#rdr2 fluff
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soaringskystuff · 1 day ago
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this story is TOO SWEET omg my hearttttt😭😭
conflicted spaces
Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
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a/n: He doesn’t get TB in this. Why? Because this is fanfiction and I’m god and fuck canon (I just finished the game, I’m emotionally distraught and needed this)
Warnings: brief attempted SA
Summary: Your father is a gambling man and you’re always the collateral. He refuses to pay the wrong man and now you’re being dragged across country roads to a man you’ve never met. Arthur Morgan, an outlaw down to the bone, is in charge of making sure you get there in one piece. Except, he doesn’t feel right selling a woman off like she’s property.
You’re done being a doormat and letting the men in your life tell you what you’re worth. You’ve got three days to escape him, but you’re not prepared for the reality of the real world.
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“Put your hands where I can see ‘em, cowboy.” Arthur’s shoulders tense and he curses under his breath. His hand darts to the revolver on his hip, but the second his fingers twitch towards it he hears a hammer being pulled back. The cool barrel of a gun digs into his neck and he raises his hand in surrender. 
The man behind him lets out a familiar laugh and tugs him around. Arthur rolls his eyes and glares at Dutch. “The hell are you doing?”
Dutch clears his throat, still laughing slightly. “Relax, Arthur, but if I had been an O’Driscoll you’d be dead right now.” Arthur doesn’t point out that the only thing they have to worry about out here are the Lemonye raiders. He’s more focused on why Dutch is even out here. Rarely does he leave Shady Belle to traverse the streets of St. Denis. 
None of them are particularly fond of the place. If he wanted to step in horse shit every other step he’d go to a stable. At least those smell better. Dutch slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, tugging him away from the saloon he was heading towards. 
“You’re gonna have to save the cheating for later, Arthur, I need you for something.”
“You know I don’t cheat,” Arthur jokes and Dutch grins at him and it’s nice. This is familiar to him. This feels right. Dutch has been odd lately, the jobs he’s been taking, the risks he’s been imposing, none of them feels like the man he knows. 
Now, Arthur would follow Dutch straight into hell without being asked. But he can’t abide by how he’s putting their people in harm's way. He’s felt like a stranger more often than not and he’s been doubting the people he shouldn’t. Right now, though, he can see the man he knows in the teasing curl of his lips. 
“What’dya need?”
Dutch pauses in front of a tailor and pats Arthur’s chest. “I need you to look prim and proper for a party we’ve got tonight.”
Arthur’s brows furrow cynically and he scoffs. “Someone invited us to a party?”
Dutch hesitates, a stiff smile on his face. “Well, let’s just say someone is interested in our work.” Arthur wants to question him further, he’s hiding something from him. But Dutch is pushing him towards the door of the shop before he can argue. “And get a haircut, we need to look presentable not like a bunch of mountain men.”
Arthur watches as Dutch leaves, something heavy weighing down on him. Dutch doesn’t usually tell people about his plans beforehand. At least not every step of them. But this is odd, he’s definitely hiding something and Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know what. 
With a resigned huff, he heads into the tailor. He has to mentally prepare himself for being stuffed into a starched collar and a stiff suit for the rest of the night. He hates these damn parties, hates having to pretend like he knows what the hell is being said. 
Most of the people that attend are educated or pretend to be. And when he lets it slip that he’s more likely to shoot a gun than read a book they turn on him like jackals. You can’t let them see that you’re different than them or you’ll never get a word in edgewise. 
The only part he enjoys is the booze and robbing them of their money. It’s not like they earned any of it. Most of it was made by breaking the backs of the people they mock for being too poor to afford a fancy suit. 
Arthur takes a deep breath and looks for the cheapest suit he can find in the overpriced shop. 
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“Now,” Mr. Crane’s hand tightens around your bicep and he jerks you closer to him. You keep your face impassive, not letting him see just how much he’s hurting you. But you can feel your skin being stretched to its limits by his clammy fingers. “You’re going to behave tonight. I’ve got a few gentlemen I’d like you to meet.”
He looks at you expectantly but you keep your mouth firmly shut. His eyes narrow and he jerks you around roughly. “Understood,” you force the word out through gritted teeth. You’re trying to breathe as little as possible, not wanting to smell his cigar-laced breath any longer. 
Finally, after a tortuously long moment, he releases you. You take ten steps back, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from the silk skirt he’d forced you in. You glance out the window of his office, watching as the workers scramble to set up the tables for tonight. You can hear cooks in the kitchen, shouting out orders for the food for tonight. 
Everything must be perfect. Mr. Crane never fails to deliver on his extravagantly indulgent parties. The man himself is the very embodiment of greed. You glance over with a disgusted sneer as he sinks himself into his leather chair and pulls out a wad of cash. 
He catches your eye and sends you a sickly sweet smile. “This,” he waves the money at you and you track the movement boredly. “Is how much you’re worth, sweetheart.” Your brows raise in amusement and you scoff. More than you thought he would put up for you. 
You wonder who he’s going to have transport you. He’ll need you out of the city soon, your father is starting to catch onto what’s happening. It took him long enough. You’ve been missing a month, you’d think he would have put two and two together faster. Then again, he’d never been very interested in you beyond what you were worth to others. 
“When will I be able to meet these gentlemen?” You ask, taking a step towards him. Your eyes dart towards the letter opener on his desk and for a brief moment you picture yourself strabbing it into his fattened jugular. 
But he flicks his wrist and like magic the door opens, his men coming inside and standing resolutely by your side. “Not anytime soon, my dear.” He looks to the men surrounding you and you take in a sharp breath, wishing you’d just taken the chance when you had it. “My associate is feeling quite tired, take her back to her room, please.”
They grab you by the elbows, even though it's entirely unnecessary. You wouldn’t run, and even if you did you wouldn’t get far with the chains he has hidden under your dress. A punishment for the first time you snuck from his home. You’ve been well behaved since then but he doesn’t trust you. 
You’re whisked away without another word. The trek of the stairs is a slow one. They’re forced to help you navigate by lifting your skirts and not tripping on the chains. It no longer brings you any satisfaction to cause a hindrance in any of their days. 
Before, you would think of being an annoyance as a small victory. But it’s not, it never was. It was just a way for them to keep you complacent by allowing you to think you’d done something for yourself. You believe your father used to do the same thing. 
It’s just another way of keeping you quiet. 
When you make it to your rooms, they shove you inside. Like clockwork, you hear the jingle of the keys and then the lock clicks. You sigh and take a step towards your vanity, working on touching up your hair. 
You think the worst part of this must be how well you’re treated. You have meals made by a private chef. Your quarters are decorated more lavishly than they ever were at your father’s house. Yet, you hear the suffocating tick of the clock as it counts down your doom. 
You’re not entirely sure what their plan is with you. You know your father had made a promise to Mr. Crane involving some land. Or perhaps it had been a wager. But as always, you were collateral when your father refused to pay up. 
You know Mr. Crane wants you out of town so that he has more time to negotiate with your father, to call in the interest he owes him. You also know the only reason your father is interested in finding you is because you’re meant to marry the son of a business partner in two months. The money he’ll get from that will be enough to finally pay off his debts. 
Except, now, Mr. Crane tells you that should your father refuse to pay you’ll be married to one of his associates. And the deal he’ll make from that will be enough to cover what your father has refused to pay. 
No matter what, you’re going to be married off to some man you’ve never met and yet again be a quiet trophy on a shelf. It’s a very convoluted situation, one which makes you think leaping from a window might be a better fate. 
None of the men your father or Mr. Crane is in business with are particularly kind. They’ve got more skeletons in the closet than there are in the graveyard. You doubt you’ll live a very happy life with whoever they pick for you. 
You slump forward onto the vanity, trying to fight off the burning feeling in the back of your eyes. You’ve known this would happen for years. Even before Mr. Crane had you kidnapped, you knew that this would be your destiny. You would never get to be one of the free-spirited women who fought for the right to choose. You would always be forced into this role. 
Yet, being so close to it coming to fruition makes you feel choked and suffocated. You can feel the noose around your neck tightening, the hangman’s fingers twitching as he waits to see you drop. 
You dig your nails into your palm, taking in a deep breath and fighting back the wave of despair. Where there is doom, you also see a sliver of hope. Your next journey will be a long one. He’s hiring someone to have you transported to an area further up the map. 
If you play your cards right you might be able to escape while you’re traveling. If you’re incredibly smart about this, thinking with your head and not your heart, you might have a shot at freedom. 
You take in a deep breath, reapplying your makeup and resolving yourself to another night of mindless entertainment. But you hold onto that fleeting feeling of hope. You have a shot, you just have to take it. 
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Arthur’s heard of these parties before. Some Mr. Crane fella that likes to blow all his money on food and booze. He indulges his guests and when they’re weakest, gets their secrets from them. He’s a snake and everyone knows it. Yet, missing his party is social suicide. They have no choice but to go and indulge in him. 
Arthur had never had any interest in meeting him or doing any business with him. But Dutch had informed him that’s exactly what’s happening tonight. They’ll mingle for a little while, maybe scout some other jobs, and then Mr. Crane will invite them up to his office for a private discussion. 
Dutch still hasn’t told him what exactly their business with him is. He brought Hosea along tonight so he has to assume it’s not going to be anything violent. But he can’t think of anything else they could be good for. 
“Alright, gentlemen,” Dutch places his hands on Hosea’s and Arthur’s shoulders, a scheming smile on his face. “Try not to embarrass me.” He slips behind them, heading up the stairs of the home. Hosea and Arthur share a brief look before they split up, blending into the background of the garden. 
Arthur lurks near the bar, he knows he should be talking to these assholes, possibly learning something useful. But he can’t be bothered. He orders a whiskey, gaze surveying the partygoers. They’re all loud with painted faces and fake smiles. Not a goddamn person here seems to be genuinely interested in anything they’re doing. 
“First time?” The soft voice beside him catches him off guard. He glances to the side and is surprised to see that you’ve slipped past him. He hadn’t even noticed you slide up next to him. You laugh at the look on his face and it’s the first thing here that seems real. “Sorry, it’s just that look on your face, I recognize the disappointment. You’ve never been to one of Crane’s parties before?”
“No,” he clears his throat, still recovering from the surprise. “Uh, I can’t say I have.”
You suck on your teeth, narrowing your eyes at the people passing by. “They’re not worth the effort. Everyone who leaves here leaves carrying his debt on their back.”
Arthur chuckles a little, lips twitching up into a small smile. He’s surprised by your frankness, most people like to hide behind passive-aggressive digs. He appreciates the straightforward attitude. “Then why are you here?”
You shrug and Arthur finds himself enchanted. He shouldn’t be, he’s never been one for romance. He finds women pretty and he’s been in love before, but he’s never bought into the idea of love at first sight. Or any of that mushy stuff that Mary Beth devours in those books of hers. 
But you are absolutely gorgeous, dressed in a silk dress that’s so expensive he’s sure he could buy two new horses with it. Your fingers and neck are decorated in dainty jewels that you fidget with as you stare down at your drink. When you set your eyes on him again he thinks he might have been struck by Cupid’s arrow. 
“I don’t have a choice,” you finally answer, sending him a stiff smile. “What about you? Why are you here?”
Arthur suddenly remembers himself, remembers why he’s here and what he’s supposed to be doing. The fog in his head dissipates and he’s disappointed in himself. Pretty women have never done anything except get him in trouble. 
“Business,” he answers vaguely. Your eyes narrow and your brows twitch in discontent. Something like realization dawns on your face and you back away from him. The easy attitude you’d carried yourself with is gone, replaced by a vague look of distrust. 
“Right, should’ve known.” You let out a rough sigh and Arthur can’t help but feel like he’s said the wrong thing. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again soon.” You slip past him before he can ask you what you mean. He hears the faint sound of metal clinking as you walk back up the stairs. 
Something silver flashes under your skirts but he can’t get a good glimpse of it. He feels unsettled as he turns back to the bar. The whole interaction was odd. From how stricken he was with you to how cold you turned. 
He doesn’t know what you saw in him but it was probably for the best that you left when you did. Neither of you needed the trouble the other would bring. He shakes his head, downing his whiskey and muttering nonsense to himself about not thinking with the wrong head. 
It’s not that much later that Dutch is appearing on the balcony and silently motions him forward. Arthur leaves the bar behind and slips up the same stairs you’d disappeared on. Dutch says nothing as he leads Hosea and Arthur through the house. 
The mansion is a maze more than anything. Arthur loses track of all the turns they take and the winding staircases they descend. Finally, Dutch stops them all in front of two large oak doors. He raps once on the door and then lets himself in. 
A large, balding man with a shiny head is perched on top of a leather chair. He looms behind his desk, fingers steepled as he greets them all with a false smile. “Ah, gentlemen, so nice to finally meet you.”
Dutch grins and motions to Arthur, “This is the man who will be doing the transporting, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes narrow in confusion but he says nothing as Dutch moves to Hosea, “And this is my associate, Hosea. He’s a lot better with money than I am, Mr. Crane. You understand.”
Mr. Crane lets out a boisterous laugh that makes Arthur’s ears hurt and nods his head, his cheeks jiggling with the movement. “That I do! Well,” he waves them forward when they linger in the doorway too long, “come in, come in.”
Arthur closes the doors behind them as Mr. Crane lifts himself from his desk. There are two couches positioned in front of an unlit fire. He takes one of them and Dutch and Hosea take the other. Arthur perches himself on the armrest of their couch, eyes surveying the office like it might reveal the truth of their visit. 
“I trust Mr. Van der Linde has kept this all quiet?” 
“He has,” Arthur grouses. 
At the same time, Dutch says, “Of course, Mr. Crane. I promised confidentiality and Dutch Van der Linde is nothing if not a man who keeps to his promises.” Crane nods, looking satisfied and  Arthur holds back a laugh at how easily he seems to trust Dutch.
“Good, good.” He dips his hand inside his jacket and Arthur’s palm instinctively drops to where his gun should be. Of course, they’d had to give up their weapons before they came into the party, if he does has a gun Arthur can’t do a damn thing. 
But he doesn’t, instead, he pulls out the thickest stack of cash that Arthur has ever laid his eyes on. A loud thud resounds through the room as he slams the bills on top of the table between them. Arthur’s eyes widen and Hosea’s jaw nearly drops at the sight of it all. 
This would be enough to get them out of St. Denis tonight. Shock sours quickly into suspicion. What the hell has Dutch signed up for? “Now, this is the first half. This is simply for accepting the job and,” he gives them all severe looks, “for your silence.”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his perch and waits for Mr. Crane to finish. “The other half will be given once the package has been safely delivered.” There’s a certain lilt to his words when he says package that has Arthur’s hackles raising. Whatever is getting delivered is not going to be good. 
Crane turns towards the bookshelves on the wall and calls out, “Darling, won’t you join us?” Arthur figures the man must have lost his mind, they should just take the money and leave. But there’s a loud creak and something like metal gears grinding together. One of the shelves pops open and the panel swings forward. 
You pop your head out, glancing towards Crane and then taking a step forward. Arthur, without even thinking about it, finds himself sitting up, and brushing some of the dirt off his pants from the ride over. 
At first, he’s so confused by seeing you again that he doesn’t realize why exactly he’s seeing you again. Then you glance towards him, a knowing look on your face and it clicks. You’re the package. You’re what he’s meant to be transporting. 
He glares over at Dutch, when exactly did they get into the business of trading women?
Hosea voices his doubts in a much calmer manner. “If I may, sir, why does she need to be delivered so discreetly?”
Mr. Crane laughs and your face twitches unpleasantly. You grimace, glaring at the back of the man’s head with something like murder in your eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause such a visceral look of hate and he doesn’t want to think about it. This whole situation is bothering him. You’re not here willingly, which means you’re not going to be transported willingly either. 
None of this makes sense. Dutch would never have taken a job like this before, even when they needed the money. And there’s no way in hell a rich man like this one would want to pay a couple of grungy outlaws so much money. There’s got to be some sort of trick in all of this. 
Cran clears his throat, “She’s a daughter of a, well,” he frowns and struggles for the words. “Let’s just say we’re in a hostile competition for a lot of land. This land, boys, could be very beneficial in expanding my business. He’s not interested in selling and, well, desperate times, desperate measures.”
You scoff, laughing slightly at him and rounding the couch. Dutch ignores you, Hosea looks uncomfortable, and Crane continues prattling on without missing a beat. “Should her father not pay me, she will be married to the associate you’re bringing her to. He’s promised me enough land and money to cover what I lost to her father. And if he does pay, she’ll be returned in time for her wedding here.”
Arthur’s eyes dart towards you and you send him a bitter smile. It makes him shift where he sits, hating the way your eyes bore into him. “I just need someone who's not afraid of getting their hands a little dirty to make sure she behaves while she’s delivered to my friend,” Crane glances over at Arthur. He asses him, the bulge of his arms in the suit and the scars on his face, whatever he finds must be satisfactory because he smiles over at Dutch. 
Arthur stands, ready for Dutch to tell Mr. Crane that they’re not in the business of selling women off. But Dutch doesn’t, he smiles at Mr. Crane and reaches for the money, passing it off to Hosea to count. “Well, I do believe my friend Arthur is just the man for the job.” 
“I think you’re right, Dutch.” He stands up now, pot belly nearly bursting the buttons of his shirt, and reaches for Dutch’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Dutch smiles and takes his sweaty palm, “You as well, sir.” Dutch walks towards you and holds his arm out. “This way, my dear.” You glance between him and his elbow before rolling your eyes and reluctantly placing your hand on his arm. You follow him silently and obediently, no fight is left in you. Hosea follows after you both, a concerned look on his face. 
Arthur remains in the office, standing dumbfounded and staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through. He’s struggling to process what just happened. Arthur has helped people get home safely before and provided protection. But he’s never been one to traffic a hostage. 
Crane glances up, finally noticing him still standing there. He walks past him, patting his shoulder as he does and giving him an approving smile. “Don’t be afraid to take care of her should she get out of hand.” He’s nearly out the door but he looks back and adds, “Just don’t bruise her too much.”
Arthur’s fingers twitch for his revolver once more and he’s never wanted to shoot a man more. But he knows Dutch is waiting for him and he’d never make it out of here alive if he started a fight right now. Reluctantly, he makes his way out of the manor and towards where you’re all waiting for him. 
He’s fuming by the time he stops in front of Dutch. He’s trying to help you onto his horse and Arthur finally realizes what the metal sound he heard earlier is. There are chains around your ankles and you can’t maneuver yourself on the saddle. 
His eyes narrow and he glares at Dutch, “What the hell are you doing? We’re selling women now?”
Dutch glowers at the tone of Arthur’s voice. You watch them both passively, fiddling with the rings on your fingers and looking unbothered by the entire situation. “Watch yourself, Arthur,” there’s a clear warning in his tone but Arthur’s too upset to care. 
They’ve done a lot of bad things. They weren’t good men. But this was just going too far. “We need this, Arthur. You want to get out of here, you want to keep our people safe?” Arthur let out a deep exhale, gritting his teeth together and nodding reluctantly. Dutch huffs, “That’s what I thought. We’re not selling anyone, Arthur. It’s a simple delivery.”
His jaw clenches as he watches Dutch struggle to help you again. “It’s not going to work,” you inform Dutch. You lift your skirts, flashing him the chains he hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Neither of you gets a chance to say anything as Arthur pulls out his gun and shoots the lock off. 
He feels a little guilty at how startled you look. Your eyes widen until they look like they might bulge out. Your hands fly up to cover your ears as the sound rocks through you. It breaks violently through the silence of the night. 
Dutch turns and gives him a stern look, “Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?” Arthur can tell he’s trying not to shout and drag any more attention towards you all. 
Arthur glares at Dutch, something wicked brewing in his stomach. “The lady wouldn’t be able to ride a horse like that.” He mounts his horse and rides off without a look back. He can’t stand to be near you or Dutch any longer. 
The reality of what they’ve turned into hits him like a bag of rocks and it makes him irate. They’ve never been these people. Never traded a person off like they were an object. He’s sure plenty of people in camp would have a problem with this. But he doubts Dutch will let them know the truth until the job is done. 
And by then, everyone will be too happy with the money to complain. Dutch is nothing if not good at saving his ass. He’s hitching his horse as the rest of you ride into camp. He lingers by Diablo, resting a hand on the thick neck of the shire while Dutch helps you off the saddle. 
His eyes narrow in on the way Dutch’s fingers glide along your waist as you jump down. You take a step back the second your legs are steady sending Dutch a dirty look that almost makes Arthur laugh. 
He starts towards Dutch, ready to try and reason with him again. But he holds his hand up and walks away, not even giving him a chance to speak. Arthur lets out a rough sigh as Hosea comes up behind him. 
He pats his shoulder comfortingly, “You should get some sleep, Arthur. You’ll ride with her to Strawberry tomorrow morning.” He almost walks off but he whispers a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before he goes. 
Arthur glances towards you but you’re looking around the camp, eyes lingering on Javier as he sings by the fire. He swears he almost sees you smile but it's gone as quickly as it came. He takes his hat off, running his hand through his hair and letting out a tired sigh. 
“Alright, come with me,” he starts towards the house. It takes a minute to realize you’re not directly behind him. When he looks over your shoulder he sees you with your skirts lifted, tiptoeing through the mud and trying not to get your pretty skirts dirty. 
He rolls his eyes, storming back towards you. Your eyes widen at the look on his face and you stumble back a few steps. Undeterred, he bends over, throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the house. 
Your hands claw at his back, desperately grasping onto his shirt so you keep your balance. He storms up the stairs, ignoring the alarmed looks he gets from others in camp. He can already hear them whispering, wondering who you are and why he’s dragging you into his room. 
They can make up whatever the hell they want. Arthur’s too pissed off to give a shit about rumors tonight. He drops you unceremoniously onto his bed and storms back out. He heads downstairs, rooting around in one of the chests for some extra clothes. 
You won’t be able to ride to Strawberry in those ridiculous clothes. You’ll need some pants if you’re going to sit on the horse properly. He tucks the outfit under his arm and makes his way back to you. 
When he opens the door your hand immediately darts away from his shaving kit and shoves itself under your butt. His brows furrow as he catches a flash of silver in your hand. He places the clothes down on the end of the bed, eyes drifting towards his shaving kit. Sure enough, his razor seems to be missing. 
He lets out a sigh and you tense up, hand clenching around your prize. He briefly debates taking it from you. But he figures you should be allowed a modicum of comfort. Even if you did try and use it against him it’s dull, he hasn’t sharpened it in a while and you wouldn’t be able to do much damage anyway. 
He lets you keep it, leaving you on your own without another word. He can hear the exhale of relief you let out when he walks away and it makes him feel just a little better about this. At least you’re not completely terrified. 
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You change into the clothes Arthur gave you. They’re a little big, but you appreciate the pants. It’s much better than the ridiculous dresses Crane had you in. You collect your dress and toss it out the window of Arthur’s room, watching it sink into the mud pit below. It brings you some satisfaction to see Crane’s pretty silk getting ruined. 
You take off the jewelry you’d been given and stuff it into your boots. If you did manage to escape while you were traveling with Arthur then you were going to need some cash. You could sell off the jewels and hopefully, it would be enough to keep you comfortable. 
It feels nice, to wear real clothes. Not being dressed up like a doll for once. You envy some of the women here, who can wear what they want. There is an appeal to the outlaw life. As long as you’re on the right side of it, which, currently, you’re not. 
You slip out of the house before anyone has a chance to retrieve you. The whole night you were curled up around a dull razor with your eyes wide open. Spending a night surrounded by outlaws isn’t exactly restful. 
You figure you might as well try and walk around before you’re on the back of a horse for the rest of the day. There are more people up than you’d expected. Luckily, you don’t see Dutch around anywhere. You don’t feel like having to deal with any more of his false charm or empty apologies. 
The same man you’d seen strumming his guitar the night before is asleep next to the dying fire. A blonde woman catches your eye, she’s walking past some other women in dresses. They’re still asleep but she looks like she’s been up for hours. 
There’s a bit of blood on her pants and you briefly wonder what she’d been doing. “Who are you?” She asks, surveying you from head to toe with suspicion in her eyes. 
“A package,” you tell her bluntly, walking past her towards the only lit fire of camp. She follows you, a wry grin on her face as she watches you pour yourself some coffee. 
“You’ve got a real attitude, I like it.” 
You huff out a laugh, taking a sip of the burnt coffee and giving her a brief smile. “I’m sure my future husband won’t.” 
She rolls her eyes and scoffs, waving you off. “Husbands, good for nothing. I loved mine but he was useless as a sack o’ flour. You’re better off without them.”
Your smile turns strained and you look down at your feet, at the boots that aren’t your own. You’ll never get to dress like this again. Or speak like this to a woman who isn’t afraid to voice what's on her mind. 
“Yes, well,” you shrug and meet her eyes again, “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”
Her eyes narrow and she frowns, “What’s that supposed to-”
“Mrs. Adler!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp and forces the others awake. Most of them grumble, but they’re quick to get started on morning chores. “I see you’ve met our guest,” he says your name with a flourish that almost makes you laugh. 
He’s a good actor. He’s especially good at covering up his mistakes. “Yeah, what’s going on, Dutch? Who is she? Why don’t you guys ever let me in on this stuff?” She fires off questions rapidly, you almost don’t catch them all. There are clearly underlying issues here other than your unexpected presence. 
“In due time,” he assures her, laying the charm on thick. But even you can tell he’s full of it. He’s not planning on letting her in on anything unless it benefits him. “And this is our guest, her fiancee has paid us handsomely to provide her safe passage back to him.” 
He walks towards you, laying a hand over your arm and squeezing slightly. You give Sadie a stiff smile and let him lead you away. “I do believe it’s best that you just wait for Arthur, dear.” He gives you a look that lets you know it’s an order, not a suggestion. 
Still, you play along, “I think you might be right, Mr. Van der Linde, thank you for the hospitality.” You run a tired hand over your face, sitting down on the stoop of the house and finishing off the rest of your coffee. Dutch watches you for a while, never straying too far from where you are and intercepting anyone who asks about you. 
He spins quite the romantic tale of your lost love and how he desperately wants you back. You wish it were true, that you were living out some wonderful fairytale and were about to be reunited with the love of your life. Instead, it feels like one long walk to the gallows. 
The wood creaks behind you and you don’t need to turn to see who it is. “Ready?” Arthur asks and you figure he means, ready to leave freedom and happiness and the will to live behind? 
No, “Sure,” you toss the rest of the coffee into the grass and leave the mug on the stairs. You get to your feet and let him lead you towards the horses. He shares a brief look with Dutch as you pass by him but it doesn’t look entirely pleasant. 
He makes his way toward a towering black shire and your eyes widen in horror. “What’s this?”
He works on saddling the horse up, not paying much attention to you. “This is Diablo.” You take a step closer and the horse starts huffing, swinging his neck towards you with his lips pulled back. You jump back a step back, eyeing him warily. 
Arthur glances over and lets out a low chuckle, “He won’t bite. He’s just curious.”
“Mhm,” you give him a disbelieving look. “You’ll have to excuse me for being wary, I’ve not met a lot of horses.”
Arthur looks a bit shocked by your admission. “Really?” He questions, sounding doubtful. 
You give him a brief smile and nod. “Hard to believe, I know, but I’ve lived a very sheltered life, Mr. Morgan. Haven’t had many opportunities for exploring on my own.” 
He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something. At the last second, he stops himself, instead taking a step closer to you. You flinch away from him when he reaches for you and he lets out a sigh. “You can’t spend the next three days terrified of him, come on.”
He coaxes you forward and you reluctantly step closer to the beast. He chuckles at the scared look on your face. You don’t appreciate how much amusement he’s gaining from this. “Come on,” he mutters, taking your wrist and leading you closer to Diablo. 
The damn thing is named Devil, how could you not be terrified of it? 
“He won’t bite, I promise.” You don’t trust him but he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He presses your open palm to Diablo’s nose and you wince, bracing for him to lash out at you. 
But he doesn’t, he lets out a soft knicker and it seems like he doesn’t even care that you’re there. You let out a relieved laugh, running your hand tentatively over his muzzle. It’s shockingly soft and oddly squishy. 
He doesn’t seem to mind as you awe over him. You smile and glance over at Arthur but it drops when you see the odd look on his face. He seems perplexed by your reaction and you can’t fathom why. “You really never have ridden a horse before, have you?”
You shake your head, “No. I told you.”
He purses his lips and nods. You don’t know what it is about this that’s bothering him and you don’t care to ask. If he doesn’t believe just how strict your upbringing has been then fine. “Alright, come on, we need to get a move on.” 
He leads you around to the saddle and helps you up on the back of the horse. It’s beyond odd, sitting on something in pants. Getting to spread your legs freely is something you are going to greatly enjoy during this journey. 
Arthur takes off without much warning and you yelp, throwing your arms around his waist to steady yourself. He glances over his shoulder at you but says nothing. You turn your head, watching as the camp gets smaller and smaller. 
The people mill about, greet each other, and break bread together. It hits you suddenly, this will be the last time you get to see people being free. If you don’t get out, if you can’t escape, your life will be filled with starched collars and powdered faces. You’ll never have a genuine conversation with someone again. You’ll be turned into pretty jewelry hanging off the arm of a man you never met. 
The ride to Strawberry is three days at least. You have three days to get your plan together and to escape. You almost feel sorry for Arthur and the repercussions he’ll have to face losing you. But not sorry enough that you’re not gonna try. 
Arthur’s speed evens out and you let your arms relax, easing away from him slightly. Your wrist jolts against the gun on his hip and you eye it curiously. If you had a gun there would be no doubt you could escape. You see Arthur’s fingers twitch on the reigns of the horse and you move your arms higher up his torso. 
You doubt you’ll be a quicker draw than he is. He is an outlaw after all. You don’t think he’d have many qualms about delivering you to your fiancee with a few extra holes in your gut. Your mind drifts to the razor in your pocket and you consider it for a moment. 
You’re sure you’d be quick enough to just whip it out and slit his throat. You sigh and dismiss the thought. You were a lot of things but you were not a murderer. There are lines you can’t bring yourself to cross. Besides, as wicked as what he’s doing to you is, you know he’s a good man. 
It was an instinctual feeling. Mr. Crane and your father were both horrible, evil men. They knew nothing but greed and would never be satisfied by all the riches they reaped. They were the type of men you looked at and knew deep down that there was nothing left to save. 
Arthur has undoubtedly bad things. You don’t become an outlaw without spilling some blood. He was weathered and rough from a hard life, but that didn’t mean there was nothing good left in him. You won’t have his blood on your hands, no matter how much you might want to get away from him. 
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As grateful as Arthur is for the silence, it is odd. He’s helped a few ladies find their way back home before and for some reason, they seem to think he’s the best listener in the world. It seems everyone who rides with him wants to tell him their life stories. 
You’re completely silent, though. He has to keep looking back just to make sure you haven’t fallen off the back of the horse. You’re pretty complacent, following along with whatever Dutch said and coming along quietly. You seem beaten down, the fight dragged out of you. 
He wonders what Mr. Crane had done to you. A few times, he’s seen just a glimpse of the spark that used to be there. But it was snuffed out before he got a chance to know it. He almost wishes you would talk. It would distract him from what he was doing right now.
It didn’t feel right, bringing you along to marry a man you’ve never even met. He has to keep reminding himself that it would have happened no matter what. Ladies like you are always sold off into a profitable marriage. The only thing he’s doing is switching up who the fiancee might be. 
None of that makes him feel better, though. He should be helping you, not dragging you away to your worst nightmare. But, his people come first. The amount of money Dutch’ll get from this will be enough to get them all out of here. This could finally be the last score. 
You gasp behind him and he whips his head around, immediately expecting someone to be following along beside you both. Maybe your father’s men or just some raiders. But he doesn’t see anything except a herd of deer running through the trees. 
His brows furrow in confusion and he glances back at you. You’re watching them like they’re something spectacular. Arthur’s always been a fan of the quiet beauty of nature. He appreciates them in ways most folks don’t understand. But you’re looking at ‘em like you just found God. 
“Never seen deer before?” He teases, chuckling a little at your reaction. 
You startle, not realizing he had been watching. You clear your throat and look away from them sheepishly. He almost feels bad for ruining the moment for you. “No. No, I haven’t.” 
He knows it's possible, but it’s astounding to him that someone truly lived their whole life in the city. It just doesn’t seem right. Cities are full of shit, smog, and bad people. Not even having a moment out of that your whole life seems like torture. 
“I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts,” you mutter, eyes darting back to the tree line. But the deer are gone and you don’t look very interested anymore. 
“Right,” he shifts forward, the air between you awkward. He’d only meant it in jest. He didn’t mean to remind you of what was about to happen to you. He doesn’t like the silence, not this time, it feels wrong. It makes him stew in his shame and that’s a nasty feeling. 
Selfishly, he prods you for more. “A few days on the road, you’ll be eager for the city again.”
You laugh but there’s no humor to it. “I very much doubt that Mr. Morgan.”
“Arthur,” he corrects, “just call me Arthur.”
“Right,” your tone remains cold, “well if you don’t mind Arthur, I’d like to ride there in silence.”
He's got no other choice but to comply. If you don’t want to talk he won’t make you. He just wishes he could make this a little easier for you both. 
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Camping is something. You don’t have a word for it. It’s nice to be out in nature and embrace it for the first time in your life. But you really would not mind the comfort of your bed right now. 
Rocks digging into your spine and head do not make for a good night’s sleep. You’ve been lying in front of the fire for hours, flipping around uselessly. It doesn’t matter how much you shift, the rock stays digging painfully into you. 
You let out a loud huff, flopping onto your back and glaring up at the starry sky in defeat. At least the view is nice. In the city, you can’t see the stars. The smoke’s too thick and you never get a good look at them.
Out here, they almost feel fake. They’re so bright and beautiful, you thought the paintings in the museum had always been exaggerating just how breathtaking a night sky can be. But you were wrong. And you hate that there’s a potential future where you’ll never get to see this again. 
“Would you quit squirming so damn much?”
You shoot up, resting on your elbows and glaring over at Arthur. He’s got his hat over his eyes, arms crossed, and looking like he’s been asleep for the past few hours. You hadn’t realized you’d been keeping him up. 
“Some of us aren’t used to sleeping outside,” you hiss, throwing yourself back down to the ground. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you figure that’s the end of it. You clench your eyes shut, counting sheep in your mind and trying to force yourself asleep. 
You hear boots crunching across leaves and your eyes fly open. Arthur’s standing over you, hands propped on his hips as he glares down at you. “Can I help you?” You snap when you get tired of the staring. 
He scoffs and shakes his head, kneeling to be eye level with you. You’re startled by the proximity, an odd heat creeping up your neck. “Come on, I’m gonna tire you out. Maybe then you’ll get some sleep.”
You gasp, astonished at the audacity of his suggestion. “Excuse me?” You demand, tone incredulous. 
His brows furrow before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he grouses. “Get up,” he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He places his hand under your back, shoving you onto your feet. You stand with a slight stumble, glaring at him as you brush dirt off your shirt and pants. 
You can’t help the snotty tone of your voice as you ask, “What are we doing?” 
“Huntin,’” He answers gruffly, going over to the horse and taking the bow out of his saddle. 
Your brows furrow as you recall the few stories your father told you of hunting bison. “Aren’t you supposed to use a rifle?”
He shakes his head and nods towards the treeline. You glance back at the fire before reluctantly following him into the dark forest. The moon is full enough that it provides just enough light for you not to be terrified of what’s lurking in the underbrush. 
“Got a friend,” he tells you, kneeling and glancing at some tracks on the ground. “Taught me how to hunt properly. Bows are quieter, less disruptive, and they provide quicker, cleaner kills.” He looks back at you and motions towards the arrows, “Less pain for the animal.”
Your face slacks with something like astonishment. All you’d heard from your father was the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. He never mentioned keeping anything from the animal, using it for meat, or about how long it took for them to die. You’d never thought there was anybody who actually cared for the creature’s comfort as it died. 
You suppose there’s going to be a lot about Arthur that’s different from the men you know. 
“Arthur,” a twig snaps behind you, and your eyes widen. You drop your voice to a whisper, not wanting to draw too much attention towards you both. “I don’t want to kill anything,” you hiss.
“Ha!” He barks out a laugh and you purse your lips in irritation. He stands and looks at you, chuckling again before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so confident in your huntin’ skill, kid.”
You click your tongue and glare at him, “Don’t call me that,” you snap. It’s the same patronizing nickname your father loved to use on you and you detest it. He raises his hands in surrender and you roll your eyes at the smirk on his face. “Then what’s the point of this?”
He shrugs and heads further into the trees, you have no choice but to follow along behind him. “Figure you should be taught a few skills before I get rid of ya.”
You want to argue with him that there’s no point. If you are given to Crane’s associate, you’ll never set foot in the woods again. However, if you do manage to escape him, learning a few survival skills wouldn’t be a bad idea. 
So, you keep your mouth shut and let him lead you through the forest. “How do you know where to go?” You ask, trying to figure out what it is he keeps looking at in the mud. He waves you forward, moving you so you’re standing directly in front of him. 
“You see that?” You have to squint, relying solely on the light from the moon, to make out what he’s pointing at. There are some tracks in the mud that look vaguely like hooves. “It’s buck tracks, you can tell by the size.” He kneels and when you don’t follow he tugs you down by the sleeve. “You can’t rely on just the tracks, though. You have to look for other signs of ‘em.”
You glance around, noticing some crushed twigs and grass a few feet ahead. “Like that?” You point towards it and he huffs in amusement. 
“Caught on quicker than I thought.”
You feel vaguely offended by that but don’t bother voicing it, just glare at his back as he gets up. You walk silently through the forest, letting Arthur show you which tracks to follow and which to avoid. You’re not comforted by how many cougar prints you find. You stare up into the branches always expecting something to already be looking down at you. 
Miraculously, no wild cat chooses you for dinner as you track the buck down. You find him near a small stream, antlers dipping into the water as he takes a drink. He’s got to be one of the most gorgeous creatures you’ve ever seen. 
You’ve lived your whole life in St. Denis. The most you’ve seen are overworked carriage horses and mangy dogs. No life slips through the cracks of that place. There’s just smoke and misery. This is nature, real beauty. It’s breathtaking, the way the leaves ripple in the wind and the starlight reflects in the water. 
You can’t imagine seeing this and wanting to tear it down to put up an oily machine that contributes nothing to the earth but death. It just makes you hate your father more. It also makes you more resolved to not be forced back into that life. You can’t do it. You can’t have this one taste of freedom and then let it go without a fight. 
Arthur pulls the bow out and nocks an arrow. You glance between him and the buck and rapidly shake your head. “No,” you hiss, “I don’t wanna kill it.”
He rolls his eyes and moves you in front of him. You don’t have much choice as he places your hands on the string and guides you into the right position. “Relax,” he murmurs in your ear as you fight against his grip. “You ain’t gonna kill it.” 
It doesn’t bring you much comfort, but if you’re going to make it on your own, sometimes you’ll have to do something you don’t like. “Now,” his hand drifts down your bicep and you suck in a sharp breath. “Don’t hold it too long, you’ll get tired.” 
It’s dawning on you just how close you both are. You’re kneeling on the ground with him behind you, essentially cradling your body to him. You’ve never been this familiar with a man before, it’s making your brain short-circuit. You can hardly pay attention to what he’s telling you. 
He lifts your elbow slightly and points you towards the left. “You need to keep your arm steady even after you let go or your aim will be off. Take in a deep breath and release on the exhale.” You give him an apprehensive look, still not wanting to hurt the buck. He just nods and there’s something in his gaze that lets you relax slightly. 
You release the string and the arrow flies over the buck’s head, burying itself into the tree behind it. Its head shoots up and it turns towards you both before dashing off. You let out an astonished laugh, glancing down the bow and then back at Arthur. 
“My god, I’ve never shot anything before.”
“Congratulations, you’ve killed your first tree,” he remarks dryly, but you see the glint of humor in his eye. 
He gets to his feet and offers you a hand up. You smile up at him, undeterred by his attitude. “Thank you for this,” you tell him earnestly. He gives you an odd look but nods anyway. He doesn’t understand just how important this is to you. Knowing how to do something like this is the difference between life and death when you’re on your own. Of course, he doesn’t realize you’ll be making an escape attempt soon. 
He retrieves the arrow from the tree and you run your hand over the curve of the bow. You wonder just how much he’d miss this if you took it from him. 
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Arthur’s tearing down the camp and you’re standing by Diablo, feeding him some apples. You stroke absentmindedly over the horse's muzzle, watching Arthur intently. He’s too busy pulling the tent apart to be paying attention to you. 
You got better sleep last night than you did at Crane’s. He was right, hunting had tired you out. You were eager enough to sleep that you didn’t even feel the rough ground underneath you. He seems to be a little more lax about his watch over you. 
Something about last night must have eased him into a sense of comfort that you’re not going to run. That’s his own fault, though. You glance over the curve of the hill, noticing a carriage that will be passing by soon enough. 
You look back at Arthur and ease slightly away from Diablo. Arthur is still collecting the blankets and rolling them up. He turns towards the dying fire and tosses the rest of the coffee out. You take another step back and he keeps his back to you. 
Slowly, you release Diablo’s reigns, giving him one last apple before you turn on your heel and run down the hill. Your foot slips out from under you and you let out a loud yelp as you go flying headfirst down the grass. 
You land on your back with enough impact to make the breath rush out of you. But your descent is still going and you’re flipping over headfirst into the road. You slide forward, the dirt scraping up your chin as you cough and try and catch your breath. 
“Look out!” You roll out of the way just before the carriage rolls over you. Someone shouts your name from the top of the hill and you see Arthur glaring down at you. He starts towards you and you scramble to your feet. 
“Stop!” You scream, waving your arms wildly and chasing after the carriage. The man gives you a bewildered look as you throw yourself at him. “Please, sir, I’ve been kidnapped, you must help me get back to my husband.”
The man looks behind you, sees a very angry Arthur bellowing out your name, and moves to the side. “Hurry up,” he urges, giving you a hand on the bench beside him. You let out a relieved breath, taking his hand and throwing yourself the rest of the way up. 
He whips the horses, hurrying them along all the while Arthur is yelling after you. It’s not hard to believe that he would kidnap you. He looks half-crazed as he follows along behind you. You turn over your shoulder, giving him a brief wave and a smile. “Thanks for the help,” you tell the man beside you. You offer your hand and name. 
He glances down at it but doesn’t take it, instead looking forward and ignoring you entirely. Something uneasy settles in your stomach but you push it aside. You blame the feeling on the adrenaline still pumping through you. 
“Where are you headed?” You ask, glancing into the back of the carriage. You notice some moonshine and a crate full of guns but decide not to question it. 
“Said yer husband’s waitin’ for ya?” He demands, completely ignoring your question. You stare at the side of his face but his expression isn’t giving anything away. He comes to an intersection. You see a sign pointing towards a town and figure he’s going to take it, but instead, he pulls onto a smaller trail leading to the woods. 
“Um,” you clear your throat uncertainly, glancing back at the sign. “Yes,” your voice cracks and you know you sound like you’re full of shit. 
He laughs and the sound sends chills down your spine. You rip your eyes off of him, looking down at the horses and suddenly realizing just what you’d gotten yourself into. “You sure about that, little lady?”
Something cold digs into your side and you gasp quietly, looking down to see a gun pressed against your ribs. “You scream, run, or do anythin’ to piss me off and I’ll put a fourth hole in ya.” When you don’t say anything he digs it harder into you. “Understand?” He growls and you can do nothing but nod your head. 
You want to move, want to shove him off the side of the carriage and make a run for it. But you can’t, you’re frozen solid. You’re so petrified with fear you can’t even blink. You think you’re holding your breath, as if taking in air is going to set the gun off. 
He grins, a blackened curl of lips over rotted teeth, at your obedience and comes to a stop in the trees. “What are you doing?” You whisper, staring at the secluded area with a newfound sense of horror. 
“Shut up,” he snaps, his voice echoing through the quiet of the woods. You hear no birds or animals and you feel so alone it makes you want to cry. He gets off the carriage and turns towards you. “Down,” he demands. Your eyes dart towards the reigns of the horses and he pulls the hammer of the gun back. “Don’t even think about it.”
You lift your hands in the air, slowly slipping down the seat. He doesn’t appreciate you taking your time He grabs the front of your shirt, jerking you further into the trees and tossing you to the ground. 
You let out a rough groan at the impact, blood staining your shirt as your elbow slips across a jagged rock. It’s like something is snapped loose in your mind. He comes stomping towards you, kneeling between your spread legs and it finally clicks. 
You lunge forward with a shout and he rears back in surprise. You wonder how often someone’s actually fought against him or just let it happen. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to get shot by this scum, but there are a lot of things worse than dying. 
You grab the arm holding the gun, jerking it around, and knocking it out of his hand. “You bitch!” He hisses, bringing his open palm down across your cheek. The smack rings through the trees and ricochets through the air. Your head whips to the side so hard you think you might have snapped your neck. 
Blood dribbles out from your lips, your teeth having bitten into the fat of your cheeks. You spot the gun nearby, the silver of the barrel glinting from under the leaves. Just as you reach for it, he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles and dragging you back towards him. 
You feel like screaming as your hands desperately grasp at the dirt underneath you. But there’s not enough air to scream. You dig your nails into the mud, feel them split against the rocks, and kick at his chest hard enough to make him lose his breath. 
His grip on you loosens and you throw yourself at the pile of leaves. Hands groping for something solid. Just as he flips you over you wrap your hand around the handle of the gun. You pull the trigger and the bang is deafening. 
Your ears ring and your hands are trembling from the recoil. His jaw goes slack and he tumbles on top of you. You let out a grunt, breath pushed out of you by his weight. You scramble against his chest, something warm making your hands slip as you struggle to roll him off of you. 
You glance over, waiting for him to spring back up. But there’s something dark pooling around him and sinking into the dirt below. There’s a hole in his chest and his eyes are already flattening. You fall back against the earth, staring up at the trees above you. 
The sounds rush back to you all at once. The birds singing, deers prancing somewhere in the distance. You hear a stream rushing nearby and let out a stunned laugh. There’s a smile on your face but there’s nothing to be happy about. 
You think you might be in shock. Mind still trying to catch up to what just happened. You glance down at the gun in your hand and toss it to the side, not wanting it near you anymore. Only a second later do you reach for it again. 
You struggle onto your hands and knees, checking over yourself for any injuries that you might be numb to right now. The only blood on you is from the dead man on the ground. You keel over, hands on your knees, and suck in a deep gasping breath. 
You stumble back, limping towards the carriage. You dig around in the back of the wagon, tugging out a giant hunting knife and walking towards the horses. You cut them loose, keeping the rope on one of them and tugging yourself onto her back. You tuck the knife in your belt and nudge her side, leading her forward gently. 
You don't even have time to process the fact that you’re riding a horse on your own. Your body is moving on autopilot. You can only think about getting ahead, getting away. What just happened will hit you later. You slump against the neck of the horse, adrenaline leaking out of you and exhaustion catching up. 
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He’s going to find you and he’s going to kill you. Leaving while he had his back turned. Getting on some carriage with a man you’ve never met before. How dumb do you have to be? You can’t trust people out here. Not when there are gangs, raiders, hell, he’s encountered a few cannibals. 
For all he knows, you’re already dead and he’ll be delivering a body to the train station. The thought makes him curse and urge Diablo forward. It’s not hard to follow the tracks of the carriage, what concerns him is when they lead into the forest instead of the town. 
“Goddammit,” he mutters, “the hell have you done woman?” He leaps off Diablo, figuring it will be easier to track you on foot. He follows the paths of the wheels, finding the wagon abandoned and the horses cut loose. 
His brows furrow in confusion as he wanders around the side and spots a lump in the leaves. All he can see is the bottom of a boot and blood splattered across the orange of the fallen leaves. 
His stomach plummets and he races towards it. But it’s not you buried under the foliage, it’s the man who offered you a ride. “What the hell?” He kneels, brushing the leaves off his chest and frowning when he sees the blood splattered all along his chest. 
He doesn’t need to look long to figure out what killed him. He’s sure the bullet buried in his heart did the job. Arthur curses and stalks away from the man. There are prints where the horses were but there are too many to tell which one you might have taken. 
He’ll have to rely on instinct to find you. You’re becoming a real pain in the ass for what was supposed to be a simple job. Still, he can’t help but be a little relieved that it was a stranger and not you lying dead on the ground. 
He turns back onto the road, taking the turn into town. Someone on horseback rides past him, they look disgusted by something up ahead and it makes alarms go off in his head. He urges Diablo forward, running the rest of the way into town. 
An unsaddled mare lazily eats some grass as the sound of a rushing river meets his ears. Diablo’s hooves sound off against the wood of the bridge. He finally sees what disturbed the other rider so much. 
You’re sitting on the railing of the bridge, legs dangling dangerously over the edge as you stare down into the crashing waters below you. Arthur gets off his horse, approaching you slowly. He doesn’t want to startle you and have you go tumbling over the edge. 
He calls out your name and you glance briefly over at him. Blood is splattered across your neck and the front of your shirt is soaked with it. He knows it isn’t yours but it still puts him on edge. “What’re you doin’ kid?” 
You don’t answer him, “Did you follow me?” He eases up beside you, straddling the railing so he can catch you if you slip. He nods and you let out a rough sigh. “Is he dead?”
He scoffs, “Sure as shit hope so, don’t know how someone would survive that.”
A manic laugh bursts through your lips and you double over your head falling into your hands. Arthur surges forward, steadying you before you dive headfirst into the river. “Alright, let’s go,” he quietly urges you around. You don’t put up a fight, letting him maneuver you how he likes.
He gets you on your feet and leads you back to Diablo. You latch onto the horse's reigns immediately, stroking your hand over his mane. Your silence is concerning. Arthur doesn’t know what your regular behavior is, the most he’s seen of you, you have been quiet. This is different, though. He’s seen this sort of quiet in women before and it never ends pretty. 
“You’re alright, come on,” he tries to keep his voice low so he doesn’t set you off. He keeps his hands light as they land around your waist, giving you help onto Diablo’s saddle. Your gaze is distant and you move like someone else is controlling your body. 
He collects the mare you’d brought along with you and leads both horses into town. He’ll have to get a saddle for her, she already seems attached to you. And maybe taking a horse with you into the city will let you escape a little. 
The town, at least, is on the way to Strawberry so he doesn’t have to worry about being too far off schedule. Though, that’s the least of his concerns right now. His eyes keep darting up to you. Waiting for you to try and bolt again or finally break down. It doesn’t look like anything is going on in your head, you seem completely distanced from the situation. 
It’s a good thing for him. He can’t handle a distraught woman. He’s not a kind enough man for it. 
He hitches the horses in front of the hotel. You turn in the saddle, staring down at him and waiting for a hand down. You slide easily through his hands, landing in the mud with a dull thud and heading up the stairs of the hotel without prompt. 
He huffs and follows after you. He doesn’t know how to explain the blood on your clothes away and hopes he won’t have to. The man running the place, thankfully, doesn’t have many questions. He looks disturbed but keeps his qualms to himself when Arthur slips him a little extra cash. 
Arthur guides you up the stairs with a light hand on your back, opening the door of the bath for you. “Alright, here’s your room key. I’ll be out for a while so, just,” he sighs, taking in the blank look on your face and shaking his head. “Try not to cause any more trouble.” You nod and close the door behind him. 
There’s no worries that you’re going to make a run for it again. He’s sure whatever happened in those woods was scarring enough to make you want to go back to the city and never see country folk again. He wouldn’t blame you, there are some nasty people out here. Himself included, but he could never imagine hurting a woman like that. It just ain’t right. 
He heads to the shop across the street, buying some new clothes for you that actually fight properly. The horses are brought to the stables and he goes ahead and gets a paper for your mare under your name. Diablo will be faster tomorrow if he doesn’t have to carry the weight of two people. You might make it to your handler in time. 
Arthur still doesn’t feel right about this whole thing. Leaving you with a man you’ve never met feels even worse knowing what happened to you today. He doesn’t think you being so calm about it all is a good thing. Shouldn’t women react?
Dutch likes to tell him women are a more sensitive breed. He’s seen some tough ones in his life, but this seems like the time to be in hysterics if there ever was one. He heads back to the hotel, planning on just leaving the change of clothes in your room. 
He passes by the bath and hears an odd sound seeping through the cracks. Frowning, he presses his ear up against the door. A man passes by him, giving him a disgusted look as he goes into his room. Arthur sighs but he stays where he is. 
It’s clearer now, you’re crying and it’s hard to listen to. It's the type that makes it hard to breathe. That sort of crying makes your ribs ache and bruise. It’s wrong to keep listening to such a vulnerable moment. So, he does what he planned, drops the clothes in your room, and then heads to bed himself. 
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Sleep comes easier than he thought it would. It’s not as restful as he’d been hoping but it draws over him faster than it normally does. He’s always been a light sleeper, though. It comes from years of having to be on guard in case some O’Driscoll is gonna try and slit his throat while he’s asleep. 
When he hears the door creak his hand is already on the trigger of his revolver as he shoots up in bed. The glow of the lamps outside illuminates what’s clearly a woman’s form. But he can’t see your face until you take a step further into the room and the moonlight provides some light. 
“Arthur?” You whisper his name, peering into his room. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” he grumbles. With a sigh, he shoves the gun back under his pillow and runs a rough hand over his face. “What'd ya want?”
You let out a low breath and rock back on your heels. “I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I just, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking he’s gonna creep out of my closet or bust through the door, I-”
You cut yourself off but he can hear the emotion thickening your voice. He clenches his eyes shut in irritation, arguing with himself over what he’s about to say. “You wanna sleep in here?” He mumbles reluctantly. 
You close the door immediately, practically running towards his bed. “You don’t mind?”
You’re not really giving him a choice, but he’s not going to say that to you. “No.” He grabs a pillow and blanket off the bed and rounds the end of the mattress. You frown as you watch him toss everything to the ground. 
“Well, what’re you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” He snaps, angrily gesturing towards the floor. “I’m givin’ you the bed.” 
You bite your lip and he feels horrible instantly because you look like you’re about to cry. He’s not trying to be rude but you woke him up in the dead of night. What’d you expect him to say?
“I was sort of hoping we could share the bed.”
His eyes widen and he glares at you in disbelief. “You mean-”
“No!” You cut him off with an aggrieved sigh. “You fool, that’s not what I mean at all. I just don’t want to be alone, alright?” 
“Look,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m the man you want to bunk with for company, alright. I’m not that kind of guy.” You glare at him and snatch his pillow and blanket off the floor. 
“Don’t be so damn stubborn.” You aggressively fluff the pillows, throwing the covers back and gesturing towards them, your brow set in anger. 
“Right,” he huffs, “I’m stubborn.” He reluctantly crawls into bed and you follow behind him. It’s not that he minds sharing a bed with a pretty lady. He’s just not the sort of guy you should be coming to for comfort. 
He doesn’t think he can provide whatever it is you need at this moment. But you seem to think otherwise as you inch towards him slowly. He lays on his back, arms under his head as he watches you out of the side of his eye. You think you’re being subtle, slowly moving into his side until you’re flush against him. 
He doesn’t say anything to object and you don’t bring up the proximity. He doesn’t want to admit it but it is nice having someone else beside him. He’s so used to camping out on his own. He hasn’t had anyone beside him in a long while. He lost interest in women of leisure a long while ago. And ever since Mary, he’s given up on any sort of intimacy. 
He hates to admit it, but he finds himself easing towards the warmth you provide. The second you feel him reciprocating you’re inching a tentative hand around his waist, cuddling closer to him. He recognizes it for what it is. 
He’s always been looked at as someone who can protect, at least by the gang. He’s their muscle. To most others, he incites nothing but fear. It should be the same for you. But after what happened today, you just see someone who can keep the monsters in the dark away. 
He doesn’t mind being used like this. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and waits until he feels you settle to ease into sleep again. 
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Arthur figures you should both get breakfast in town while you’re here. He reasons you should enjoy a hot meal before you’re on the road again. You don’t point out that you know he’s just trying to ease you into the day. 
You appreciate it, honestly, but yesterday wasn’t your first run-in with men like that. It’s become incomprehensibly normal in day-to-day life, even for a city girl like yourself. You’d cried everything out in the bath once you’d scrubbed your skin raw. 
You don’t think Arthur will ever understand just how much his presence helped you last night. If you’d been on your own, jumping every time you heard the wood creaking outside, you’d have driven yourself over the edge. He protected you, even if there was nothing to be protected from. 
You don’t think he gives himself enough credit. Ignoring the situation you’re both in and what he’s taking you to do, he’s a good man. While the caliber of the men you’ve met is questionable at best, he’s one of the best ones you’ve ever known. At the end of the day, he disagrees with the whole situation, but he’s doing this for his family. That’s admirable in its own way. 
But, god, does he have poor conversational skills. “So, yesterday.” You glance up from your toast, brows raised in question. He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and his food like he can’t choose what to focus on. “That man, did he…”
He trails off and you feel your hackles rise. “Don’t worry,” you hiss, a bite to your words, “I’m still pure for my husband. Your pay won’t be docked, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His hand clenches around his fork and his eyes bore into yours, “That’s not what I meant,” he growls. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he snaps, “I was worried ‘bout you, woman.”
You take in a deep breath, actively biting your tongue from saying something spiteful. He wasn’t being rude, that’s just what you’re used to. “I’m sorry,” you concede lowly. “Nothing happened,” you repeat without the attitude. 
“Well,” he huffs and goes back to his breakfast, “good,” he settles on dully. 
“Good,” you agree quietly, pushing the rest of your food around. You find your appetite dulled and you push the plate away. You lean back in the booth and stare out the window. The horses seem to be getting on well enough. “Did you name her?”
Arthur gives you an odd look and you nod towards the mare hitched next to Diablo. He swallows the food he’d been chewing and takes a swig of his coffee. “No, figured you’d want to do it.”
Your brows furrow and your lips quirk in confusion. “Why?”
“She’s yours, ain’t she?” He grouses. 
You shake your head, “Nope,” you tell him, popping the p. “I just took her so I’d have something to get me to town.”
“Yeah, well,” he sounds less sure of himself and he’s looking like he made a mistake. “I thought she’d be nice for you to have with you in the city. A way for you to get around without relyin’ on someone else.”
You can’t help but smile, something in your chest easing away at the kind gesture. “I appreciate it,” he lights up a little at your approval, but you crush it in an instant. “But I can’t keep her, I won’t be allowed to. I’ve tried to have my own horse before, hard to control something that can get away from you,” you tell him blankly. There’s no emotion in your voice because it’s something you’re used to. 
He looks slightly horrified at how blunt you are. He can’t comprehend not having that freedom but he fails to recognize that he’s got a leash of his own. You doubt a man like Dutch would ever let his main asset just run off to wherever he wants to. 
A few people walk into the saloon, the women giving you odd looks when they see the pants on your legs. You smile cheekily at them, reveling in what you know will be a short-lived experience. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a judgmental look like that. 
You’ve always blended in. Been the perfect wallflower for the men in your life. You were never something to gawk at or cause trouble. It’s a relief to stick out for once, to break the mould for the first time in your life. 
Arthur clocks the interaction and chuckles. “Missin’ the skirts yet?”
“Not one damn bit,” you tell him, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee. “I’m going to miss being able to run around without having to lug an extra four pounds of fabric behind me.” 
“Ya know, you could just wear some pants, you’ve got a choice.”
You grin patronizingly at him, propping your head on your chin and watching him finish the rest of his breakfast. “You don’t know city men very well, do you?”
“Glad for it,” he grumbles, distaste clear in his tone.
A laugh breaks through your chest, the first real one in a while. “I’m going to be marrying one, Arthur. I won’t have a choice in much of anything anymore.” You can tell he wants to object, tell you there’s always a choice. 
He’ll never truly understand what’s going to happen to you, though. You’re no longer human once you’re married. You’re cattle and property, meant to be bred and shown off. You accepted your fate a long while ago. And after you’re failed escape attempt, you’ve realized this is what you were always meant to be. There’s no point in fighting fate. 
“Don’t apologize or argue,” you tell him, no spite or bitterness in your tone, just the honest truth. “I don’t mind anymore, really. What place is there for me in this world, anyway? I can’t exactly take care of myself.”
“You did a damn good job yesterday,” he snaps back quickly. He doesn’t seem too keen on the way you’re talking about yourself. But you’re not lying. Yesterday was a wake-up call. If you let yourself get screwed over by a hillbilly that quickly then how were you ever going to make it on your own? In your defense, you were raised to be dependent, you never had a chance. 
“Sure, but that was a one-off incident. I’m not going to run again, Arthur. There’s no point. And there’s no point in fighting against the way things are, they’re never going to change for me.” You take in a deep breath, the easy mood ruined by your sincerity. 
“I’m just gonna wait by the horses.”
You slide out of the booth, leaving Arthur to stare pensively at his plate. You’ve nearly slipped through the door when Arthur calls out, “You should name her.” You pause at the doorway, glancing back at him. He’s settling the bill at the front and you walk back out to the horses. 
The mare picks her head up as you walk towards her, ears perked and tail flicking. “Hey, girl,” you run a hand over her muzzle, admiring the sleek silver of her coat. “I guess I should name you.”
You run a hand over her mane and swing yourself onto the saddle. “How ‘bout Bullet, it’s how I got you, anyway.” A dark joke, but it eases the macabre feeling hanging around you. 
Arthur walks out of the saloon, tucking his money away into his bag. He lifts himself onto Diablo, glancing over at you with a knowing glint. 
“Name her?”
You resent how smug he sounds. “Bullet,” you answer reluctantly. 
“Bullet?” He questions, tone incredulous. 
You grin at him, “It’s how I got her.” There’s a slightly stunned expression on his face before it slacks away into something more amused. 
He shakes his head and nudges Diablo forward, Bullet follows alongside him eagerly. “Clever,” he mutters.
“Not really,” you snort, running a hand over her neck lovingly. “But I think it works for her.”
“Your husband’s gonna have his hands full with you,” you know he means it in jest. The lightness of the conversation turns into something heavier. Realization sinks over both of you and the smiles slowly drop away. “I-”
“How much further to Strawberry, anyway?” You effectively cut off whatever train of thought he was going to follow, distracting you both from the truth. 
“Half a day,” he tells you, frowning when you refuse to meet his eye again. Half a day. That’s all you’ve got to enjoy the last bits of freedom you have. You’re gonna take your damn time getting there, that’s for sure. 
You slow down from the steady trot Arthur had led the horses into, easing Bullet into a slow walk. You’re slowly getting the hang of riding a horse. It’s easy when she’s so intuitive. By god, though, your ass is sore. 
Arthur shoots you a questioning glance at the slow pace and you shrug. “Might as well take the time I’ve got left.”
“You’re actin’ like you’re on death row,” he chuckles. 
“Aren’t I?” He falls silent and you don’t know what’s bothering him but you don’t have the energy to inquire. 
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He’s slowing you down on purpose, he knows it and you know it. Neither of you says a damn thing about it but it’s bugging him. He shouldn’t be this bothered by a job. He knows how to separate himself from what he does. He just can’t this time. 
There’s something about you that glows. You’re sitting beside him on the peak of a hill, overlooking the roads below you, and laughing as you make up stories for the people that pass by. It’s a far cry from the beaten-down woman he’d seen at Crane’s house. 
Even after what happened yesterday, you somehow manage to seem happier. There’s nothing about it that makes him happy. This feels like the last goodbye of someone who knows they’re going soon. The last bout of happiness before they just give in. 
You’re not gaining your spark back, you’re just giving in to what you think is inevitable. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable. You could fight back you just refuse to. He’s sure growing up the way you have, you don’t think it's possible to stand up for yourself. 
But you don’t have to give in like this. You don’t have to roll over and let someone else dictate your life. Which is rich, coming from him. He’s practically Dutch’s lap dog now. Even when he disagrees he still follows along behind him. 
He shouldn’t even be thinking like this. He can’t criticize you for not standing up for yourself when he’s the one thing standing between you and freedom. “Not hungry?” You nod towards the uneaten meat on his knife. 
He shakes his head, plucking it off the blade and passing it to you. You give him an odd look before popping it in your mouth. “Ya know,” you mutter around a full mouth. You take a moment to swallow it down before smiling over at him. “I’ve grown up with private chefs my whole life, but there’s is something infinitely more satisfying about this.”
He takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair. He snorts at your comment, “I find that hard to believe.”
“No,” you shake your head, insistent, “I mean it. Being out here, hunting the game myself, I don’t know, it’s nice.” You shrug and lean back on your hands, gazing across the way at the trees and river. 
“You can always get a bow and go hunting.” He speaks to you like it's a cut-and-dry truth that you’re just not accepting. Your face screws up and you give him an annoyed glare. 
“No. I can’t,” you tell him again. Where your words were patient before, he can tell you’re growing irritated at how much he’s pushing this.
“Yes, you can,” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep yourself boxed up in some manor in the city. Get out, woman, do something with your life!” His voice echoes through the air and you flinch back from it, lips pulling down into a sneer. 
“You know, that’s really easy for you to say, Arthur. You have a goddamn choice. Sure, I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, little miss rich girl crying about being pampered.”
He lets out a rough sigh, “That’s not what I meant-”
You cut him off, getting to your feet and glaring down at him. “You got to grow up with a choice. What to do with your body, your life, your career. You get to have an education if you want it. Every goddamn door is open to you. You don’t get hated for not wanting to have a family. You get to choose. And as much as you insist I can too, you will never understand the position I am in.”
You kick dirt over the fire and head back towards Bullet. “It’s a double-edged sword, Arthur. Sure, my life might be comfortable, but it’s never really gonna be my life.” He stays there on the ground, too stunned to get up. 
You glare down at him, impatiently waiting for him to get a move on. This isn’t how he wants things to end. He doesn’t want you to go off thinking he’s just some ignorant fool. But he is, much as he denies it, he’s always been a fool. 
He should never have thought he could make a difference in your life. Not when he’s the one backing you into this corner. He could have helped you escape the very first night he saw you. But he was too selfish to let you go, now you’re both paying for it. 
He mounts Diablo and you both head back to the roads silently. You’re moving faster now, leaving him behind if he lingers in one area for too long. You’re too pissed off to enjoy the rest of your day and he hates that he ruined it for you. You, at the very least, deserved a slower journey towards your future. 
You’re in Strawberry before he’s ready, he’s sure you aren’t. “Hey, we could-”
“I think that’s him.” You cut him off before he says something stupid like spend another night in town before you go. He’ll miss you, he thinks. Odd, he’s known you such a short time but it’s been so different having someone beside him as he rides. It was nice, what he wished he and Mary could have had. 
Arthur follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh. Sure enough, some prim and proper ass is standing in front of the ticket station, foot tapping impatiently. He’s got a large bag beside him, gaze wandering around expectantly. He doesn’t doubt the man who looks like he’s got a five-foot stick up his ass is Mr. Crane’s associate. He’s got the same slimy glint.
You slide off Bullet and Arthur follows suit, taking the reigns of both horses and leading them towards the platform. The man’s eyes narrow in on you before lighting up. He calls out your name and it’s like a mask being dropped over your face. 
The spark is gone once more, a subdued and demure smile resting on your face as you wave at him. “I apologize for my dress,” you tell him as you walk up the steps. “Pants were more conducive to such a long ride.”
He takes your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles that makes Arthur roll his eyes. “No apologies necessary, I brought you a change of clothes. I figured you would be less than put together after such a journey. I’m only sorry I couldn’t accompany you.”
You scoff and nod along, “Okay,” you mutter, not believing a word of his bullshit. You take the bag from him and move towards the saloon to find a room to change in. They both watch you leave, though the other man with a much more devious glint in his eye. 
Arthur’s hands tighten on the reigns of the horses, anything to keep him from reaching for his revolver. He’s already getting a bad feeling about this. There’s nothing trustworthy about the man in front of him. 
“Mr. Finch,” he holds out his hand and Arthur gives it a distrusting look before reluctantly shaking. Finch attempts to squeeze the life out of his hand but Arthur can barely feel it. He tightens his own grip and revels in the way Finch’s face blanches. 
“Arthur Morgan.”
Mr. Finch looks him up and down in the same way Crane had. He sees a commodity, not a person. “I trust,” he drawls, “nothing unsavory happened.”
Arthur feels rage bubbling in his gut. The only damn thing he cares about is whether or not you’re “pure.” Not if you were okay or injured during the journey. If he told him that he’d punched you out for talking back Finch would just ask if you were bruised. 
“She’s fine,” Arthur grits out. 
“Oh, good, good. Glad everything went smoothly.” Finch has a way of talking he’s found most self-important men do. He draws everything he says out, and forces you to listen to him speak. Makes you pay attention so he can pretend he has power for a moment. 
His gaze darts behind Arthur and he turns just in time to see you slipping out of the saloon. The dress Finch has provided you is ridiculously large. It poofs out at the waist in a way that makes Arthur wonder how you’re going to fit into your seat. 
You look beyond uncomfortable. Grimacing as you join them again. You try and plaster a smile on but it’s a struggle. You look to Arthur, a finality on your face that makes him want to throw you over his shoulder and run. He’s doing this for the others, he reminds himself. They’ll be on a boat to Tahiti in a week. 
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, for everything.” The smile you leave him with is real, if just barely. Something lurks under your words that Mr. Finch will never understand and Arthur knows it will drive him crazy. 
“Let’s go,” Finch grabs your hand, looping it through his arm and tugging you towards the doors of the station. 
“Wait!” Arthur calls out, feeling foolish when you both look back at him with perplexed expressions. “You’ll be wanting Bullet, won’t you?”
Mr. Finch answers for you with a condescending tone, “She won’t be needing a horse, thank you.” You give him a knowing smile, turning away and slipping through the doors of the station and onto the train. 
Arthur stays rooted where he is, something crawling up in his chest and rooting around restlessly. The whistle blows and the wheels start cranking slowly forward. Arthur just barely catches a glimpse of you through a window as the train chugs past. 
“Shit!” He hisses. He tugs himself up onto Diablo’s saddle and urges him after the train. He was born a fool, he’s always going to be a damn fool. But he’d have to be a complete moron to just let you go. 
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Mr. Finch keeps a painfully tight grip on your elbow, jerking you through the passenger cars and practically throwing you into your seat. You land with a thud, your arm bouncing against the window painfully. You keep a stoic expression, trying not to let him break you so soon. 
He takes a seat beside you, straightening out his jacket and tugging on his tie. Something white flashes in his jacket pocket and you lean forward, perplexed when you realize what it is. “What is that?” You question, not quite believing your eyes. Finch glances down at the thick wad of cash in his jacket and grins. 
“Oh, this? Mr. Morgan must have forgotten to collect the rest of his payment.” He sends you a condescending smile and you flinch away in disgust. “He was too enamored with my fiancee to pay much attention, I’m afraid.”
“That’s his money,” you snap, the volume of your voice catching the attention of a few other passengers. Finch sends them apologetic smiles, making you seem like a mad woman. “He earned that!” You object, eyeing the money warily. 
His hand snakes out, gripping you tightly around the arm and dragging you towards him until your noses are nearly touching. You nearly gag at the smell of his cigar-infused breath. It’s not like when Arthur would smoke one, you didn’t mind that. But this was making you sick to your stomach. 
“Let's get a few things clear, I will not be dealing with an obstinate wife. You can either get yourself in order or I’ll do it for you.”
Your lips pull back in disgust and you jerk yourself out of his grip. He’s not as strong as he pretends to be and you’re not going to be scared into submission again. “I’m not your wife yet. My father still has time to pay.”
He laughs at you, spittle flying from your lips and sprinkling across your cheeks. “He has time to pay, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be getting you back, sweetheart.” Your eyes widen with the realization and you want to throw yourself off the side of the train. 
You never had any chance to get out of this situation. Mr. Crane was always in control of it all. To even think of having a hope of getting back home was foolish. To believe for a second that you were going to escape this had been utter idiocy. 
He sees the crestfallen expression and sinks into his seat with a satisfactory look on his face. He thinks you to be subdued. But now you’re nothing more than a cornered animal with no other choice of escape. You’ve got nothing left for you, nothing to hold onto. 
As much as you’d thought you’d bonded with Arthur, you were still nothing more than a job to him. You were nothing more than a commodity to be traded between men. You would never have a say over your life. 
You have nothing, you doubt you ever actually had anything left for you. You glance over at the man beside you and feel a cool dread blanket itself over you. Nothing left to lose. 
There’s a solid weight tucked into the bodice of your dress. Its cool metal has been warmed by your skin. Its handle curves around your ribs and it only has one bullet left. You reach down the front of your dress, fingers curling around the revolver you’d stolen from a dead man. 
Finch glowers at your inappropriate behavior “What are-” You pull the gun out, turning it on him. He jumps back in shock and throws his hands in the air on instinct. “Please-” you revel in his pathetic pleading only for a moment. Pulling the trigger a second time is surprisingly easy. The screams that ring out through the train car are less enjoyable. “Shit!” He cusses, hands coming up to try and staunch the flow of blood pouring from his stomach. 
You slip your hand into his blazer, stealing the money before he can object. You run out of the passenger car, leaping to the flat car with all the cargo. It will take a few minutes for them to catch onto what happened and figure out where you went. 
You don’t know what you’re going to do now. You’re stuck on a moving train, there’s nowhere for you to hide. You hadn’t thought when you’d shot him, you just wanted that smug look on his face to disappear. 
“Where is she?” You hear the guards shouting out your name, flipping over crates to find you. They’re still at the front of the train, but you don’t have long until they start moving back here. 
God, what have you done?
You just know, if you made it to that train station, you were never going to make it out. His men would be waiting there to transport you. You’d be watched every second of your life, you can’t do it again. You can’t be locked in a gilded cage, that’s not a life worth living. 
There’s no escape for you. Nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. You glance over the left side of the train. There’s a slight dip into a deep ravine. The crashing water looks almost peaceful from up here. 
You don’t know if it would be a quick death but you know it would be merciful compared to what’s waiting for you at your last stop. You keep your eyes on the water, see yourself taking control of your life for the first time, and take a step up on the rail. 
Someone shouts your name from the right side of the train and you gasp, arms circling wildly as you almost go toppling over the edge. They shout your name again, panic laced in the tone. This doesn’t sound like Finch or any of the other guards. You whip around and find Arthur riding his horse beside the train. 
“What the hell are you doing, woman?” 
Your brows furrow in confusion and your eyes dart between him and the ravine. “Jumping! What the hell are you doing?”
His gaze narrows and he shouts to be heard over the rumble of the train tracks. “Stopping you from being a goddamn fool. Get over here!” You hear the guards getting closer as they storm down the rest of the train. 
You don’t have long to make a decision, you can already see his horse struggling to keep up with the speed of the train. There’s a bridge coming up in a moment, he won’t be able to go any further and they won’t be able to come after you. 
It’s a split-second decision, one that has you pushing off the railing of the car and rushing towards him. You don’t have time to doubt yourself or plan this out further, you take a running leap off the train, towards his outstretched arms. 
He barely catches you in time, jerking on the reigns of the horse and bringing him to a sudden stop before all three of you go tumbling into the water. Shots fire off on the train, but they’re gone before they can do any real damage. 
Your chest heaves as you dangle from his arms, fingers digging into his shirt desperately. Your heart is pounding so hard against your chest that you almost can’t hear what he’s saying, but you get the gist of it. 
“The hell were you thinking? Trying to jump off the damn train! You’re a fool, woman.” He tugs you onto the saddle the rest of the way. As much as he tries to sound angry you can feel his relief in the way he squeezes you close to him. 
“Thank you,” you whisper, head sinking into his neck and breathing in the familiar scent. 
He sighs, struggling between yelling at you more and just enjoying the fact that he got to you before you did something neither of you could recover from. “You’re welcome, just,” he pauses, holding you a little closer, “don’t be so damn stupid again.”
You laugh and it’s a little wet as tears start to pool in your eyes. “I’m not planning on it.” You sit up, easing away from him and glancing over your shoulder. You watch as the train grows smaller until you can only see a plume of smoke and nothing more. “What the hell are we going to do?”
He sighs and turns the horse around. You maneuver yourself around, facing forward and pushing back against him.  “I don’t know. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy about you comin’ back with me.” 
You bite your lip, a hundred different possibilities swirling through your head. You’ve never been able to make a choice before, faced with it, you’re overwhelmed with options. You can’t pick one so you blurt out the first coherent thought you have. 
“What if we don’t go back?”
Arthur stills behind you, “What?” His tone is low and filled with something you know means he’s ready to say no. 
“Just for a little while,” you rush the words out quickly, trying to fight for a chance to get him to listen. “We can send this to the camp,” you tug out the wad of cash you’d stolen from Finch and Arthur barks out a laugh. You feel his chest tremble behind you and it makes you grin. 
“Did you steal his money?”
“Your money, technically,” you correct, grinning over your shoulder at him. “Besides, he doesn’t need it anymore.” He gives you a concerned look but you just wave him off. “We can send the camp some money and go off on our own for a while.”
“I don’t know, kid.”
“Don’t call me that,” you interrupt, glaring at him. “It’ll only be for a little while, Arthur. Come on, I’m free for the first time in my life, enjoy it with me.”
He looks uncertain and you know it’s an odd notion to him, putting himself first instead of the camp or Dutch. You’re sure he’s never done it before. Breaking away from them instead of going about like the loyal soldier he is. 
“Just a little while?”
You nod, turning just enough to tuck the money in his pocket. “Just a little while,” you swear.
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“John Marston!” You frown, turning away from the oven and glancing out the window. Arthur’s grinning by the gates of the horse pen, leaping over the wood, and walking out to greet someone. You abandon the stew, heading towards the door of your home. 
Outside are two horses, one with a woman and her son, and an abandoned one. The owner is currently bringing Arthur into a brief embrace, John, you presume. Arthur’s told you about him a bit. They weren’t always close but it was getting better before Arthur went away. 
Sometimes you feel bad, having dragged him away from everything he was familiar with. You meant it when you said you only wanted to be gone for a little while. You knew if you went back immediately there would be hell to pay with Dutch and you’d both be put to work. 
You’d be going from one owner to another. All you’d wanted was a few weeks on the road on your own. But a few weeks turned into six months and then a year, and it was Arthur telling you he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stand what the gang was turning into. What Dutch was turning into. All you’d given him was an excuse to finally get out before it all blew up.
You walk down the steps of the home Arthur built, wiping your hands off on your apron. You give a brief wave to the woman you assume is Abigail. She waves back, slipping off the horse and helping Jack down. 
Arthur pulls away from John, turning towards you and motioning you forward. John gives you an apprehensive look. “Do I know you?”
Arthur gives him your name, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in closer. “That job Dutch got from Crane.” John’s face lights up with recognition and he smirks. 
“I see,” he shakes his head and gives Arthur a knowing look. “It’s always a woman with you, isn’t it?” You snort at how aggrieved Arthur looks. “Well,” John turns towards you and smiles, “nice to finally meet the woman that got him under control.”
“Nice to meet you too,” you smile lightly at him, pulling away from Arthur. “Are you going to be joining us for dinner?”
“No, he’s not,” Arthur answers at the same time John says, “I would love to.”
Arthur and John share a look you can’t understand. You glance past John and wave Abigail forward, “Come in, please. I’d enjoy the company.”
“Forgive my obstinate husband, he tends to linger where he ain’t wanted.” She brushes past him and you lead her inside your home. Leaving Arthur and John to bicker outside. Jack stays outside, smiling up at Arthur. You know he’s missed the boy, you’re sure he’s okay entertaining them for one night. 
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Abigail helps you set the table while Arthur and John catch up over a bottle of whiskey. Arthur tried to pull out a cigar but you’d shut that down quick. He’d had a cough a little while ago and the doctor advised cutting down on tobacco if he wanted it to go away. You know it’s hard but you’re cracking down on how much he smokes. 
“We got the money you sent,” John’s telling Arthur as they come over to join you all at the table. Jack eagerly hops into the seat beside Arthur before you can snag it and you grin. “Dutch blew it all and wouldn’t tell us on what. He kept saying we still needed another score.”
John shakes his head and the distant look in his eyes makes your stomach churn. “You’re a lucky bastard you got out when you did, Arthur, truly.”
“Hosea?” Arthur questions and you grimace at the look on John’s face. You can see Arthur deflate as John shakes his head. 
“There was a bank robbery, Molly told the Pinkertons we were going to be there, he didn’t make it.”
Arthur’s hand clenches around the fork and you wish you could say something that would make him realize it’s not his fault. “I should have been there,” he mutters. 
“Wouldn’t have done anything, man. Hosea had given up in the end. We all had. It was so damn divided, the family was gone.”
“Still.” Arthur insists, glaring down at his plate like it had offended him. 
“No,” to your surprise it’s Abigail that snaps. “Dutch was gone and that bastard Micah just kept pushing him over the edge. The only thing you would have done is get yourself killed. You’re damn lucky Arthur Morgan.”
You’re sure he’ll still blame himself later. Reason a hundred times over that had he been there something would have been different. Even if it was him on the other end of the gun he’d be happier knowing someone else hadn’t died when it could have been him. You couldn’t stand that these self-sacrificing ideals Dutch had drilled into him were still present. 
But you know Abigail and John help ease the guilt slightly. It’s on Arthur to let it go entirely, though you doubt that will happen anytime soon. John picks up on the change in mood, he’s reluctant to let the night sour so soon. 
He turns towards you with a look that makes you feel like you need to prepare for trouble. “So you did all that to escape getting married. And then you marry this moron?” He motions towards Arthur and you can’t help but laugh. 
“John!” Abigail snaps but he only smiles at her. You can see the way she fights the twitch of her lips and it makes you smile in turn. 
You correct him, “We’re not technically married-”
“Might as well be,” Arthur argues, glaring at John. You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours and gently squeezing. You can’t help but laugh at him. 
“Yeah, we might as well be,” you agree. “But it was never about not wanting to be a wife. I just wanted to have a damn choice. That’s what I got out here. I can hunt or cook. Sew or go out and make some money. And it’s a lot nicer being a wife out in the country than it is in the city, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Here’s hoping,” Abigail mutters. She glances towards Arthur, “That’s why we’re out here. We got word from a few people that you might be lurking around here. John’s thinking of getting a house, really settling down.”
Arthur sighs, leaning back in his chair and glaring at John. “That’s why you’re here? You want a handout,” he accuses. 
“No!” John snaps. “Dammit, Arthur, why you always gotta assume the worst of me?”
“Because it’s usually true,” Arthur mutters. “If that’s not what you want then what is it?”
John purses his lips and lets out a spluttering breath. “A loan,” he lands on, struggling to find the right word. 
Arthur barks out a laugh, slapping his hand on the table and poking a knowing finger into John’s chest. “I knew it!”
John swats his hand away and glares. “Look, Morgan, I only need a little. Just to buy some animals, get started on the house.”
“What’d ya want Marston, my whole damn house?”
Abigail lands a gentle hand on your arm and nods to the porch. “They’ll be at it for a while.” You nod and leave the table, following her to the swing out back. She settles down on it with a sigh, gazing out at the trees that line your home. 
“You’ve got a nice life out here.”
You smile fondly, “I like to think so. We’re thinking about getting a few cows, maybe starting a proper ranch.”
Her face lights up at the idea and she laughs. “That’s what John wants. It’s unbelievable how similar they are, they’re too thick-headed to see it.”
You can still vaguely hear them bickering inside the house. You peer inside and see Jack sitting at the table, watching them both with an entranced expression. You can’t help but grin at the look on Arthur’s face. He’s laying into John but he looks happier than you’ve seen him in a while. 
You know he’s missing everybody, has been for a long time. Maybe if Abigail and John are close by he’ll have that sense of familiarity again. “The others,” you start, turning back to Abigail. “Charles and Sadie, what happened to everyone else?”
“A few of them are living good lives, some of them aren’t. Most of them are drifting, not ready to give up the outlaw life just yet.”
“It’s hard to watch the world change while you’re still stuck in the same spot.” You brush some hair out of your eyes and smile at Abigail. “Me and Arthur are gonna help you and John. But I’d like it if you were both close by. It would be nice to have someone familiar near us, we’re pretty lonely up here.”
She gives you a brief smile back, “I think that would be nice.”
John’s voice picks up from inside and you jump, “Oh that’s a load of bull-”
Abigail’s smile drops and she leans over your shoulder to shout, “Watch it!” at John. You laugh when you see the perturbed look on his face. She motions towards his son and Arthur gives John a smug look. 
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“You gonna help him?” You ask Arthur as you settle into bed later. He opens his arms, pulling you into his embrace once you’re settled under the covers. 
“John?” You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I’m gonna help him. But there’s nothing wrong with jerking him around a little bit first.”
You roll your eyes and shake your head, tucking yourself under his chin. You almost think he’s asleep but then he’s speaking up again. “We should really do it.”
You pull back, brows furrowed in confusion. “Do what?”
There’s a certain look in his eyes that causes something to swirl in your stomach. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just an excited one, “Get married.”
You give him a bewildered look, shaking your head in disbelief. Nearly five years you’ve both been living out here and he’s never once mentioned getting married. You never thought you two actually needed it. You always knew what you were to each other, how much you meant to one another. 
You were each other’s salvation. There’s no telling what graves you would be laying in were it not for Dutch bringing you both together. You hadn’t thought he wanted to be married, he always told you he’d given those dreams up. “You really mean that?”
He shrugs like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Might as well, right?” 
You shake your head, but there’s no fighting the way your lips curl up. “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.”
He nods, dipping his head down to press a gentle kiss on your temple. He treats you so gently, it makes you want to cry. But then he goes and says something ridiculous like, “Yeah, a fool for you,” and he makes you laugh. 
You tug him down, lips nearly touching his. “Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll marry you.” You were always scared of living a life like this. Being tied to one man for the rest of your time on earth. But he’s not some city man looking to make you into a pet. He lets you live, breathe, and be free. He’s a partner not a warden and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. 
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end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
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emmcfrxst · 13 hours ago
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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
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allthemeniveloved · 17 hours ago
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It Will Come Back - John's Ending
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Summary: John's ending as the gang falls apart.
wc: 4.4k
Tags: angry dutch, ansgt, implied violence, fluff, domestic!John, father!John, hurt comfort, overall a tame chapter. :)
ao3 link
a/n: I really enjoyed writing this whole story, and loved waking up every morning to new likes, comments, dms, emails, and asks from you guys, it kept me pushing forward. Onto the next thing! <3
The ride back to Beaver Hollow was heavy with silence, the tension between Arthur and Sadie unspoken but palpable. The successful rescue of John lingered in both their minds, but they both knew it wouldn’t be celebrated—not here, not with Dutch. The cold and damp air of the mountains clung to their clothes as they approached the camp, the familiar sight of ragged tents coming into view through the trees.
Arthur slowed his horse, his jaw tightening as his eyes swept over the camp. It was quieter than usual, the gang’s usual unease now simmering into something heavier, more oppressive. A few of the gang members glanced up as they rode in—Javier sitting near the fire sharpening a knife, Bill tinkering with his shotgun—but none of them said anything. Their faces were blank, wary, as though they already knew trouble was brewing.
Sadie dismounted first, her boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. “I’ll be keepin’ outta Dutch’s way,” she muttered, her voice low as she grabbed her rifle. “You sure about this, Arthur?”
Arthur nodded grimly, sliding off his horse. “Ain’t got much choice, do I?” he replied, his tone flat but laced with quiet determination. He didn’t need to explain further—both of them knew Dutch wouldn’t take the news well, and Arthur wasn’t the type to lie, even when it might be easier.
Sadie gave him a long look, her expression unreadable before she turned and strode off toward her tent, her rifle slung over her shoulder. Arthur stood there for a moment, the weight of the dewey air pressing down on him as he prepared himself for what was to come. With a slow exhale, he headed toward John’s tent, his boots crunching leaves on the cold ground.
The inside of John’s tent was sparse, the few belongings Miss Grimshaw managed to hold onto neatly tucked into corners or piled atop his cot. Arthur stepped inside, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the tent’s frame as he crouched to gather what little there was. A spare shirt, worn and patched in places, sat folded on the cot beside a small leather pouch. Arthur grabbed it, his fingers lingering on the fabric for a moment before tucking it into the bag he’d brought.
The tent smelled faintly of sweat and gun oil, a reminder of how much of John’s life had been dedicated to survival—just like the rest of them. Arthur sighed, his jaw tightening as he reached for a small bundle tied with twine. It was something you must’ve packed for him long ago, the corners of the cloth frayed from use. Arthur paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he set it carefully into the bag.
Arthur glanced around the tent one last time, his hands hovering over the meager belongings. He knew this would likely be the last time he—or anyone—would return here. Just as he picked up a small wooden carving John had made for you long ago, the sound of heavy footsteps behind him made him freeze.
“You’ve got some explainin’ to do,” Dutch’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and angry. Arthur didn’t turn right away, his jaw tightening as he set the carving into the bag with deliberate care. The storm he’d been bracing for was here, and there was no avoiding it now.
Arthur stood slowly, the bag of John’s belongings still in his hand, as Dutch’s looming presence filled the tent. The air felt thick, the tension palpable as Dutch crossed his arms, his dark eyes fixed on Arthur with an intensity that bordered on fury. “You’ve got some nerve, Arthur,” Dutch began, his voice low but sharp, each word laced with accusation. “I’ve been hearin’ things—things about you takin’ it upon yourself to go and fetch John outta prison. Is it true?” Dutch spat.
Arthur met his gaze evenly, his expression calm but his jaw set. “Yeah,” he replied simply, his voice firm. “It’s true.”
Dutch’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as he took a step closer. “I hadn’t sent for him yet,” he hissed, his voice rising slightly. “There was a plan, Arthur—a time and a place. But no, you and that wild woman couldn’t wait, could you?”
Arthur’s temper flared at Dutch’s words, and he set the bag down on the cot with deliberate force, turning to face him fully. “A plan?” Arthur shot back, his voice growing louder. “Like the one for Saint Denis? The one that got Hosea killed?” He took a step closer, his eyes blazing. “John was rottin’ in that damn prison, Dutch. There wasn’t gonna be no plan to get him out. Not from you!”
Dutch bristled, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “You think you know better than me now, huh? You think you’re smarter than me, Arthur?” he spat, his voice shaking with anger. “You don’t see the big picture, the way I do. Everything I’ve done, every decision I’ve made, it’s been for the gang. For all of us.”
Arthur let out a harsh, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “For the gang?” he echoed, his voice dripping with disbelief. “No, Dutch. It’s been for you. And now, it’s all fallin’ apart because of it.”
The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, Dutch said nothing, his face contorted with a mixture of anger and something close to betrayal. Finally, he straightened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Where is he?” Dutch asked coldly, his voice quieter now but no less threatening. “Where’s John? Where’s that girl of his?”
Arthur’s eyes hardened at the question, his stance shifting slightly as if preparing for a fight. “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the tension radiating off him. “It ain’t your business.”
Dutch’s face darkened further, and he took another step forward, his voice low and venomous. “You know where they are, don’t you? Hiding out somewhere, thinkin’ they can just walk away from this? From me?” He shook his head, his tone turning bitter. “You’re lettin’ your feelings for that girl cloud your damn judgment, Arthur. Bein’ a damn love-sick fool is gonna get us all killed.”
Arthur’s temper snapped at the accusation, and he stepped forward, his voice rising. “This ain’t about that!” he barked, his face inches from Dutch’s. “This is about what’s right. About protectin’ the people we care about—somethin’ you used to give a damn about!”
Dutch’s eyes flashed with anger, but he didn’t respond immediately, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared Arthur down. “You’re walkin’ a dangerous line, Arthur,” he said finally, his voice low and menacing. “Disloyalty ain’t somethin’ I take lightly.”
Arthur didn’t flinch, his gaze steady as he held Dutch’s glare. “Then maybe you should take a long, hard look at who’s really been disloyal,” he shot back, his voice cold.
Dutch’s expression twisted with rage, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and stormed out of the tent, his boots thudding heavily against the ground. Arthur watched him go, his chest heaving slightly as he tried to calm his anger.
He turned back to the cot, picking up the bag of John’s belongings with a heavy sigh. The confrontation had only confirmed what he already knew—the Dutch he once trusted was gone, replaced by a man who cared more about his own pride than the people he claimed to lead. And now, with Dutch asking questions about John and you, Arthur knew the danger was only growing.
As he stepped out of the tent, the camp seemed quieter than before, the weight of Dutch’s anger casting a shadow over everything. Arthur caught sight of Micah leaning casually against a post, a smug smirk on his face as he watched the scene unfold from afar. Arthur’s jaw tightened, but he ignored him, his thoughts already focused on the next move.
Dutch’s voice carried a chilling finality as he barked at Micah, “Go find John and his girl. Bring them back, now.”
Arthur’s heart raced, his chest tightening with panic as he stepped forward, planting himself firmly in Micah’s path. “You take one step toward them, and I’ll put you in the ground,” Arthur snarled, his voice low and brimming with fury. “They’re done with this, Dutch. And if Micah thinks he can drag ’em back here, he’ll have to deal with me first.” His hand hovered near his holster, his eyes blazing as they fixed on Micah, daring him to try.
The other gang members slowly began to emerge from the shadows, drawn by the raised voices and the unmistakable threat in Arthur’s tone. Their wary eyes darted between Arthur and Micah, the flicker of uncertainty spreading through the camp like wildfire as they inched closer, silently bracing for the confrontation to explode.
“Don’t mind if I do, cowpoke.”
-
The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the abandoned homestead where you and John had been hiding out. The house was small and weather-worn, but it was quiet, secluded, and yours—for now. The sound of the breeze rustling through the tall pines outside was a soothing reminder of how far away the chaos of Beaver Hollow felt, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, life felt almost normal.
You stood at the kitchen counter, humming softly as you sliced a loaf of bread for dinner. John was nearby, oiling his new revolver at the rickety table in the center of the room, the furrow of concentration in his brow a familiar sight. His presence was steady, comforting, and you found yourself stealing glances at him as you worked, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“You’re gonna make me nervous,” John teased without looking up, his voice carrying a playful warmth.
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you set the knife down. “You? Nervous? Not likely,” you retorted, leaning against the counter as you watched him.
He smirked, his eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly before returning to his work. “Only when it comes to you,” he muttered, almost too low for you to hear, but the sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten.
The moment was interrupted by a faint sound from outside—a slow, deliberate trot of a horse approaching the house. Both of you froze, the easy warmth of the evening replaced instantly by a sharp tension. John’s hand moved instinctively to his revolver, his expression hardening as he stood.
“Stay here,” he said quietly, his voice firm but calm.
“John—” you started, but he cut you off with a look, his resolve clear.
He moved toward the door, his footsteps silent on the worn wooden floor. The weight of his revolver felt steady in his hand as he carefully pushed open the door and stepped onto the porch. The fading sunlight cast long shadows across the yard, but the figure on horseback was unmistakable.
“Who’s there?” John called out, his voice sharp, his revolver raised as he stepped forward cautiously.
The rider pulled the horse to a stop, holding up a hand in a gesture of peace. “Relax, John,” came the familiar, gravelly voice. “It’s me.”
John froze, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he recognized the figure. “Arthur?” he muttered, lowering the revolver slightly but keeping it in hand as he stepped closer.
Arthur dismounted, his movements deliberate and calm, and John let out a slow breath of relief. “You damn near got yourself shot,” John said, his voice tinged with exasperation as he slipped the revolver back into its holster. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”
Before Arthur could respond, you rushed out of the house, your heart racing at the sound of his voice. “Arthur?” you called, your eyes widening as you took in the sight of him standing in the yard.
Arthur turned, his expression softening slightly as he saw you. 
“Evenin’, darlin’,” he said with a faint smile, tipping his hat.
You didn’t hesitate, crossing the yard to embrace him briefly, the familiarity of his presence grounding you. “What are you doin’ here?” you asked, echoing John’s question as you stepped back, concern flickering in your eyes. 
Arthur glanced between the two of you, his expression turning serious. “Dutch is lookin’ for you,” he said, his voice low but firm. “The gang’s done—everyone’s scattered—but Dutch ain’t lettin’ go that easy. You two need to get outta here.”
John’s jaw tightened, “How’d you even find us?” he asked, his tone cautious.
Arthur reached into his saddlebag, pulling out a small bundle of belongings and handing it to John. “Been keepin’ an eye on things,” he admitted. “Figured you’d head somewhere quiet, and… well, let’s just say I’ve been takin’ care of your trail. Dutch ain’t the only one with eyes.”
John took the bundle, his expression softening as he looked down at the familiar items—spare clothes, a small leather pouch, and the wooden carving. His throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.
“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence as you looked at Arthur with gratitude. 
Arthur shrugged, his gaze flicking back to you. “You two need to keep movin’,” Arthur said, his voice gruff but steady. “Dutch ain’t gonna stop, not while he thinks he’s got somethin’ to prove. You got a good spot here, but it won’t stay safe forever.”
John nodded, his jaw tightening as his hand came to rest on your shoulder. “We’ll move when we need to,” he said firmly, though there was an edge of uncertainty in his voice. “Don’t think I’ll ever stop lookin’ over my shoulder.”
Arthur stepped closer, his gaze meeting John’s. “That’s the way it is now,” he said quietly. “But you got her, and you got a chance to build somethin’ better. Don’t waste it.”
You felt the weight of his words settle over you, a reminder of the fragility of the life you were trying to carve out. “What about you, Arthur? What will you do?” you asked softly, your eyes searching his.
Arthur shrugged, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What I’ve been doin’,” he replied. “Keepin’ him off your trail, makin’ sure Dutch don’t drag anyone else down with him.” He paused, his voice softening. 
“Ain’t much of a life, but it’s what I got left to give.”
The sadness in his tone made your chest ache, and you stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “Arthur…” you began, but he shook his head, offering you a faint, almost wistful smile.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said quietly.
The three of you stood in the quiet for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of you. Finally, Arthur stepped closer, his eyes meeting yours. “You take care of him, you hear?” he said, his voice low but filled with warmth.
You nodded, your chest tightening as he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, the gesture carrying a silent farewell. “Take care of yourself, Arthur,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly.
Arthur placed a hand on John’s shoulder, his grip firm but filled with a quiet sincerity that made John look him square in the eye. “You’re my brother, John,” Arthur said, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of everything they’d been through together. “Always have been, always will be. But it’s time you start actin’ like the man I know you can be. Take care of her, take care of yourself, and for once in your damn life, be safe.” The words hung heavily in the air, their meaning clear as Arthur’s gaze lingered, a mixture of affection and warning in his eyes before he gave John a small, almost reluctant smile.
John nodded slowly, his throat tightening as Arthur’s words sank in. “I’ll do right by her, Arthur,” he said, his voice rough but steady, the determination clear in his tone. “And by you. I ain’t lettin’ any of this go to waste.” He paused, his gaze meeting Arthur’s with a flicker of something unspoken—gratitude, maybe, or an understanding that only brothers could share. “You be safe too, y’hear? 
He stepped back, giving John a nod before turning to his horse. “I’ll be around if you need me,” he said over his shoulder, his tone steady.
As Arthur mounted his horse and rode off into the fading light, you stood beside John, the weight of his warning settling heavily over you both. John slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer as you watched Arthur disappear into the trees.
“We’ll be alright,” John said softly, his voice steady but laced with determination. “We’ll figure it out.”
You leaned into him, the warmth of his presence grounding you as the night settled in. 
You nodded, your eyes fixed on the spot where Arthur had disappeared into the darkness. “We have to,” you replied softly, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you as the stars above seemed to hold their breath.
-
The ranch stretched out before you, a sea of golden grass swaying gently in the warm breeze, the rolling hills framed by the distant, jagged peaks of the western frontier. The house you and John had built together stood sturdy against the open sky, its wooden beams weathered by sun and rain but still as solid as the day you first laid eyes on it. The barn, a recent addition, sat nestled beside it, the faint sounds of horses nickering inside blending with the rustle of the tall prairie grass.
You stood on the porch, your eyes scanning the horizon as the sun dipped lower, casting a soft amber glow across the land. From somewhere in the distance, you heard a high-pitched giggle, and your heart warmed instantly. Rachel’s laughter was unmistakable, a sound so full of life and joy that it seemed to chase away every shadow that had ever tried to cling to you.
John’s voice followed soon after, deep and steady as he playfully called after her. “Alright, missy, you come back here before I have to wrangle you like one of the horses!”
You smiled to yourself, leaning against the porch railing as you watched the two of them emerge from behind the barn. Rachel, her dark hair catching the sunlight, was running as fast as her little legs could carry her, clutching a small wooden horse John had carved for her. She squealed with delight as John caught up to her, scooping her up into his arms and spinning her around, her giggles carrying on the breeze.
“Another toy Pa made you?” You giggled before turning your gaze to him, “You’re gonna spoil her rotten, you know,” you called out, your voice laced with affection.
John turned toward you, Rachel perched on his hip, her tiny arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “What’s the point of havin’ a little girl if you can’t spoil her a bit?” he replied with a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he made his way up to the porch.
When he reached you, he set Rachel down, and she immediately darted toward you, wrapping her small hands around your leg. “Mama!” she said brightly, her face alight with happiness.
You bent down to scoop her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead as her laughter softened into contented giggles. John stood beside you, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back as he looked out over the ranch, his expression peaceful but thoughtful.
For a moment, the two of you stood there, the golden light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the porch. Rachel wiggled in your arms, her small voice breaking the silence. “Papa, can we go see the horsies again? Just one more time?” she pleaded, her voice sweet but insistent. 
John chuckled, his hand moving to ruffle her dark curls. “Not tonight, little miss,” he said gently, his voice warm. “It’s almost your bedtime, them horses’ll still be there in the mornin’.” 
She pouted but didn’t resist as John scooped her up from your arms, her small hands resting on his broad shoulders as he carried her inside. 
As Rachel nestled under her quilt, her dark curls splayed across the pillow, John sat on the edge of the bed. She looked up at John with wide, expectant eyes, clutching her quilt tightly. “Papa, can you tell me a story?” she asked sweetly, her voice soft as you leaned against the doorframe, a small smile tugging at your lips while you watched them.
“Alright, little miss,” he began with a faint smirk, “lemme tell you ‘bout your Uncle Arthur. Now, he was a real tough son of a gun—mean with a gun, meaner with a horse—but you know what he hated?” Rachel’s eyes widened, waiting for the answer. John leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to tell her the biggest secret in the world. “Cats. Scared of ‘em. Wouldn’t admit it, but every time one came near, he’d get this look like he was facin’ down a grizzly.”
Rachel giggled, her little hands covering her mouth as she pictured it. “Uncle Arthur was scared of cats?”
“Oh yeah,” John nodded solemnly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “And don’t get me started on his singin’. Tried to tell us it was ‘music,’ but sounded more like someone draggin’ a sack of rocks uphill.”
Rachel giggled harder, her laugh soft and sleepy, and John smiled, leaning down to tuck the quilt tighter around her. “He was one of a kind, your Uncle Arthur. Tough as nails, but he’d do anything for the people he loved. Even face a cat or two.” Rachel let out a little yawn, her eyes fluttering closed as she mumbled, “Goodnight, Papa.”
“Goodnight, little miss,” John said, brushing a stray curl from her face. “Uncle Arthur would’ve gotten a kick outta you.” 
John stepped quietly out of Rachel’s room, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click. He turned to you with a crooked grin, gently taking your hand and leading you toward the living room. As you settled onto the worn couch together, you raised an eyebrow at him, your tone playful but curious. 
“Why do you tell her Arthur was scared of cats? You know that’s not true.” John chuckled, leaning back and draping an arm across the back of the couch. 
“Because it’s funny,” he said with a smirk, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 
“That, and she laughs every time. ‘Sides, Arthur’d probably appreciate the laugh too, wherever he’s at.” His grin softened as he glanced at you, and you couldn’t help but shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
You shifted on the couch, the warmth of the fire casting a soft glow across the room, and slid closer to John. His arm, already draped over the back of the couch, tightened slightly around your shoulders as you moved, and you caught the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. Without a word, you swung your legs over his lap and nestled into him, your head resting against his chest. His free arm came up to wrap securely around your waist, holding you close like you were the only thing anchoring him to this moment.
As you nestled against John’s chest, your fingers brushed lightly over the faint lines along his face. The creases near his eyes softened as he relaxed, and you couldn’t help but admire how time had shaped him, adding depth to the man you loved. Your hand lingered on his jaw, the roughness of his stubble familiar and comforting as you let your gaze linger on him. He opened his eyes, catching you staring, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and I might start thinkin’ I’m handsome.”
You smirked, tilting your head as your fingers traced the edge of his jaw. “Might? John Marston, I think you’re already well aware,” you teased, your tone light but warm as your hand lingered against his cheek. “But don’t let it go to your head, or I might have to knock you down a peg.”
His lips brushed against your forehead in a tender, unhurried kiss, the warmth of the gesture sending a quiet flutter through your chest. “Reckon I’ll take my chances, Mrs. Marston,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and full of affection as he pulled you closer.
For a while, neither of you said anything, the quiet of the house settling over you both like a blanket. John’s fingers found their way to your hair, his calloused touch surprisingly gentle as he ran them through the strands. The rhythmic motion was soothing, his hand occasionally lingering at the back of your neck, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.
“I love you, you know,” he said suddenly, his voice low and rough, like the words had been sitting in his chest all night, waiting to come out. His hand stilled in your hair for a moment as he leaned down slightly, his forehead brushing against yours. “Every damn day, I wonder how I got this lucky, havin’ you here, with me.”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze, the flickering light from the fireplace reflecting in his eyes. There was no teasing grin this time, no deflection—just raw, quiet sincerity that made your chest tighten. “I love you too, John,” you murmured, reaching up to rest a hand against his cheek, your thumb tracing the faint stubble there.
Your voice was quiet, almost as if you were speaking more to yourself than to him. “She’ll never know what we went through to bring her into the world,” you murmured. John’s hand stilled in your hair as his gaze drifted toward the closed door of Rachel’s room. There was a weight in your words, a mix of gratitude and sorrow that made his chest tighten. You lifted your head slightly to look at him, his fingers brushing against your jaw in a silent offer of comfort.
“And that’s how it should be,” he said softly, his voice steady but warm. “She gets to have the life we fought for. That’s all that matters.”
Your eyes flicked back to his, softening at his words, and you gave a small nod. “Yeah,” you said quietly, his arms tightening around you as if grounding himself in the moment. “Guess we did somethin’ right after all.”
꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰
tag list: @photo1030 @fwitolei
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ravengards-rogue · 9 months ago
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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 ݁ ˖˚☽˚。⋆
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bitin-and-barkin · 6 months ago
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Come Back To Me
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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??
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angelsknifeprty · 6 months ago
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What would Sadie Adler be like being the fem!eader's girlfriend? I love she🩵
sadie as your girlfriend hcs ✿⋆.˚⊹
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‧₊˚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
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todorokies · 7 months ago
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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
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“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?”
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reblogs & feedback is extremely appreciated !! <3
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aleenuhs · 8 months ago
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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
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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.
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junosmindpalace · 8 months ago
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FOR YOU, FOREVER AGO
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🎧 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...
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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.
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return to masterlist.
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javiersprincess · 9 months ago
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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.
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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.
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beneaththehalo · 5 months ago
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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!
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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.
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beneaththehalo || est. 2024
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tuxebo · 10 months ago
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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.
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emmcfrxst · 8 months ago
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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.
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allthemeniveloved · 14 days ago
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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
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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.
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sixgunluvr · 7 months ago
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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.
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monsterbeetlebug · 1 year ago
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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."
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