm's mercy, it would be you. Could you still be waiting? In some basement, some hole in the ground, some old shack for Arthur? For the gang? For anybody to come save you? He knew what type of man Colm was. He knows Colm would do worse just to spite Dutch.

Was this punishment? For everything he had done? Was this hell? He wasn't religious, but every night where he went to bed without your presence next to his, it sure felt like it.

He was losing Dutch to his insanity. He was losing his way of life to the passing time.

And now he had lost you.

You.

God,

Why did it have to be you?

Why couldn't it have been him? Why did it have to be you? Why couldn't he have at least died with you? He would spend an eternity in hell if he could spend his eternity with you.

But what could he do about it?

What was he doing about it?

Riding into Valentine to drink himself half dead. Alone. Riding into an endless nightmare alone without you.

As he was hitching his horse outside the saloon, he saw your distinct mare hitched right next to his.

For a moment he was happy. Happy for the first time in a long time. As this was proof that maybe, just maybe you were alive. And then, he realized what had actually happened.

Some bastard after killing you had taken your horse. Like some sort of trophy.

He stomped inside the saloon. He bought that horse for you. Saw it at Strawberry while going to free Micah and just knew that you had to have it after your last one died in Blackwater.

The girl was so sweet, and obedient too. He had hunted down a panther in Lemoyne and sold it to the trapper to make a saddle for you. He made sure to fill up the saddle bags with everything you'd need to care for it, along with a couple of other gifts for you sprinkled in. When he shyly brought the whole ensemble to you, you jumped into his arms like you two were young again.

And now some selfish bastard was making a mockery of it.

He walked up to the Bartender and slammed his hands on the bar, grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt. Demanding to know who rode in with that horse.

The bartender nervously said they had rented a room. Were still upstairs as they spoke. He walked upstairs, unholstering his knife.

He was gonna make this slow.

Treading carefully towards the bedroom, turning the handle. It was locked. He backed up and kicked the door open, pointing his gun at whoever was inside, ready to shoot them in the leg if they tried to escape. No way was he gonna give them an easy death with a headshot.

And then?

He saw you.

Standing near the bed, bruises and cuts, scars new and old littering your body. Wrapped in bandages soaked in blood. Leaning against a bedpost, barely able to stand, pointing a shaky gun at the intruder.

Time stood still as your eyes met.

He dropped his gun. You lowered yours.

He whispered your name, almost like a prayer. Praying this was real.

You said his back.

Then, he ran towards you. Wrapping you in a hug, holding onto you for dear life.

Praying that if this was a dream, he would never have to wake up.

Running his fingers through your hair, gripping onto your shirt, he felt your chest heave. Your tears falling onto his shoulder, wetting his jacket.

You were crying- no, you were apologizing.

To him.

For worrying him.

And then he started crying too.

Crying into the crook of your neck like a little boy.

Arthur never really cried. He hadn't cried in so long. After your death, he never let himself cry. He felt like he didn't deserve it.

But you?

You were alive.

Your hands wrapped around his back, the distinct pressure of your ring finger missing.

Feeling your missing ring burn a hole through his pocket. Remembering the sight of your severed finger.

And the hell you must've gone through to stay alive.

He felt sick, as he sobbed into your shoulder.

What kind of man was he? Needing you to comfort him after you were tortured?

He dropped to the floor, his knees couldn't hold him anymore. Still holding onto your body, now just your legs, for dear christ. Like you might fade away if he let go. He wouldn't let you go.

He missed you more than anything.

You slowly bent down, running your fingers through his hair.

He began wondering if you were real. Was this real?

You got down to his level, sitting on your knees. Kissing him on the forehead and putting your hand on the back of his head. Pushing him into your chest, as he only sobbed louder, blubbering and crying like a fool.

About how he thought he lost you. How the whole gang thought you had died. How he never stopped looking for you. How he thought he was dying after you didn't show up back home. How he never stopped wearing his wedding ring. How he always kept yours in his pocket. How he cradled a photo of you the first time he slept after you died.

How he wanted to bleed the world for killing you.

How he wanted to shoot everything to ashes.

How he missed you every waking moment.

How he dreamed of you every night.

How he would've given anything just to hold you one more time.

Crying into your arms,

Begging you not to leave him.

You rubbed circles onto the back of his head as you comforted him. Whispering that they only tortured you, that you eventually managed to get out, that you were fine. That you're alive. That you're here with him. That you're here for him. That you weren't going anywhere.

The months that he thought you were dead melted away as he felt your fingers run through his hair,

As you promised you weren't leaving him.

You're alive.

You're with him.

You're here.

And he swore to fucking God,

He was never letting you go again.

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Okay, so should I do a smutty pt2 where he REALLY shows you how much he missed you, or should I do one who he goes fucking yandere esque from the prospect of almost losing you?? Or should I do both??

[angelltheninth]

Arthur Morgan Bringing You Gifts

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Tags: fluff, established relationship, gift giving, kissing, married life, domestic fluff, reunions, flirting, wholesome!Arthur Morgan

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Played RDR 2 again cause my aunt started getting into it.

Arthur is a hard working man and he wants to spoil you when he has the money to do so

Most of the things he gets are things you can put around the house or use in some way

Very practical gifts, since your house isn't that big so the gifts have to be useful

By now you learned that you should expect something but all you really hope for is that he gets home safe and with no body parts missing

Your gift to him is a welcome home kiss, and maybe more if he's in the mood for it

Gets you new clothes and wants you to try it on as soon as possible, he wants to see how good you look in the things he picked out for you

When it's cold he gets lots of warm blankets that you can both cuddle under

If he gets his hands on any special food you like he will try his best to get it to you, but he can't promise anything in the hot, humid weather

One of the gifts he gets is new shirts for himself, well they're actually for you because you wear them when he's not home

Easily one of his favorite things to get you is clothes he knows you'll wear around town when you go on dates rather than the things you'll only wear around the house

Dividers by: @/cafekitsune

[allthemeniveloved]

Almost

Summary: John may have slipped up and called you his wife after you failed to rob a drunken man.

Tags: hyper-feminine female pickpocket reader, John Marston x you, fluff, one derogatory name used.

a/n: I'm feeling super uninspired and am struggling to come up with new ideas but I just know I'm craving husband/father/family man/epilogue/rdr 1/protective John Marston BAD.

The saloon in Rhodes buzzed with its usual mix of raucous laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint strain of a piano in the corner. You had slipped in earlier, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you scanned the room. It wasn’t your first time playing the damsel in a bustling saloon, using charm, lip gloss, and wit to ease a few coins out of careless pockets. Tonight, though, your mark—a swaying, red-faced man with a sloppy grin—seemed an easy target.

Or so you thought.

Your fingers had just brushed the edge of his coat pocket when he spun around, his meaty hand slapping yours away. “What the hell d’you think you’re doin’, lady?” he barked, his words slurring but his anger sharp.

“I—I’m sorry!” you stammered, backing up a step and clutching your bag to your chest, your heartbeat thundering. Your wide eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but the man’s booming voice drew everyone’s attention.

“Tryin’ to rob me, huh?” He staggered closer, his breath reeking of whiskey. “You think you can get away with that? Little whore!”

A heat rose to your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and panic. The saloon grew quieter as the patrons turned to watch the scene unfold. You took another step back, your voice soft and pleading. “I didn’t mean—please, it was a mistake—”

“Don’t give me that!” he snapped, his voice loud enough to rattle the glasses on the bar. “You’re nothin’ but a—”

“Hey!”

The sharp, commanding voice cut through the tension like a knife. Your head whipped around, and there he was—John Marston, standing just inside the saloon doors. His eyes locked on the drunken man, his jaw tight and his expression dark. He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, the spurs on his boots clicking with each step.

“You leave my wife alone,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous.

Your breath hitched. His wife? The words hung in the air for a moment, and though you knew it wasn’t true, the way he said it—so fiercely, so protectively—made your heart skip.

The man blinked, momentarily confused. “Your wife? She—she was tryin’ to rob me!”

John stepped between you and the man, his broad shoulders blocking you from view. “That so?” he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Funny, all I see is a drunk fool harassin’ a lady.”

“She—”

John didn’t let him finish. “I don’t care what you think happened,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “You’re gonna turn around, walk back to your drink, and forget all about it. Or we’re gonna have a problem.”

The man’s face reddened further, his chest puffing up like a rooster preparing for a fight. But then John’s hand drifted casually to the revolver on his hip, his fingers resting on the worn grip. The tension in the room thickened, and you could feel the weight of every eye in the saloon on the two men.

After a long, tense moment, the drunk muttered something under his breath and stumbled back to the bar. John didn’t move until the man was seated and glaring into his glass. Only then did he turn to you, his sharp gaze softening when it met yours.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You nodded, though your legs felt shaky beneath your petticoats. “I—yes. Thank you.”

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What were you thinkin’, tryin’ that in a place like this?” His tone wasn’t scolding, more exasperated, and laced with something else—worry.

“Well, I thought he wouldn’t notice!" you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, he did." John said, a sigh escaping his lips as his gaze drifted to his feet.

You bit your lip, your heart still racing, though for a different reason now. “You didn’t have to say I was your wife,” you said softly, looking up at him through your long lashes.

He shifted, scratching the back of his neck, his cheeks taking on a slight flush. “Seemed like the fastest way to get him off your back,” he muttered. Then, after a beat, he added, “Didn’t figure you’d mind.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Not at all.”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then he glanced around the saloon and offered you his arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get outta here before he gets any ideas.”

You took his arm without hesitation, the warmth of his touch steadying you as he led you out of the saloon. The cool night air hit your face as the door swung shut behind you, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was the solid presence of John at your side, his protective energy wrapping around you like a shield.

As you walked to the horses, you couldn’t resist teasing, “So…wife, huh?”

John smirked, his lips quirking in that way that made your stomach flip. “Don’t you get any ideas either, little miss.” he said, though his voice was warm, almost playful.

You laughed softly, the tension from the saloon finally melting away. “Too late,” you said with a grin, and though John rolled his eyes, you didn’t miss the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

John shook his head at your teasing, his smirk lingering as he helped you up onto your horse. The warm press of his hands at your waist sent a flutter through your chest, though he seemed entirely unaffected, like it was second nature to him. He mounted his own horse in one swift motion, settling in with an ease that only added to the rugged charm he wore so effortlessly.

The two of you set off at a steady pace, the quiet night settling around you. The occasional chirp of crickets filled the silence, the moonlight casting a silver glow over the dirt road. You glanced at John out of the corner of your eye, but he was focused ahead, the lines of his face hard to read.

Finally, unable to stand the quiet any longer, you broke the silence. “You really didn’t have to do that back there, you know,” you said softly, your voice carrying in the stillness. “I could’ve handled him.”

John let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he adjusted his reins. “Sure looked like it,” he said, the sarcasm clear in his tone. “What were you gonna do, bat your lashes at him and hope he forgot he was mad?”

“Well, it usually works,” you shot back, a playful lilt in your voice. “Just not on belligerent drunks, apparently.”

John glanced at you then, his dark eyes catching yours. “Guess it’s a good thing I was there, huh?”

You huffed, though you couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “I could’ve talked my way out of it.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, his voice dry but tinged with amusement. “You’re lucky he was too drunk to really make trouble.”

You sighed, your gaze drifting to the moonlit trees lining the road. “I hate being caught off guard like that. Makes me feel… small.”

John’s expression softened, though he kept his eyes on the road. “You ain’t small,” he said firmly. “You’re smart, quick, and you’ve got more guts than most folks I know. But next time, maybe don’t go tryin’ to pick a fight you don’t need to.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Pick a fight? I was picking his pocket.”

“Same difference,” John shot back, smirking again. “Just stay outta trouble, alright? You’re too pretty to be tanglin’ with folks like that.”

The unexpected compliment caught you off guard, and your cheeks warmed despite the cool night air. “Too pretty, huh?” you teased, trying to cover your flustered reaction. “That’s what you think of me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly realizing what he’d said. “Don’t go twistin’ my words,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in his voice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied with a sly smile. “But for the record, you make a pretty convincing husband.”

John chuckled, the sound low and rich. “That so?”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, leaning slightly toward him as your horses walked side by side. “You had everyone in that saloon believing it. Even me, for a second.”

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw working as though he were weighing his words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “Did what I had to. Ain’t gonna let nobody hurt you.”

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone, and you looked at him more closely, trying to read the expression on his face. He didn’t meet your gaze, his eyes fixed straight ahead, but there was a tension in his shoulders, like he was holding something back.

“You mean that?” you asked softly.

He finally looked at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Every word,” he said simply, his voice steady and sure.

The weight of his promise settled between you, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fall away. You wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was hold his gaze, your heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the lingering adrenaline from the saloon.

John cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “We’re almost back to camp,” he said, his voice gruffer now, like he was trying to shake off the vulnerability that had seeped into it.

You nodded, your throat tight. “Right. Camp.”

The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence, though your mind was anything but quiet. By the time you reached Clemens Point, the camp was quiet, most of the gang already asleep. John dismounted first, tying his horse to a post before turning to help you down. His hands found your waist again, his grip steady and sure as he eased you off the saddle.

When your feet touched the ground, he didn’t immediately let go. His hands lingered just a moment too long, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. “Get some rest,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “You’ve had a hell of a night.”

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks, John. For everything.”

He gave you a small, lopsided smile, the kind that made your chest ache in the best way. “Anytime,” he said, before stepping back and turning toward his tent.

[angelsknifeprty]

What would Sadie Adler be like being the fem!eader's girlfriend? I love she🩵

sadie as your girlfriend hcs ✿⋆.˚⊹

ways to help palestine | operation olive branch | keep eyes on sudan | haiti’s history | learn about congo

‧₊˚౨ৎ before the two of you started dating she was unexplainably protective over you. she was already very protective of the gang, leaping into action whenever there was danger. but she always seemed to have her eyes trained on you, watching like a hawk for if you were in any sort of trouble

‧₊˚౨ৎ this only intensifies when she finally gets to call you hers. you were always the first person she’d check on both in and after any danger. she’d rush to your side to protect you and make sure you weren’t too shaken up afterwards. her arm would constantly be wrapped protectively (and possessively) around your waist. when sadie was around you didn’t have to worry about taking shit from anybody, they’d have to go through her first

‧₊˚౨ৎ “you redirect that attitude to me, ‘cause if i hear another word leave that filthy mouth o’ yours, i’ll kill ya.”

‧₊˚౨ৎ she’s very generous with her death threats but to anyone who knows her or has any common sense, they know she’s not joking

‧₊˚౨ৎ despite her harsh exterior and brutal nature, she’s actually a big softie. she’s a fan of mushy pet names, calling you “sweetheart”, “angel”, “pretty girl”, you name it. and she’s not worried about calling you these in front of people. most think she’d shy away from it as she has a reputation for being a bit hot-headed and intimidating. but she holds her own well enough for there to be no doubt about whether she’s truly a threat or not, just for her to then turn around and dote on you like nothing happened

‧₊˚౨ৎ she is very possessive and loves calling you hers. what’s hers is hers and that will be known, every affectionate name having “my” in front of it

‧₊˚౨ৎ loves doing things for you, always talking about how she isn’t a fan of sitting around and not doing much. if she sees miss grimshaw is wearing you rather thin she won’t hesitate to come and take some tasks off of your hands, even though she prefers the more hands on dirty work the gang gets up to. but if it was for you, she’d do just about anything

‧₊˚౨ৎ if you aren’t already able to she’d teach you how to defend yourself, always worrying over what might happen if she’s not around to protect you. the idea of that makes her feel helpless, which she hates, so it brings her some comfort to make sure you’re capable of taking care of yourself if needed

‧₊˚౨ৎ she loves to fluster you. she is absolutely not shy when teaching you how to shoot, pressing herself up against you as she readjusts your posture and gives you directions in that raspy voice of hers. you swear she wants you to start messing up when she whispers a proud, “atta girl,” after a particularly good shot. “my pretty girl’s doin’ so good.”

‧₊˚౨ৎ you are the only person she’ll play the harmonica for. she was very reserved about it at first, nobody but her late husband getting to hear her play. but when she feels herself becoming more at ease with you she’ll occasionally let you stick around while she plays. you of course respect her and her privacy but on days where she can’t bring herself to dismiss your company, she lets you stay

“alright, you can stay, darlin’. but ya can’t laugh if i mess up, okay?” 

‧₊˚౨ৎ she is actually very upfront about her feelings. she’s quite openly vulnerable, though she wishes she wasn’t. she’s a tough cookie to break but sees the importance of being honest with you (she’s so applejack coded aaaa) and doesn’t like leaving tension in the air if you’re upset with each other or one of you is going through a hard time

‧₊˚౨ৎ will absolutely spoil you with her bounty hunting money. what better way to spend her time after chasing down crooks than giving you whatever you wanted? it also wouldn’t hurt to give you any shiny trinkets she took from the pockets of her newest catches, they wouldn’t be needing them anyway once they were behind bars

‧₊˚౨ৎ literally the best girlfriend ever, i firmly believe she devotes her every breath to doing right by you <3

a/n: i love sadie sm i wanna write for her more !! i hope you enjoyed :D xoxo

[todorokies]

THE ONE WHERE YOU REFUSE TO KEEP QUIET. . !

𝝑𝑒 contents: john marston x female reader, nsfw, modern au (sawry im a sucker for 'em), cunnilingus, fingering, pet names (pretty & darling), pussy drunk john. . . 754 words

𝝑𝑒 a/n: dabbling in a diff fandom for my comeback to writing is crazy ik but i hope u all enjoy regardless :3 im rusty i alr know

“did i ever tell you about what happened at my work last week?”

you let out a shaky breath as you cautiously ran your fingers through the hair of the man who is currently situated between your legs, eagerly lapping at your dripping cunt collecting everything you could offer to him.

there’s a momentary lack of a response from your companion, your question hangs in the thin air as the crude sounds of squelching bounces off the walls alongside with your airy moans that seep out more than intended to.

you rack your fingers once more through his long hair and tug at his roots which aids as a warning.

with not enough force to seriously hurt him, but for a low guttural groan to escape from his chest causing small vibrations against your already sensitive pussy.

he apologetically sucks on your puffy clit before he comes up for air then replaces his hot mouth with two fingers to rub tight circles on your nub, “no, pretty, you haven’t. what happened at work?” he inquired with a strained expression on his face.

his pupils are blown out and unstable as he quickly shifts his focus between your glowy face and your pussy that’s aching to be stuffed by him. however, you were pretty adamant on him eating you out instead.

john ducks his head back in between the plush of your thighs continuing his ministrations, noticeably slowing his pace for you to get your words out.

you whine with a small buck of your hips, “apparently we’re having some budget cuts nggh in a f-few weeks. . . which —oh fuckk— also includes employees.”

“uh-huh?” john mumbles against you. your words enter one of his ear and exits the other, more focused on alternating from long vertical strides from your hole to your clit then skillfully circling around it with his tongue.

his calloused hand grips at your ass pulling you even closer to his face in attempt at get every last drop.

“y-yeah, and my manager had the damn nerve to—mghm keep doing that and i’ll cum~”

your chest heaves as john spreads open your folds to dip his tongue into your pussy, visibly enjoying the way you desperately clench around the wet muscle.

he deeply chuckles and you shiver due to his stubble scratching at your skin, “what did your manager do, darling?” he incoherently slurs his words but you were able to pick it up.

“she broke the news during rush hour. i-i mean what a bitch, right!”

“a bitch indeed,” he affirms as he slowly pushes two fingers in your wet hole, ogling at the way you take his digits with ease, fully coating them with your slick.

you throw your head backwards against the leather couch that’s supporting your back. you once again find residence in his black locks, roughly tugging this time around.

a broken whimper lively dances off your lips as your eyes roll back; you could feel the coil forming in the pit of your stomach.

“feels so good… don’t fuckin' stop..” you mindlessly ushered out. the sensation of his fingers pumping in and out, dragging against your tight walls as well as the added pleasure of his tongue swirling and suckling at your sensitive clit almost has you over the edge.

just when john finally thought he’d shut you up for good this time, your lewd moans and pants get broken down till you find the strength to add another comment about your dilemma.

“a-and there’s talk of my f-favourite coworker—”

“—ya know, how about you tell me the rest of ya little story after i make you cum.” john interrupts your soon-to-be babbling session, stopping all of his movements altogether.

he places a chaste kiss onto your clit and looks at you for permission to continue. you nod with a squeaky whine, already dizzy and eager for him to resume.

“oh darling, what am i ever gonna do with you?” he whispered against your cunt as he continued pumping his fingers at a steady albeit fast pace and quickly reattached his mouth back on your clit.

you soon cum hard on his fingers followed by a few more tugs at his hair to signal you were ready to tap out.

he licks his fingers, maintaining eye contact as he groans loudly at the taste of you. so sweet. . .just for him.

his voice is hoarse as he slips your panties back on and then gives you his undivided attention,

“so…what was that about your favourite coworker?”

reblogs & feedback is extremely appreciated !! <3

[aleenuhs]

Arthur with someone who's unconventional attractive, like they don't fit the beauty standard but are pretty in their pwn way, Arthur loves the way they look, for the reader sometimes think they are ugly because no one else thinks they are pretty

⋆In His Eyes

thank u anon <3

warnings: insecure reader, crying, lil bit of angst, comfort, fluff

word count: 652

You always had felt like you weren't as pretty, and on top of that nobody ever told you if you were, it never repaired how you saw yourself. So you avoided mirrors and things that would show your reflection, avoided them like the plague.

You didn't wear what most people wore in your time, just some regular old pants and shirts. Arthur never understood what you felt, he always thought of you as the prettiest person he'd ever seen, and cannot fathom how you treat yourself because of your skewed idea on your own self image.

He noticed the extra precautions you took to avoid showing yourself to anyone, including him.

You looked into the mirror that he had for his shaving kit and sighed.

You walked over to the cot, sitting down and just thinking, you groaned and scooted further onto the cot, holding yourself.

The thought of being ugly haunted you, it wasn't what you wanted, for it wasn't anywhere near what you wanted. All you needed was to be pretty, to feel safe in your skin, to not be afraid. So when Arthur came around telling you how good looking you were, it felt as if you were a fraud, living some kind of lie, or that he was lying to you.

Arthur never lied about it.

Your eyes started to tear up and your face went emotionless, you wanted to hide away. You could feel your lip trembling and your breath hitch at a specific thought.

Oh, but the way Arthur looked at you, like he loved you so much, so easily, yet it took you everything to even love yourself. Maybe you don't deserve him, you kept thinking. The thought of it made your heart physically hurt. You broke and let out a silent sob.

Arthur was walking past his tent when he saw you on the cot, hiding your face. "Hey, hey now... what's wrong?" He immediately walked over to you and sat down next to you. You jumped at the sound of his voice, and his hands on you, you felt so lost looking into his eyes. And he wondered why you were crying.

"M'fine, Arthur." You quickly wiped away your tears and tried to force a smile, but your eyes avoided his gaze. His blueish green eyes looking right into yours. He gritted his teeth upon hearing you try and excuse it. He shook his head.

"No, you're not okay." When he said this, you cried. He hugged you and kept you close. He just let you cry in his arms.

"How can you even love me?" You cried out and he shook his head.

"'Cause who wouldn't, darlin'?" He said softly, "Why wouldn't I?"

"Have you seen me?" You struggled to say as you cried. He nods.

"Yes, I have, and you're beautiful."

It was some time until you stopped, and let the all consuming feeling of his touch consume you.

You sniffled a bit, and he hummed.

"You're everything in my eyes, nothing will ever change that. I want you to know that." He spoke quietly, carefully. "I hate the way you think you're not good enough, 'cause for me, you are everything."

His words soothed you, the way you knew he meant it, his eyes followed his emotions and his emotions followed his words.

He made you feel so much better. "Thank you, for that..." You hardly knew what to say, it was alleviating, the way he took care of you in every problem you had. It made it all fade away slowly, making you feel so much better. You kissed him, and he kissed you back. When you smile, he chuckled.

"There's the smile." He smiled back at you. Oh man, he made you a better person, he made you want to love yourself even with the imperfections that you were so hung up on.

He made it all better.

[junosmindpalace]

FOR YOU, FOREVER AGO

🎧 take a piece of my heart and make it all your own.

pairing: arthur morgan x gn!reader

wc: 1.7k

synopsis: arthur, and the notes he leaves in the books he gifts you. who could have figured love can transcend time?

content: established relationship, reading, reading and some more reading (together), soft and playful love, fluff with some angst at the end (arthur's death mentioned). reader is briefly said to be wearing a chemise.

a/n: i said i wouldn't write him again and here i am. writing him again. because this game has taken up so much of my writing headspace...

There’s an old saying that Arthur has heard retold in various different ways, and it went along the lines of “an idle mind is the devil’s playground.”

It derived from Proverbs 16:27: “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” something he later found out upon overhearing the phrase from the Reverend’s mouth during one of his rare sermons. Arthur doesn’t believe much in any sort of sacred text, but he could, to an extent, believe in that phrase. 

It’s a belief Dutch and Miss Grimshaw hold in especially high regard, and their incessant nagging to do away with him loitering about in the camp proved that. And while he agrees that it is necessary for everybody to do their part, Arthur spends much of his time out involving himself in all kinds of tough and weary business, and like anyone else, sometimes the enforcer needed a break. 

Though it seemed so to quite many people, Arthur’s mind was not solely fixated on his life of crime. Like many other people he was a man of love, who enjoyed reveling in Mother Nature’s beauty, and memorializing its likeness in his journal in gorgeous detail, too. He enjoyed lingering in on conversations that took place around him; mundane things like about rumors and town happenings, though they weren’t always pleasant. And above all else, he enjoyed being around you. 

Scare was the time to enjoy such leisure with your responsibilities, however. Often, he would return to camp well into the dead of night or during wind down time you had permitted for yourself (because Lord knows Grimshaw wouldn’t) to entertain your mind. Borrowing from the collections of books around camp was one of few forms of amusement you relied upon for some sort of satisfying stimulation.

Arthur couldn’t help but sometimes be jealous of this. To enjoy the leather cover of a book against his fingertips and the patches of sweetgrass and lavender enclosed around him like a makeshift bed was a luxury he could rarely afford. Yet still, he found ways to incorporate his own amusement to look forward to when he did have the off time to enjoy it.

The habit, at first, was a means of compensating for his long absences. It was almost his way of giving you a piece of his heart to hold to your chest, fill your mind, make your own with your wild imagination while he was away for sometimes frightening days at a time. 

Arthur provided you with literature of all sorts, from dime novels to hardcover books, when he encountered them on his travels. Mythology retellings, exaggerated tales of the fictionalized Wild West, dramatic historical fiction with royalty, castles, and dragons, and the sort of philosophy books Dutch enjoys reading passages aloud from that critique civilization. Each one, though unique in content, held a message with consistent love that made your heart swell and your lips stretch into a pleasant smile at the intent behind them. 

Couldn’t resist. 

Thought you’d like this one. 

All my love. 

Thought of you. 

For you to enjoy when I’m away.

To keep you preoccupied while I’m gone.

To make up for lost time. 

It's late when Arthur finds time to enjoy the stories with you, propped up on his side in the while his other arm is draped loosely around your waist as you lay in the same position, holding the book the two of you were enamored with in one hand. The firelight illuminates the pages for him to read from over your shoulder, his fingers brushing over your stomach and arms absentmindedly as he immerses himself in the world along with you. 

“This gentleman sure is a character.” 

“Ain’t he?” you snicker, taking the comment as an indicator to turn to the next page. “Almost reminds me of someone.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he raises a brow at you, observing your expression with a tilt of his head.

“Nothin’ at all.” you hum innocently, pretending to fix your attention back onto the pages. He catches your bluff when he teasingly curls his arm around your waist and presses you closer against his chest, invoking a squeal of laughter from you as he ruffles your chemise. 

“Just turn the page.” he chuckles with a slight shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, but when you meet his playful gaze with one of your own, any further teasing dies on his tongue as his breath becomes lodged at the sight of your glow in the firelight. 

“Okay.” you tut with a raise of your brows, resituating yourself and leaning further into his grasp, to which he responds by hugging you closer. 

When your time wasn't spent under the stars, it was in your tent. Accompanied in your shared bedroll was a book from a marketplace stand you had picked out together when scouting around town. One of Arthur’s hands holds it on his stomach with his fingers at the bottom, while his other holds your shoulder soothingly. You lay your head over his heart, listening to its steady pulsing, and following the small text with tired eyes to lull you to sleep. 

Sometimes he read to you, when your eyes grew too heavy to look up at him, and your brain was too exhausted to form coherent enough thoughts, let alone conversation. He'd read with his free hand, voice gradually becoming husky with thick exhaustion of his own the more he read on. 

“Why’d you stop?” you murmured to him as you lulled you head up to look at him, briefly slipping into fuller consciousness when taking note of the absence of his voice amidst the evening chill.

“Thought you’d fallen asleep,” he replied, rubbing a hand up and down the side of your arm before planting a kiss on your forehead. You only shook your head.

“A little more?”

Arthur peered outside through a crevice in his tent to the pitch black, redirecting his attention back to you with a sigh. “Alright. But only a little.”

Sometimes you read to him, when he returns to the campsite with his brain scrambled from the hat and madness of his travels, and longs, almost on autopilot, for your presence and an extended period of rest. With his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, legs tangled on your sides and head snug against your stomach, you propped up one of the books you had borrowed from Mary-Beth, a romance that you could always rely on to knock Arthur out, with one hand, while the other carefully threads through his locks of brown hair.

“That sounds like a nice place to live, don’t it? In a house with a white picket fence and a beautiful garden.” You had asked him quietly one of those nights, looking down at his still figure, who merely hummed in response against your stomach. “Maybe outta the country.”

“And go where?” he replied drowsily, peering up at you through small eyes.

“I don’t know…surprise me.” you teased, and Arthur chuckled.

“Maybe someday, sweetheart.” he placed a kiss on the fabric of your night wear, letting out a sigh as he adjusted himself against you again. “Maybe someday we’ll go somewhere real nice.”

Amidst ever changing lives—periods of transition and transformation and hard feelings and new hopes and dreams—you made sure to often revisit his little notes kept in between the first few pages of a book picked out with you in mind and written with all the care you had to offer to one another. Nights apart we’re spent tracing the loving words with your eyes, running a nail through the loopy font. It reminds you that you lay under the same stars, the both of you wishing to reunite sooner than later upon one of the billions that twinkled in the sky. 

When Arthur had passed under the dying night sky, the menial, but important, declarations of love became lost to you. 

Focusing on anything outside of survival seemed impossible afterward, and the grief was all too fresh and thought consuming. Most of the time was spent rebuilding your life to the best of your ability, something not quite what you had envisioned in hopeful late night conversations with Arthur, but more bare minimum. No beautiful porch with a nice garden, no homey furnishings. Only a simple bungalow with a creaky bed and a bag of few possessions you managed to snag in your abrupt departure.

At the bottom of the bag one day, you find something, no, many things, you had not laid your eyes upon since before the hope of a new dawn was extinguished within you. 

It had been the first time you had felt an urge to be productive. For most of your days were spent in melancholy and anxious paralyzing thought that kept asking, what’s next?

You held them in your hands carefully, turning them over before opening them curiously, only to have your breath hitched when your eyes landed on the front.

Couldn’t resist.

You scrambled for another.

Thought you’d like this one.

Another, and then another. All of them until the reminders brought you to tears.

All my love.

Thought of you.

For you to enjoy while I’m away.

To keep you preoccupied while I’m gone.

To make up for lost time.

The rest of the night became dedicated to remembering all that you once had, and that you were once determined to have. Reading stories that always seemed as fantastical as your dreams of a sweeter life, perhaps where they even derived from. The inspiration and hope they fuelled gradually returned with each memory you recounted of your shared dream with Arthur.

He had given it to you in the end. Taken you some place nice, even if he wasn’t there himself to enjoy it with you. He’d given you a piece of his heart all those years ago, and you made it your own. Given you the resources—just enough money and a whole lot of love—to help you realize a life you always wanted. He was there; in the blooming flowers, in the magnificent dawn and dusk, in the pages of books you held carefully between your fingers. And you’d remind yourself of it every night with a trace of your fingers over his scrawled messages of adoration.

return to masterlist.

[javiersprincess]

tags: no warnings/fem reader/fluff/obvious self-insert/ use of french/ love confessions/ domestic/kissing/reader used to be a maid.

synopsis: you love javier - to madness, to ruin. to sanity, to salvation.

You’ve been murmuring under your breath, Javier can hear it over the sound of others in camp waking up. Through the rustling and clinging of tin cups your voice is clear through the commotion as you pass the comb through his hair one more time. It is one of the few mornings he doesn’t have morning guard duty, blessing him with the sight of the dawn breaking over the curve of your cheek and the flutter of your lashes. It allows him time to get ready with you and you are giving enough to comb his hair for him.

You’ve always liked his hair you had mentioned and are often found playing with the ends when he has it tied up.

Javier can tell the language you mutter in, it’s french and it sounds like a rhyme. He hums softly to the rhythm of your words before he asks you.

“I didn’t know you spoke french.” His voice is soft, as if it might break the soft bubble you two exist in. You’re humming is lost and you pause, instead bringing the tip of the comb to the crown of his head and begin to part his hair.

“I don’t really, I just know a few phrases.” You say as you let the comb slide swiftly down the ink of his hair. You are jealous of how feather soft he can keep it, when living rough like this.

“My mistress was tutored in French when she was a little girl. What she learned rubbed off on me.”

“So what are you muttering right now?”

You hum, letting the comb lose itself in his tresses before letting your hand collect the strands to begin making his ponytail.

“It’s like the saying he loves me, he loves me not but more detailed.” You explain, holding his hair gently so as to not tug on it while you lean to get his usual hair tie he had handed to you earlier when you had first asked to help him with his hair.

“Say it for me?” Javier asks, a cheeky smile on his lip as he eyes you from the corner of his vision. He catches your smile, the gentle scrap of your nails against the back of his neck makes it feel like there’s a bird in his chest.

You whined the hair tie around his hair once.

“Je l’aime un peu.”

You wrap the hair tie around his hair twice.

“Beaucoup.”

You wrap the hair tie around his hair thrice.

“Passionnément.”

You wrap the hair tie around his hair one last time, and lean to gentle tug at the strands of hair he likes to have in front of his face. Your hand comes to trace his features with soft reverence - the thin edge of your nail running along the scar on his left cheek that you press a tender kiss to. You utter the next part of the phrasing quietly as if to ensure only Javier hears it and no one else.

“À la folie.”

I love you to madness, to insanity. Fervently, wildly, desperately, senselessly and so many other wonderful synonyms . You find it within yourself unable to utter the next part as if the words were lead on your tongue. Not when the words you have just uttered capture you perfectly, as you let your eyes settle and count the long black lashes that fan around Javier’s dark eyes. His voice pulls you from your daze and you find your eyes pinned to his lips.

“And?” Your eyes do not move at all as you utter,

“Pas du tout.”

“What does that part mean?”

“It means not at all.” You whisper to him leaning in close enough to feel his lips brush against yours. It is bitter, like the taste of tobacco on the backs of your teeth, to resist the urge to kiss him.

“And what part do you feel towards me?”

“À la folie. I love you to madness, to insanity, to ruin.” It’s easy for you to admit that to him - it’s always easy to tell Javier you love him. Until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east and until the oceans bring the mountains crumbling down. You love Javier with all you have to offer and maybe he can see it with how gently it is you arrange a strand of his hair away from his face.

Whether Javier comes to you as a lover or executioner you are always ready to accept him.

Javier does not say anything back but you can see how his eyes twitch when he blinks slowly and his throat bobbles. Your gaze is kind and understanding; you press the gentlest kiss against his, undoubtedly pure in this wicked world. A mere press of your lips to his - Javier presses back just as gently and it is enough to profess all that can not be said.

I love you.

I know.

I can’t say it, not yet.

I know, it’s okay.

You pull away with a kind smile, one that makes your eyes wrinkle at the edges; making them soft with adoration. Javier is as well groomed as he is any other day and it makes you proud to have your part in that. You rise from your position at his side to begin to make your way to the opening of your tent. A warm hand goes to yours, stopping you and brings your attention back to him as if it ever truly leaves. Javier stands now, his thumb swiping over the slopes of your knuckles. His hand is different to yours; his palms wide and squared with scars all over. It’s almost painful to see the difference when compared with your delicate and dexterous hands. Your hand is brought to his lips, adorned by his facial and you giggle bubbly and bright at how it feels when the hairs tickle the smooth skin of your inner wrist. He places a kiss where your pulse can be felt and you know he feels how it jumps at the feeling of his lips against your skin.

“Thank you.” His dark eyes are soft when he gazes at you. It’s too much to look at, so you avert your gaze and feel the heat on your face. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yes,” you smile softly - a blushing maiden all tender hearted and sweet eyed. “Always.”

It makes him nod his head and grin, tipping his head at you in farewell to begin the day.

Farewell, until tonight that is.

[scorchedrain]

sweet treat [arthur morgan x gn! reader]

a short fluff blurb where you share s’mores with arthur morgan in the camp inspired solely by the fact i wanted to feed that big, beefy cowboy a sweet treat. 523 words. link to ao3!

it wasn’t often the camp had moments of celebration. many times there were several threats looming above their heads and everyone had to be vigilant. so you really cherished the times you didn’t need to spend hours on guard or running errands for the camp. the night was clear and the sky was full of stars — especially away from the pollution of Saint Denis.

you sat quietly by the fire, waiting for the night patrol to roll back in. you secretly hoped you could get some time alone with arthur morgan. you’d had a crush on him since he was a young man, having joined the gang around the same time. but arthur was dutch’s prized possession, and sometimes you felt invisible trying to garner just a bit of the infamous outlaw’s attention.

you ate your dinner politely, excusing yourself to the private campfire you set up near your living space. you spread out the s’more supplies — of course offering some to little jack who couldn’t get enough. thankfully, it looked like dutch was allowing arthur the night off and you had a chance to make your move.

you cornered him over by the hitching posts. remembering your manners you say, “good evening mr. morgan. i was perhaps wondering if you could spare me an hour or so of your time? i made somethin for ya.” arthur tilts his head upward in response, peering at you underneath the brim of his hat. he nods, not big on conversation and you’re thankful that the cover of darkness hides how giddy you look. “just give me a moment to wash up,” he speaks, voice gruff and laced with exhaustion. you curtesy politely, and practically sprint back to your campsite to check the set up.

arthur walks over with a fresh shave, only half paying attention as he says, “what is it you wanted to show me again?” you smile. “close your eyes. promise it’s not poison” you giggle, and arthur chuckles as he sits down beside the fire. you tenderly offer him a bite of marshmallow, cracker and chocolate. he chews thoughtfully for a moment. “awfully sweet,” he chuckles, then adds, “just like you, of course.” he smiles and you feel as though the butterflies in your stomach have migrated across your whole body.

“made it for you. thought you could use a sweet treat,” you say in the dim campfire light. arthur, feeling a bit bold after a successful mission, replies, “then what are you doing over there?” a small gasp leaves your lips as you stumble your way into his lap. “i like you too, ya know? been too busy to tell ya” he begins, you interrupt with a soft kiss. eyes fluttering shut and the distant sounds of the crackling fire make atmosphere so romantic. when you pull away, arthur is a bit shocked but smiling. “sorry, you had a bit of chocolate in your mustache” you apologize with a cheeky shrug. arthur pulls you close, “I think you missed some” he teases in return. and so you kiss again, under the starry sky, forgetting your troubles for the night.

beneaththehalo || est. 2024

[tuxebo]

What do you think of John marston?

he's hot, that's about it (pretending i didn't just write this whole thing abt him.) while i've read that he gets better over time, i'm yet to see it so i have mixed feelings on him. he's not a good father, not a good friend, not a good husband. let's be real here, he wouldn't make a good partner unless he fell in love before joining the gang.

john marston who wasn't completely alone before dutch saved his tail from getting hung. there was this poor baker and his wife, they had a kid, you. you weren't wealthy folk, no, but you always brought john dinner or shared yours. it wasn't large portions, but enough to keep him from dying of hunger.

you first met him when you caught him trying to steal from the bakery, rather than telling your parents you just handed him to bread. you had a mini picnic on the bakery's front porch, you talking his ears off was more than enough payment for the food.

you brought him food a couple more times, talking about yourself while he ate in silence, eventually he opened up and started engaging in the conversations you started. he never told you much about himself, other than the orphanage you could find him at. he showed you which window was his and that you only need to toss a pebble at it to get his attention.

as time passed, john became more and more of a no b.s. little boys. the kind of little boy that got himself killed or in a gang, as your daddy said. he didn't put up with anyone messing with you, in that respect he got more aggressive with your bullies, but never with you. you taught him things you learned from your mother as she was your teacher, some of it didn't stick but you tried.

inevitably, john disappeared. he was either dead in a ditch or in a gang, your dad didn't mention a third possibility but you liked to believe he'd been adopted by a nice family and that you'd see him again. you were only about 11 years old and he was 12, it wasn't shocking for you to have such enthusiasm.

life continued as usual for about three decades. you never married, business was going well after your parents died and suddenly you had one too many responsibilities on your plate for any of that. the world was becoming more and more industrialized by the day, you wouldn't even recognize it to what it once was when you were a kid. the only place that felt like home was your bakery, which is part of the reason it was doing so well, the nostalgia.

having had been in the business for so long, you were no stranger to thieves ─ you even caught one before you were double digits. one a particularly slow morning, the grey clouds settling in as you prepared for rain, a quiet hum caught your attention.

stepping out from the back, you caught a young man staring down your trays of different breads. he wasn't quiet at all, practically begging to be caught. you smiled, planning on just giving some to him anyway, but the look he gave you rendered you speechless from deja vu. same type of bread, same guilty smile, same brown eyes, same thinking hum.

"aw c'mon, son ─ jus' had to be this one of all the damn shops on the block," a man swore, the same way your dad did when he read about some young-ins doing stupid stuff in the paper. the voice was familiar, deeper as it had been many years now, but before you was john marston and another younger john marston.

since leaving the gang and his son's mother, john marston was a changed man. finally able to pay you back for all the bread and the bread his boy tried to steal. this time he gave you a proper picnic, in the large yard on his property. he set up under on of his sycamore trees, just like you had described three decades ago.

john marston may not have been adopted by some nice family nor was he always a nice man, but he was ready to become one for his son and you.

[emmcfrxst]

i talk a lot about sex with arthur but i am such a sucker for non-sexual intimacy. just lying down facing each other and tracing each other’s features with the tips of your fingers. undressing each other after a long day and letting your hands linger not out of lust but out of appreciation for the person that you love. bathing together in a river and washing each other’s hair. resting your chin on his shoulder as you sit behind him on his horse. sitting around the campfire with one of his big hands splayed across your thigh, his fingers drumming along to a song in his head. pressing your foreheads together and whispering words of adoration before he leaves for a job. resting your head on his bare chest and falling asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. him cupping your face in his big hands and caressing your cheeks with his thumbs only for you to move your head to kiss the palm of his hand. just. non-sexual intimacy with arthur morgan.

[monsterbeetlebug]

Never steal from Micah Bell

Fem reader

Tw: mentions of guns, violence, fire, blood, sexual tension.

Tilly came running into camp. She was full of panic. Eyes vide and out of breath. She started screaming that you had been kidnapped by a gang. They had been after all of you for some time. They managed to get their hands on you wanting to get info on where the Van der Linde gang was residing. Everyone dropped their stuff and came running to Tilly. Asking of everything she knew. Miss Grimshaw took her away to clean her up as the fellers started talking. Dutch, Hosea and Arthur was scrambling about to gather their stuff. They quickly turned around when they heard the sound of hoves racing away. They all stood frozen looking confused between each other as Micah raced away. He had never shown any interest or care to save anyone but himself. Micah rodes as fast as he could. Rage was fueling him. The reflection of the sunset was like flames in his eyes. There was no mercy to be shown. Nobody who steals from Micah Bell had a life ahead of them. His laugh erupted. He felt like he would go insane if anything happened to you. "Ain't no one stealin from me who gets to stay alive."

You were locked in a small shed. Left in the dark small room. They had roughed you up a bit trying to get you to speak. Your head hanging down as you focused on sounds outside. You had shot up as you heard an all too familiar laugh and yelling. Micah! The cold bastard actually cared enough about you to come and save you. "I'm going to burn this place to the ground! Time to meet with your maker boys!" His maniacal laughter came through as you heard glass breaking and shots fired. You could see the slight glow of fire from outside. There was screaming and gunshots all around.

Then suddenly, it fell silent. No talking. No footsteps. Only the crackling of fire growing. You feared the worst. Then, the door of the shed swung open. Your eyes widened, and relief filled you. There before you stood Micah. The glow and sparks from the fire wild behind him. The dark silhouette was disturbingly impressive. His eyes felt cold and dark. Blood was splattered across him. Luckily, it wasn't his own. You jolted up and ran towards him. You hugged yourself around his neck. He hugged back and patted you back. "You came for me, you cold bastard, you actually came." Micah let out a soft chuckle as you pulled apart. He looked at you with eyes that told more than his words. "Couldn't let them get away with stealing the only thing I care more for than my guns." You felt a tingling sensation go through you at his words. You hugged him tighter with your head under his chin. Smiling to yourself hearing those words. That evil asshole actually has some feelings beneath is vile exterior. Something he would never show to anyone else, especially not back at camp. He couldn't let them know he actually had a heart. He would never hear the end of it if they found out he was a human after all.

Micah grinned to himself feeling how close you held onto him. He held you just as thight back. Feeling relaxed knowing you where safe with him again. He slowly slid his hand down your back to place it on your butt. Softly squeezing. You felt a cribling inside. A warm feeling that was building. He placed a kiss on your head before he moved to kiss at your neck. He let out a hum of appreciation. Your breath got heavy as you closed your eyes. You could feel him grow harder against your stomach. He pulled away and placed a kiss on your forehead. A soft smirk visibleas he spoke. "C'mon, let's get you out of here, we'll finish this later doll."

He gave you a pat on your butt as he helped you up on his horse. Then suddenly you heard a stampede of hoves arriving. It was all the fellers from camp. Arriving just as you were about to leave this place. They saw you sat on top of Baylock like a trophy. All safe and content. Your cheeks stilled flushed red from Micah's actions. They looked at the burning camp behind you. Half the place was burned already, and things had begun falling down. Arthur looked angry at Micah. "What tha hell, Micah?! Was it really necessary to burn the place?" Micah led his horse towards them with a prideful saunter. His sleazy grin taking it's usual form. He leaned a bit back and put his hands out to his sides, exaggerating his words. "You're late to the show boys. Everything's dealt with, and I've saved our dear damsel in distress. But I didn't take you for a slow guy in a rescue Cowpoke, or should I say slowpoke instead?" Micah mocked Arthur as he passed by everyone. You couldn't help but find it funny. You tried your best to hide it so Arthur wouldn't get more upset than he already was.

Micah eventually hopped up behind you. Making sure you were sat close to him. You could feel his still hard member pressed up against your back. Making sure you could feel how much he craved you. As Baylock started trotting away and back home, he put a secure hand on your thigh. Stroking at your inner thigh. It made your warm tingle feel like a flame stared inside. Melting you closer to him. He needed to feel you to know you where there. That you where safe within his hand. He had a grin on his lips. With a rough but loving voice he spoke. "Let's get you home and taken care of princess."

[sixgunluvr]

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. The scent of sweat and sex clung to both of you, but neither of you cared. It was a reminder of the passion you had shared, and you reveled in it.

The two of you lay there, wrapped up in each other's arms, the sounds of the night slowly seeping into the tent. You could hear crickets chirping and coyotes howling in the distance, the smell of grass and wildflowers scenting the air. It was a reminder of the harsh, unforgiving world outside, but inside the tent, it felt like you and Arthur were the only two people who existed.

[allthemeniveloved]

hii, i’m not sure about what your policy for requests are, i only just came across your page but i have to say that what i have come across, i rlly love your writing! would you ever write something for charles? he’s a fav of mine and i think it would be so nice to read for him in your writing <3

Token

Summary: Tipsy moments around the fire with Charles.

wc: 1,163

ao3 link

Tags: Charles Smith x fem!reader, friends to lovers, fluff fluffy mcfluff, alcohol

a/n: I don't have a lot of practice writing for anyone other than John or Arthur but I'm open to learning and new ideas! This is short but I hope this is okay, anon. <3

The crackle of the campfire was soft but steady, casting flickering shadows across the tents and wagons scattered around Clemens Point. The rest of the gang had long since drifted to sleep, their snores and the rustling of the lake’s breeze the only accompaniment to the warm glow of the fire. It was a rare moment of peace, a quiet oasis in the chaos of life on the run.

You sat cross-legged on a log, a bottle of whiskey dangling loosely from your fingers. The warmth of the fire mingled with the pleasant buzz in your veins, and the evening felt… perfect. Across from you, Charles was working on a small piece of wood, his knife moving with slow, deliberate precision.

“Y’know,” you slurred slightly, a grin tugging at your lips, “I think you’re the only one who doesn’t turn into a blabbermouth after a drink or two. You’re like… mysterious or somethin’.”

Charles chuckled softly without looking up from his work. “Or maybe I just like to let you do the talking.”

You laughed, leaning back to gaze at the stars overhead. “You’re lucky I’m good at it then. Could you imagine if we both just sat here in silence? Wouldn’t that be somethin’? Just sittin’ here… staring at each other, not saying a damn word.”

“Sounds peaceful,” Charles replied, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

The two of you fell into easy conversation, laughter punctuating the quiet moments as the night deepened. He shared a rare story or two from his childhood, and you countered with your own half-remembered tales, each sillier than the last. The whiskey flowed freely, and the fire burned low, but Charles remained focused on his carving, his knife glinting in the firelight.

You couldn’t help but notice the way Charles’s hands moved as he worked, his fingers steady and deliberate, guiding the knife with a precision that seemed almost hypnotic. The muscles in his forearms flexed subtly with each stroke, and the rhythmic motion of his carving was oddly mesmerizing. The firelight cast a warm glow across his skin, illuminating the fine lines of concentration etched into his expression. A flush crept into your cheeks, unbidden, as you caught yourself staring for a little too long. Your thoughts wandered to how strong and capable those hands seemed, and you quickly shook your head, blaming the whiskey for the heat rising to your face. Get it together, you scolded yourself silently. You’re tipsy. That’s all it is.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of you. You leaned forward, your gaze zeroing in on the small object in his hands. “Alright, I gotta ask. What are you making over there? You’ve been at it all night.”

“You’ll see,” he said simply, his tone teasing.

“Oh, come on!” You groaned, nearly tipping off the log in your tipsy enthusiasm. “You’ve gotta give me somethin’, Charles. A hint? A clue? Is it for Dutch? Or maybe it’s somethin’ for Pearson’s stew pot.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Not for Dutch. And definitely not for Pearson.”

You squinted at him suspiciously, narrowing your eyes. “So it is for someone. Who?”

He hesitated, his hands pausing briefly before resuming their steady work. “Someone who deserves it.”

That stopped you short. Your heart gave a little flutter in your chest, and you swallowed hard, trying to ignore the strange weight behind his words. “Well, whoever it is, they’re lucky to have you making something for ‘em.”

Charles didn’t respond right away. Instead, he turned the small carving over in his hands, inspecting it closely before finally letting out a quiet sigh. “It’s for you,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Your eyes widened as you stared at him, the warmth in your chest spreading like wildfire. “Me? Charles, you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupted gently, his voice soft but unwavering as he held the carving out to you. His fingers brushed yours as he passed it over, and you couldn’t ignore the warmth that lingered where your hands had touched. “Here. It’s not perfect, but… I thought you’d like it.”

You stared down at the small wooden figure in your hands, the firelight dancing across its surface. It was a bird, its wings carved in delicate, sweeping strokes as though frozen mid-flight, each line etched with care and precision. Your breath hitched as your thumb traced over the details, the weight of the carving somehow grounding and disarming all at once. “Charles,” you whispered, your voice catching on the lump in your throat. “It’s… beautiful. I don’t even know what to say.”

He said nothing for a moment, his silence stretching between you like the taut string of a bow. When you finally glanced up, his gaze was fixed on you, dark and unyielding, filled with something that made your chest tighten. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant. “I just… I wanted you to have something from me."

Your pulse quickened, the words lingering in the space between you, heavy with an unspoken weight. “Charles…” you began, your voice trembling. The air seemed impossibly thick now, every crackle of the fire punctuating the steady drum of your heartbeat. His eyes didn’t waver, that quiet intensity rooting you in place.

“I mean it,” he continued, his tone steady but almost vulnerable. “You’re not just a friend to me. You never have been. And I’ve been too much of a coward to tell you that until now.”

The confession sent a jolt through you, a mix of shock and something deeper, something that made it impossible to breathe for a long, suspended moment. His expression didn’t falter, but his hands clenched briefly at his sides, betraying the nerves beneath his calm exterior. “Charles…” you tried again, but words failed you, caught in the storm of your emotions.

Instead, you acted. Leaning forward, you closed the distance between you, the world narrowing to the warmth of the fire and the space between your lips meeting his. His kiss was soft at first, a tentative brush, before deepening with quiet urgency, as if this moment had been waiting to happen all along. The scent of pine and woodsmoke surrounded you, grounding you even as your heart soared.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing unsteadily. A small, shaky laugh escaped you, and you smiled, your cheeks flushed and your hands trembling slightly. “I think… I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” you admitted, the words spilling out in a quiet rush, heavy with nerves and joy.

Charles’s lips quirked into a rare, soft smile, his hand brushing against yours in a gesture that felt both grounding and electrifying. The fire crackled softly, casting shadows that danced around you as the world seemed to fall away. In that moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the whiskey.