#read dead redemption fanfiction

[cowboyfromh3ll]

Hi!! Your writing is always so wonderful and i was wondering if you’d be up to write something if you still take requests!

I have this whole long and detailed storyline in my head with an oc. I’ll write a short summary about her and if you’d like I would be head over heels if you come up with some sort of scenario!

Basically she’s very masculine presenting, often mistaken for a young man/boy because of it. Hot headed and pretty reckless at times. She’s around Abigail’s age but joined the gang a year or so before. She’s not the brightest in general but every now and then has some surprisingly smart things to say. In general personality wise a mix of Mushy and Rowdy from Rawhide, if you’ve watched the show. I think she’d get along with Sean the most because of her personality. But she’s secretly got the hots for Arthur, she’s pretty decent at hiding it however. Loyal like a dog to him specially, however the feelings she harbours for him will forever be onesided.

IDK IF THIS IS TOO LONG TO READ OR TO DUMB TO COME UP WITH A SCENARIO. BUT LIKE??? Do whatever you want with all this, if it’s even interesting at all. THANKS EITHER WAY🤞🏽😝

My Love Is Not Mine, All Mine

(Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Angst)

Reader is masc presenting in this, you read the req. Also angst. No comfort lol. Creative freedom is a blessing.

What do you do with a loving feeling if a loving feeling makes you feel all alone. Your heart squeezes. Your stomach tries to cave in on itself. Your body becomes shamefully frail; muscles taut and sore, a perpetual ache plaguing your body. You’d take on the brunt of the day, and feel it collapse on you at night. Your weary knees would carry you through it all, and you could squash a week into a day. You become addicted to the loneliness and desperation, because you do not know what else to do with yourself. It is the most familiar feeling you know, and you have convinced yourself it is your destiny.

But when you wake up Arthur in the morning, and when you wait for him at night, and when you wait for his beck and call so often that you do not have your own freedom, it is comparable to having a dog. You would do anything for him, and he for you, but the passion is interrupted. You were his literal and metaphorical partner in crime, and when one of you would ride, so came along the other to accompany them.

Spending so much time with Arthur reminded you of what it was like to be fulfilled. You were hungry for love, and you longed for Arthur to feed you so full until you could not take it anymore. You wanted to know what it was like. He would fill your bowl, but not lift the spoon to your lips.

You awoke from your dream softly, turning over and away from the light casting down on your face. You wished you could keep dreaming, but when you saw Arthur’s figure standing a few feet away where the stew cooked, you were given a million reasons to stay awake. You hoisted your aching body up onto your elbows, your joints groaning and creaking as a reminder that the previous night had not been kind to you. You’d change out of your chemise into dusty jeans and a cotton button up, shoving your feet into a pair of pointed black boots. They had been your continual choice of foot wear for the past few years. A good pair of boots could be your companion forever. Oh, how you longed for a companion. Soon, the soles would crack and the leather would crease in a thousand more places, but you’d keep wearing them out anyways. You were loyal.

You paced over towards the fire, leaning down to pour yourself a cup of coffee. You’d utter a tired “Morning” to Arthur, flickering your eyes towards him before staring back down at the liquid in your mug. He’d return the gesture as he served himself a stew; it reminded you of how hungry you were. But you could not bring yourself to eat, the butterflies in your stomach would not allow you.

Before long, you’d find yourself naturally gravitating towards Sean (though you were ready to abandon him the moment Arthur called for you).

“How’s my favorite lad—I mean lass doing this fine morning?” Sean’s energy would leave others jaded, but you would come at him with the same level of enthusiasm. He always had a way with his words that kept your spirits high.

“I���m doing just fine! Thank you.” You groaned as you sat, stretching your back and hearing a satisfying crack.

“Sheesh, someone didn’t have a good night’s rest did they?” He would comment mockingly, chuckling to himself when you flipped him off.

“Yeah actually, had another one of those weird, recurring dreams.” You waved your hand dismissively, opting to not want to talk about the topic. But Sean was persistent, and he’d take any bit of entertainment he could get, even from you.

“Well, there’s definitely a cure to your predicament.” He looked at you slyly, bringing his coffee to his lips. You rolled your eyes. You hated the thought of it. Some part inside of you cringed at the thought. Of tearing yourself open in all your glory and allowing Arthur to look inside you, allowing him a chance to try and understand your most tender and sentimental facets. Lord knew he would not allow you the chance, his walls were so thick you were convinced not even he could tear them down.

You looked at your boots in defeat.

“Not happening.” You sighed in frustration.

“Come on! What’s the point of living if ya don’t take risks every now and then?”

Sean did not understand that you did not fear risk, rather, you feared loss of companionship. And you clung to it more dearly than your own life.

“It’s too early to be talking about this!” You spat, an unpredictable aggressiveness in your tone.

“Y’know, for one of the most reckless and straightforward people I know, you sure are shy when it comes to this crush business.” Sean teased you in return, egging on your aggressiveness.

You shushed Sean, condemning him for being so loud. You didn’t want anyone else around camp to know about your feelings for Arthur. Not that you had ever willingly told Sean about them; he more or less figured it out on his own and teased you about it. You allowed Sean to, because you got some sort of satisfaction out of someone acknowledging your feelings. Sean allowed you to blush and giggle about your crush with the likeness of a schoolgirl, and he did not shut you down once. You did not want to hear about how high Arthur’s walls were, or how unavailable he was, or how he preferred ladies as opposed to you. He did not give you any of that, rather, he provided you with encouragement, told you to go for what you wanted. Most importantly, he didn’t turn your business into gossip.

You appreciated the gestures, but you could not find it in you to go for it. You were a great gunslinger, you did amazing in heists, you had an affinity for sniffing out leads, you ran into things headfirst; action first and think later you told yourself. But when it came to this, you second guessed everything you did. You never made your feelings obvious, you hid them well. But in terms of your loyalty to Arthur, that said everything for you.

Eventually, Arthur approached you, asked you to ride with him. Naturally, you followed suit, bidding Sean goodbye as he playfully raised his brows at you.

“Where we headed?”

“Into town, I got a letter from someone asking for help.” His explanation was brief, but you knew perhaps what this meant. Your stomach tied up into knots and squeezed, and you suddenly felt your body become heavy with each of your movements.

“I see, but why do you want me to go along…?” There was a tinge of hope in your voice; what you were hoping, you did not know.

“Just in case something happens and I might need you.”

You nodded.

“And, we always ride together anyways.” He added.

You did not expect that, but you felt your chest swell with pride, and you turned your head to hide the inescapable smile. You nodded in acknowledgement, the words echoing in your head.

Your ride towards Saint Denis was quiet. Which was unusual. You would usually talk up a storm, and Arthur would happily entertain it. But this ride was different. The only sounds accompanying your ride was the drumming of hooves on red earth, as well as the metallic gallop of a far off train. You noticed Arthur was rigid, stiff, yet fidgety. You almost felt bad for being in a good mood from his words, but the heaviness between you spread when you remembered where you were heading.

Eventually drumming turned into clopping, as dirt roads turned into stone paved streets. The unwelcoming miasma of Saint Denis had you wheezing, fanning the air ahead of you. It felt as though even in open air, you could not suck in a deep breath. As the two of you approached your destination, Arthur seemed restless. You noticed the way he would tighten and then untighten his fists, and as the two of you dismounted your horses, he kept fiddling with his collar and hair.

“Need help there?” You offered, giggling at his particularness.

“Yes, I would appreciate that very much.” He laughed dryly, his attempts at calming his nerves with humor were in vain. You stepped forward and adjusted his collar, and even if brief, you felt his heart hammering at his chest. You bit the inside of your cheek to sustain another smile (you wondered if you had to do something with it?). You took his hat off his head, fixing his hair for him. A few passer bys looked on at the vaguely intimate scene with prying eyes, perhaps they found it strange how a “man” was so close to and helping another man. Yet perhaps, you were more man than woman. You dressed like a man, carried yourself like one, did things that only men could do, you drank like one, talked like one—.

“How do I look?” He asked, before curling his lips in a nearby window, checking his reflection. You giggled.

“Lovely.” You commented. You scratched at the skin on your arm, letting your nails dig in a little deeper.

“Thank you.” He looked back at you, a wavering confidence in him. Wordlessly, he motioned for you to follow him, and you did, walking by his side. Arthur studied the buildings, trying to find the location to which he was summoned to.

“Arthur! Up here!” A voice called out.

The two of you looked up, and upon seeing Mary Linton, your suspicions were confirmed. You had to will away the pressure that built up in your face, your throat becoming unbearably dry.

Arthur smiled and nodded at her.

“You came! And you brought your…��� Mary looked at you, studying your face as if she would find an answer there. “Friend!” She finished.

You nodded at Mary, hands behind your back.

“Pleasure to meet you Miss, I’m (Name.)” The pitch in your voice gave her the answer she sought.

The prospect of Arthur having never told Mary about you stung. Perhaps something you’d bring up later.

“Hold on a minute, I’ll be down!” She called out, before disappearing into the hotel. Moments later, she appeared before the both of you. She and Arthur seemed to devolve into hushed conversation, to which you had no choice but to awkwardly stand there. Arthur had shared more intimate details of his life with you before, but to be witnessing one had you rigid. You did not know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or to sob out in fear when Arthur politely asked you for a moment of privacy with Mary.

Perhaps you should’ve said no to coming along as soon as Arthur told you what this was about. You pondered this as you walked down the wet stone sidewalk, looking up at the sky rather than at the floor. You stopped eventually, and stared.

You thought back to the time you had gotten into a bar fight with a man in Rhodes, and Arthur practically had to peel you off the poor bastard as you beat his face blue. You remembered the lecture he gave you for acting so reckless and impulsively. You told him the man deserved it for shoulder checking you, which only made Arthur chastise you more.

The truth was, he’d made a sly remark about Arthur.

You were pulled out of your train of thought when you heard hasty footsteps behind you. Normally you would’ve prepared for the worst, but you knew those footsteps well. They were Arthur’s, of course.

You turned around in excitement, ready to greet him, ask him how things went. But your face dropped, your eyes nearly popping out your skull when you saw his forlorn expression. Was he— blinking away tears?

“Uhm… You okay?” You asked hesitantly. You reached out a shaky hand to his shoulder, stuttering in your movements out of uncertainty, before you set it down fully. He allowed the touch. Arthur cleared his throat, bringing his fingers together to pinch his bridge, but not before wiping the seams of his eyes with his finger and thumb.

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m fine.”

The way he called you sweetheart was bittersweet; it stung so good. You could almost taste it; you licked your lips.

“What happened?” You asked, moving forward to try and look him in the eyes. You placed both your hands on his shoulders now. You swore you saw more tears well up in his eyes when you asked, which he blinked away.

“Mary asked me for help, again.”

“Oh.” That was all you could say.

“I turned her down.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fine though, it’s just…I didn't think I should, after all that’s happened.”

You nodded in understanding. He looked deeply hurt by his decision, and it was one you were not sure you could help comfort him over without hurting yourself. The two of you stood there silently for a moment.

"I'm a bad man, aren't I, (Name)." His voice wavered. He looked up at you with sadness in his eyes, and it felt like barbed wires were being tightened over your throat and heart when he said that. It stung to see Arthur speak so lowly of himself.

"No Arthur, of course not… you're one of the best men I know…"

He chuckled sadly. "Thank you, but I'm a no good fool, who doesn't know what he wants."

You took notice of the people who walked around your heartfelt moment, like a river parting for a rock. You knew of Arthur's issues with self esteem, and you knew that no matter what you said, he would not take it to heart.

Another moment of silence— until Arthur walked past you towards where your horses were waiting. In a moment of impulsivity, you gripped his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

He looked at you in surprise, first at where you grabbed him, then at you.

"I… I..."

You began, but the words did not seem to come out. Your grip on his arm was tight, tightening slightly when you became keenly aware of the rising tension. But he did not look at you with impatience, never. Rather, concern. As the seconds passed, you tried to find the right words to say, but it did not happen.

"I'm sorry…" You felt the familiar feeling of your throat tightening up and running dry. He managed a half hearted smile before patting your hand. You felt his palm smooth over your knuckles, before you both let go.

"It's okay, let's go get a drink somewhere. I think we both need it."

'I think we both need it' You would ponder his choice of words. You felt your body become heavy, and any movement felt like you were dragging your limbs across the stone floor. Wearily and wordlessly, you followed.

You did not know what to do with all the love you had for him. You did not know where to put it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

My Love Mine All Mine - Mitski

[zae-heeyyy]

Seraphic

Summary: You are Arthur's angel. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,222 Tags: smut, high honor Arthur Warnings: 18+ MDNI

a/n: Whew 😅 I'm a little nervous to post this one. 🫣 Been sitting on it for a while (no pun intended) I've read and reread it a million times, and I'm ready to share. Also, we're pretending like Arthur's tent actually closes. Anyway thanks for reading!

Seraphic: something angelic or celestial in nature, often suggesting purity, beauty, or holiness.

By 1 a.m., the sounds of camp had reduced to the songs of crickets and the crackle of the fire. While everybody else slept, you waited up for Arthur, reading a book under lantern light in his tent. He arrived eventually, keeping his greeting short and joining you on his cot with slouched shoulders, seemingly exhausted. When he took his hat off, the grimace on his face became all the more apparent. His expression and tense body language told you all you needed to know; whatever happened out there wasn't good.

You handed him a match and a cigarette from his nightstand, and he thanked you with a nod. Using the heel of his boot, he struck the match and lit the cigarette, holding it with his thumb and index fingers. Flickering lantern light and the burning ember tip illuminated his bruised knuckles.

"Should I ask?" You traced a gentle finger over the bruises, and he shook his head.

"Best not," he replied, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.

"Well, I'm glad you're still in one piece," you said, looking him over. His shirt had seen cleaner, less wrinkled days, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. "Well, mostly in one piece."

He let out a gust of air, a failed attempt at a laugh, before pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning.

"Headache?" you asked, and he confirmed. The discomfort came with the life he lived. Loud gunfire, the rush of adrenaline, and focusing on his shots all combined to leave him in pain afterward. You exited the tent momentarily and returned with a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a bottle of miracle tonic.

"Here—for your head." He took the medicine and snuffed his cigarette. Rejoining him, you sat on the cot and dabbed his face with the wet cloth, wiping away dirt and sweat. A soft kiss on his temple prompted him to lean into you, the tension finally dissipating. You wrapped your arms around his big frame and held him close. Obviously, he was your safe space, but oh—were you his. Eyes shut, he rested his head on your bosom.

Arthur found comfort in his typical role as protector and provider. But in these moments, when roles faded, he could feel the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders—a crushing weight he didn't even realize he was carrying. Being with you like this made him wonder if heaven was real because you were godsent.

To Arthur's dismay, you unraveled yourself from him to tie the tent flap closed, sealing the two of you away in the dark. Walking between his legs, you untied his neckerchief and dusted his soiled shirt.

"—Needs a wash. Your blood or someone else's?" you questioned, fingers undoing the top button.

"Not mine," he answered. Peeling the shirt off and tossing it aside, you studied him for a second time tonight. He'd seemed more relaxed than when he arrived, but his brow stayed brooding. Still positioned with his legs on either side of you, you caressed his face, one of your thumbs stroking the hairless scar on his chin.

"What else can I do?"

"You done enough; I'm fine." He gave your hand on his face a reassuring squeeze.

Leaning forward, you kissed him tenderly. His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you nearer until your foreheads touched. You spoke low against his mouth, a playful grin forming on yours.

"You gotta stop getting yourself into so much trouble, Arthur Morgan."

Your demand was met with a chuckle, and he replied, "I'll do my best, darlin'." You peppered his lips with loving, tender kisses, making him smile against them and squeeze you tighter in a hug. You would do just about anything to see that man smile at you the way he did, all soft and endearing.

Your kisses subsided, but Arthur's affectionate gaze stayed fixed on you. The slight smile on his face had straightened, his expression mirroring the intensity of the one he wore when he first confessed his love for you.

"Got that look on your face," you told him, and he just blinked slowly, awestruck. Though he often swore he was a man of few words, he could fill volumes with his devotion for you. You loved it when he got like that, entranced and overwhelmed with love.

The way he watched you set a fire within you that warmed the most intimate parts of your being. He was surprised when you let yourself fall heavily into him, trying to get as close as possible. Maybe he was going to say something or make a noise, but he didn't have the time before your mouth was on his again, your tongue pushing through his lips to tangle with his. You only pulled away when you needed to breathe.

Instead of pressing your lips to his once more, you dropped to your knees in front of him. Eyes widening, he tried to bring you back up to your feet, shaking his head, once again astounded by you.

"Sweetheart—"

Still on your knees, you patted his cheek and looked up at him with doe eyes. "Shhh, let me take care of you, Arthur." His hand found yours on his face, and he turned to kiss it, nodding placidly. Both of you managed to keep your volume low as you helped him strip down to his union suit. You began working at the buttons of his neckline, doing more ripping than unbuttoning, shoving the fabric down his shoulders.

As more clothing fell away, you trailed sweet kisses down his abdomen. At the same time, his hands roamed wherever they could. The rough pads of his fingers lightly tracing your skin mirrored a faint electric charge. Despite being a brute of an outlaw, he was overly careful with his hands when it came to you; your body was fine china and deserved to be treated as such. Goosebumps formed in a wake left by his touch.

As you kissed down the trail of hair under his belly button, his rapid breathing hitched, and the bulge between his legs strained against the flannel fabric, begging to be unleashed. You tried to find his eyes as you groped him through the underwear, but his head was tipped back, his mouth agape.

"Look at me." You whispered, and he snapped to attention like a soldier following commands. Eyes locked on his, you unclasped the last button, and his length sprung free, the pink head of his cock primed with anticipation. A teasing laugh crept up within you as you trailed soft kisses from the base of his shaft and left one long lingering peck on the tip. The loud, rhythmic thumping of his heart was music to your ears. Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, you took his entire length in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down, taking him deeper until your nose touched the curly hairs at the base.

Then he couldn't hold it in anymore; a deep, guttural groan escaped him.

Your mouth was the warmest, most intoxicating blanket he'd ever been wrapped in, and he never wanted to leave. He gaped at you, seeing your mouth full of him, his pupils dilated with pure lust. The blunt tip of his cock pressed to the back of your throat, making it constrict around him. His whole body shuddered.

"Look whatchu' do to me, woman," he rattled, tangling his hands in your hair. Despite his eagerness, you withdrew from his aching sex, a string of saliva joining your lips to him. Something reminiscent of a whine exited him when you stepped away, but his open mouth fell shut at the sight of your bloomers slipping down your legs. You kissed him, savoring the salty, bitter taste of his arousal mixed with the tobacco and herbs of his mouth.

"Lay back," you murmured in his ear. Obeying your command once again, he let out a grunt as he felt your weight on top of him. You straddled him, and he held you up, his fingers digging firmly into your sides. Bending at the waist, you kissed longingly, your hips undulating against his. He pulled your nightgown up around your midriff, one of his hands gripping the flesh of your ass while the other one went between your legs. His index finger sank painstakingly into your weeping cunt, then brushed over your clit, making you shiver. He raised himself on his elbows, reaching for the hem of your sleep dress.

"Take this off; let me see you." You raised your arms and let him yank the garment away, leaving you completely exposed on top of him. "Beautiful," he breathed, using the back of his hand to graze your skin. Breathy sighs escaped you as he traced delicate circles around your nipples. His eyes bored into you, absorbing every detail like you were the most captivating thing that ever lived. Hyperfocused on your body, he fondled your breasts before gliding his hands down your torso, ogling, taking all of you in.

Freezing, his stare intensified as you massaged the tip of his cock up and down your glistening slit. Touching his lips to yours, you pushed him into your wet folds. Neither of you could contain the sounds building with you. He split you open, stretching you, making room for him, filling you. You held yourself up with your hands braced on his chest, but you went weak as he bottomed out within you, brushing against that deep, tender spot. You would've fallen if he wasn't there to hold you up, a thought mirroring one he had about you so often.

"I got you," he whispered into your ear. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to snap his hips up into you, the warm embrace of your center clearing his mind and driving him mad all the same. Finally, you started to ride, surging and sinking into him. He was a simple, agnostic man, but being with you like this made him believe in all the theocracy of angels, soulmates, and divine intervention. This was his bliss. This was his heaven, and you were his seraph. He'd go through hell every day if it meant coming home to this—to you. Hypnotized in the rhythm of you, a new thought crossed his mind every time you bounced.

Up.

She's so goddamn beautiful.

Down.

So perfect.

Up.

My girl.

Down.

My girl, my girl, my girl, my girl.

Up.

My angel.

Down.

I love her so much.

Up.

So wet.

Down

So warm.

Up.

So danm tight.

Down.

Shit.

And before you could come back up again, he squeezed his eyes shut, halting your hips with all the strength he could muster, fighting the damn-near irresistible urge to cum inside of you. Sweat had built up on his brow, and his stomach rose and fell quickly with each panting breath. You folded to kiss him, your hard nipples grazing against his chest.

"It's okay," you whispered, patting his face and grinding antagonizingly slow against him. You wanted him—needed him— to come undone for you. With that goal in mind, you picked up the pace and rolled your hips relentlessly, moaning your every thought into his ear.

"You feel so good inside of me."

"I need you."

"I love you."

Your climax was building fast, and you reached to give relief to that sensitive bundle of nerves atop your center. Arthur pushed your hand away swiftly, replacing it with his own. Always a giver, he'd do anything to feel useful while you were treating him like royalty.

While one hand worked your clit, his other gripped the meat of your hip, rocking you in time with his upward thrusts. His head tipped and hit the pillow, and you could feel his thighs tensing and shaking beneath you. Lips parted, he stared up at you. You felt him twitch inside you, and his brow finally relaxed.

That did it for you.

You were wordless as your orgasm ripped through you, your head swirling, and your veins on fire. Arthur's guiding hand on your hip didn't stop, and he fucked you through your climax. Hugging your body close and nuzzling his face into your neck, he growled as he painted your inner core with his own release. You stayed like that, glued to each other as you came down from your highs.

"You're too good for me," he finally said. You clasped a hand into his, kissing the long-forgotten bruises on his knuckles.

"Shut up." You responded, and he didn't say another self-deprecating word. It was the least he could do.

You cleaned up and redressed, nestling into the small, one-man cot. Finally settled for the night, you resorted to your regular bedtime positions: your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, your legs tangled in one another's.

He rose before you in the morning, perching himself on the cot's edge while you slept behind him. He wrote in his journal, his thumb leaving a smudge on the page:

"For a long time, I believed I could not live a bad life and expect good things to happen to me. Yet somehow, this woman of pure goodness entered my life, and it is clear now that I have been a fool."

[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝙲𝚊𝚐𝚎

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

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

A/N: Sexually mature themes, no graphic or explicitly detailed smut

Summary: Even as a socialite, you've never had the honor of attending a mobster's party. Now, you get to say you've done it all. Tensions seem to ease with Arthur as you both relax into your roles. But things can never stay easy for long, can they?

Arthur had a fence in the city that could loan him a carriage in exchange for a favor down the road. You didn’t ask what the favor was and you weren’t interested in knowing. You’d offered to ride in the front with him but he’d just made a vague excuse of not wanting to dirty your new dress. 

He was lying, it was clear as day that he didn’t give a damn about the state of your dress, but you weren’t going to push him. If he didn’t want to speak, then fine. The entire ride back to camp could be spent in silence for all you care. Though, it seems like he’s purposely trying to hit every damn rock he can. You’ve never had such a horribly bumpy ride as this one.

You can tell when you get closer to camp as the wheels struggle to slough through all the mud. A moment later the carriage comes to a halt and Sean’s muffled voice slinks through the thick wood of the walls. “Arthur,” the H slips through the vowels of his accent and it sounds like he’s saying Artur. “What the hell is that?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur’s low voice calls back. The carriage rocks as Arthur climbs off the front bench and you slip forward, reaching for the door. It swings open before you can grab the handle. Arthur doesn’t look at you as he holds his hand out for you, just waits expectantly. 

You roll your eyes at his stubbornness but take the help anyway. This dress is far too tight for you to shuffle down the steps on your own. Arthur guides you out and releases you the moment you’re standing on steady feet. 

“Oh, be still my flutterin’ heart,” Sean calls out as he eyes you up in the dress. 

Arthur grimaces, lip curling in distaste. “Shuddup, Sean.”

“What?” He asks, voice full of all the innocence in the world as he sends you a brief wink. “I’m not allowed to compliment the lady? You’d have to be one sour bastard not to tell the lady how beautiful she looks.” 

The carriage being driven into camp has drawn the attention of a few others. They slowly move towards you and Arthur, eyeing you both with curiosity in their gazes. The door to Shady Belle flies open and Dutch stands in the doorway. “Now, what is this?”

He, fortunately, doesn’t make you walk to him. You’re standing on a slat of wood now, but one step forward and you’ll be ankle-deep in muck. “I think I might have gotten a lead while we were in the city. An Italian man invited me to a party tonight full of ‘influential’ people as he put it.”

Dutch’s brows raise in surprise, as though he hadn’t expected anything useful to come out of your trip. You’re not sure if he was just doubting you or the possibility of ever finding Jack, but you take his astonishment in offense. 

“Italian?” Dutch questions and his eyes dart toward Arthur. You and Sadie have been on the receiving end of that look quite a lot these past few weeks. The both of you arguing for more involvement in the gang’s activities. And every time you’d receive placating words and a dismissive glance that meant you really shouldn’t bring it up again.

Arthur nods at Dutch, he barely spares you a glance as they both walk back into the house. You feel like a fool, standing in the middle of camp all dolled up and terrified of dirtying the hem of your dress with mud. You don’t feel like the woman you’ve become over the past few months, it’s as though you’ve turned into that cowering girl once more. 

 “You look pretty,” a deep voice interrupts your spiraling thoughts. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Charles approaching you. He looks you up and down, not admiring, simply observing. 

“Oh,” you say, caught off guard. He said it so bluntly. There was no smooth delivery of a line. Instead, it felt like he was stating a cold hard fact rather than a sugary compliment . You were pretty, and he wasn’t trying to earn anything from you by saying that. “Thank you-”

“But this doesn’t suit you.” You clamp your mouth shut, lips thinning as your eyes narrow into slits. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” You grit out, arms crossed tightly across your chest. His lips curl up slightly, laughing at your soured expression. 

“It just doesn’t look like you. It’s like trying to force a bison into a herd of doe.”

Your jaw drops and you gape, stamping your foot at him, “I am in a corset! ” You’re halfway to outraged and it’s only making you angrier that he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. 

His nose scrunches slightly but he just shrugs. “There might have been a kinder way to put it, but that doesn’t change that it’s the truth.”

“What?” You snap, “That I’m a giant lumbering beast?” You throw your arms out, irritated by his insistence on this ridiculous metaphor. 

“That you’re trying to fit into a role you don’t belong in. You’re not a lady anymore, and you’re no outlaw. You can’t force yourself to be either of those things.” You hadn’t expected Charles, of all the people in this damn camp, to be the one to point out how you don’t belong. Not just among them, but in society in general. There’s no place anywhere for you anymore, not even here. 

“Well then, what’s a bison supposed to do?” You snap, looking away as you wipe away the warmth trickling down your cheeks. 

“I don’t know,” he says simply, his voice softer when he sees the glassiness in your eyes. You look back at him and he reaches forward, surprisingly gentle as he brushes away a tear. “That’s for you to figure out. But you’ll never be happy stuck standing between two worlds, especially when you don’t like either of them.” He smiles at you and places his hand on your shoulder, squeezing slightly. “But you look pretty,” he amends, as though that will undo the hurt he’s just caused.

“Thank you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. He shrugs, eyes drifting over your shoulder. You turn, following his gaze, and smile as you see Mary-Beth and Tilly approaching. Charles walks off, not looking to get caught up in whatever it is the girls look so excited about. You can’t say you blame him, if you weren’t stuck in the only mudless spot here, you might try and make a run for it too. 

They look far too eager for you not to be suspicious. “Are you really goin’ to a party?” Tilly rushes out, cornering you against the carriage alongside Mary-Beth. 

“I don’t really have a choice, I’m the one who got the invitation.”

Mary-Beth gasps dramatically and swats at your shoulder. “Oh, I’m so jealous. What I would give to be able to look like a lady for once and get the hell out of this camp.” You’d switch places with her if you could. The laces of this dress are so tight you’re starting to feel lightheaded. 

“You have to let us do your hair,” Tilly suddenly blurts out, hands already darting towards the leather strap tying your hair up. You duck out of the way of her wandering hands and she shoots you a firm glare. 

“Well, I don’t know-”

“No arguing,” Mary-Beth snaps. She loops her arm through yours and Tilly takes the other. “We’ll get you looking prim and proper in no time,” you really don’t have the heart to argue when you see the dreamy smile on her face. You know it’s not often any of the women get to escape camp. Especially not for something as glamorous as a party in the city. 

If they want to live vicariously through you for a night, who are you to deny them the pleasure?

“Alright, fine,” you acquiesce with a reluctant smile. “But you’re gonna have to help me through all this mud.” Tilly and Mary-Beth shoot each other giddy smiles, dragging you along behind them towards the women’s tent. 

“Oh, Tilly, we should do her makeup too.”

Your eyes widen and you grimace. There’s a limited cache of rouge and lipstick hidden somewhere in camp. You know it’s only dragged out for special occasions. But it’s been so long since you’ve worn any that you’ve forgotten just how much you hate it. You’re remembering now, as you look upon their mischievous faces. 

“Hold on now-”

“I’ll get the vanity case of it from Mrs. Grimshaw,” Tilly interrupts, rushing off before you can stop her. You sink into Mary-Beth’s side, letting out a heavy sigh as you relinquish yourself into her care for the next hour. You pass by Charles and glare at the slight smirk on his lips as he shakes his head at you. Smug bastard. 

Arthur and Dutch finish up their talk while Mary-Beth and Tilly are still fussing over you. You manage to peek an eye open as Mary-Beth is slapping your cheeks with a powder puff. Arthur walks up to Hosea, sparing you a slight glance as he places his hand on the old man’s shoulder. He leans in close and you narrow your eyes, trying to decipher what he’s whispering to him. 

“Straighten up,” Tilly snaps, the hot tongs in her hand getting dangerously close to the nape of your neck. The smell of smoke drifts around you and your nose scrunches in distaste. 

“You’re not burning my hair off, are you?” You try to turn your head slightly to get a good look at her, but she nudges your face back around to a disgruntled Mary-Beth. Lipstick hovers over your face as Mary-Beth scrubs roughly at the smudged red on your cheek. 

“Relax, I know how to use these better than any of the other women in camp,” Tilly assures you. There’s a release of tension as she lets the strand of hair out of the tongs and pins it up. The last time you had your hair curled like this, it had been a much gentler experience. You feel as though you’re being punished for your reluctance to get dolled up. 

Here you sit, the opportunity they’ve always wanted landing right in your lap, and you want nothing to do with it. You suppose they might be bitter. The only times they’ve been allowed out of camp they’ve had to pose as whores or damsels in distress. You just get to be a lady. Letting out a heavy sigh, you force yourself to relax in their hold. 

“Alright,” Mary-Beth’s tongue pokes from the corner of her lips as she tilts her head, examining your face. You try not to have your nose scrunch so you don’t wrinkle the powder. “I’m done,” she says, stepping back from you like an artist scrutinizing their latest painting. “It would help if you didn’t have that sour expression.”

You roll your eyes but Tilly releases you before you can say anything rude. She places one last pin in your hair and rounds the chair you sit on. “Oh, some of my finest work, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” Mary-Beth nods her approval and they both share a smile as they ogle down at you. 

“We’re done?” You grouse, tired from sitting under their nagging hands for so long. 

Tilly throws her hands up and narrows her eyes at you, “A thank you would be lovely. Ain’t they teach you manners in that fancy school of yours?” 

You suppose you could be a bit more gracious. Swallowing your pride you nod in appreciation, “Thank you, ladies.” Mary-Beth rushes off and digs around in one of the crates beside the tent. She returns and thrusts a rusted silver mirror in your hand. The glass is slightly cracked but you can still see your reflection well enough. 

Mary-Beth certainly doesn’t hold as heavy a hand as your old maids. You don’t despise the way your face looks with makeup, but it doesn’t feel natural. And you can already start to feel the powder itching on your skin. Still, you force a smile, pretending to be awed by your appearance. 

Tilly certainly did better with your hair than you would have. You honestly hadn’t thought about attempting hair or makeup tonight. It’s been so long since you’ve been in polite society that you’ve forgotten all the work that goes into presenting yourself. Still, the updo looks pretty and the curled ringlets draped over your shoulder are a nice touch. 

You can’t help the disappointment festering in your stomach. It feels as though you should be more excited to see yourself all prettied up. It’s been months since you’ve been in a dress or put any thought into how you look. In your old estates, you were surrounded by mirrors and scrutinizing faces. The only thing you could think about was your presentation and how others viewed you. You’ve grown so used to not giving it any thought that it weighs heavier on your shoulders than you’d expected. 

“It looks wonderful,” you tell them with a strained smile, placing the mirror down by your side. Tilly and Mary-Beth nod, looking properly excited as they whisper to themselves about all the handsome men you’ll see at the party. You chuckle a little, they don’t know that you won’t meet any decent men where you’re going. Mary-Beth’s tales of whirlwind romance and being swept off your feet have ingrained themselves into the less jaded minds of camp. There’s no need to ruin their rose-tinted view of fine society. 

You get to your feet, taking light steps as you skirt around the deeper piles of mud. You just manage to stay on the firmer parts of the land, dress lifted above your ankles. Someone whistles and you grimace, prepared for Micah to be shouting something nasty out to you. 

Instead, a husky feminine voice calls out, “Lookin’ mighty fine, Lady Rowe.” You chuckle, turning to glare at Sadie. She stands a few feet away, lingering by the door of Shady Belle, likely trying to eavesdrop on the men’s conversation as she normally does. Her hand lingers on the revolver by her hip and she sends you a wink. 

“You’re ridiculous, Sadie,” you admonish. 

She shrugs and walks towards you, “Just the truth.”

“Well, did you have to tell it like a man?” You grouch, tugging the neckline of your dress up. 

She smiles at you, walking with you towards the carriage. “Men always seem to have more fun.” You suppose that’s true. They don’t have to spend an hour and a half primping and prepping for something as ridiculous as a party. All they need to do is lick their hands, slick back their hair, and throw on a suit. Lucky bastards. 

“I feel like a clown under all this makeup,” you resist the urge to claw at the skin of your face. It feels as though ants crawl under your flesh, it makes you antsy to just strip everything off. 

She narrows her eyes at you, smile giving way to something more calculating. “It is odd, seeing you like this again. I remember when you used to leave for dinners or parties all dolled up. You never really looked happy then, you were always fussin’.”

“I’m still fussin’,” you admit, tugging at one of the ringlets draped over your shoulder. She swats your hand away and laughs at your aggrieved expression. 

“It’s only one night. Then you can get back to pants and shootin’ at any bastard that pisses you off.” You relax slightly and send her a grateful smile. It’s nice that at least one of the women here recognizes just how constricting this role is. 

Sadie used to have to take orders from you. She’d even had to stomach you cutting her pay when your husband gambled too much. You were the face telling her she was gonna have to scrape for extra money and figure out a new way to feed herself and her husband. Still, she remains the only one who understands just how unfulfilling the life of the rich is.

The front door of Shady Belle swings open and Dutch comes striding out in a suit, Hosea, Arthur, and one very angry-looking Bill not far behind. “Don’t you look fancy?” Sadie calls out, scoffing as she takes in the men. 

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Adler,” Dutch bows his head towards her and she rolls her eyes. You share a brief glance before she walks off. Dutch comes to stand beside you at the carriage, the rest of the men following suit. Arthur opens up the door for you and gives you a hand up the steps. You squeeze his palm once, holding your breath until you feel him return it. Letting go of his hand, you settle yourself on the bench, smoothing out the wrinkles of your dress. 

Dutch has nearly made it inside when Abigail comes rushing up to you all, John not far behind. Letting out a weary sigh, Dutch holds his hands up, shaking his head before Abigail even has a chance to say anything. 

“I already told you, Abigail, it’s too much of a risk having you come with us. I can’t trust you’ll be able to keep your temper.”

Abigail shakes her head and glares at him, lips curled back like she wants to lunge at him. “It is my son that you are lookin’ for, Dutch. I’m not leavin’ him.”

“No,” Dutch assures her, voice calm and gentle in a way you’ve heard so many times before. You’re unsure where he’s learned the skills he has. But the way he puppeteers these people is near magic. “You’re trusting us,” he nods towards the men, “to take care of him for you. That boy is like family to me, Abigail, I’m not going to let anything happen to him.”

Every ounce of restraint is used not to mutter, you already have. Still, you know that won’t do anything but make Abigail fret even more. A little bit of petty satisfaction isn’t worth putting an already nervous mother on edge. 

She takes a step back from him and John reaches for her but she skirts out of his grasp. Things were already tense between them, you’re not sure they’re going to be able to recover from this. Everyone can plainly see that she blames him for her child going missing. Even though you all know there was nothing he could have done to stop it. 

John looks at her, face pinched with concern. He turns towards Dutch, something determined settling along his shoulders. “I’ll ride behind you.” He cuts Dutch off before the man can weasel his way out of anything. “I ain’t goin’ into the party, but if you’re going to be lookin’ for my son, then I’m goin’ to be there.” 

Dutch lets out a heavy sigh, you know he wants to argue, but there’s no point. John’s been butting heads with him more and more, he’s beginning to lose faith in Dutch just as much as you are. “Fine,” Dutch relents. “But you’re not to get involved in any way.”

John nods, already heading towards his horse. Abigail follows along behind him, something stunned painted across her face. Dutch finally makes it into the carriage, taking a seat beside you as Hosea sits across from you both. Arthur closes the door and climbs atop the carriage with Bill. 

“It’s gonna be suspicious,” you tell Dutch and Hosea as the horses start moving. “Walking in surrounded by so many men,” you clarify. Hosea nods and Dutch looks like he’s thinking about it as you continue. “Suppose you ought to be my father,” you tell Dutch. 

He scoffs, shaking his head, “I ain’t that much older than you, sweetheart.” Your skin crawls at the pet name. It sounds so much sweeter when Arthur says it. You just feel like an idiot child when Dutch calls you sweetheart. 

“You had me young,” you snap, glaring at him. His brows raise at the attitude and you suck in a deep breath, trying to keep your tone in check. “Look, the man we’re going to meet invited me to be his date. The fastest way to get to him is you present yourself as my father and ask for a meeting with him.”

Dutch sucks on his teeth, looking towards Hosea. “She’s got a good point,” the old man agrees, sending you a brief smile.

Dutch shrugs, “Alright then. I’m honored to escort my darling daughter,” he pats your hand and you screw your face up, jerking your arm away from him. Petulantly, you turn towards the window of the carriage, not wanting to be so close to him. He chuckles under his breath, talking to Hosea like you’re not even there. 

He’s already doing such a wonderful job playing the part of your father. 

Dutch files out of the carriage, Hosea following behind him. Arthur peers his head around the door, helping you out. You struggle a bit in the heels the girl’s had loaned you that are just a size too small. He places a steadying hand on your lower back and leads you around the side of the carriage to where the other’s wait. 

You feel a little of the tension from before ease as he doesn’t immediately pull his hand away from you. The whole argument feels ridiculous, but now isn’t the time to dwell on it. 

Still, you can’t shake how he'd made you feel when you were so vulnerable in front of him at the tailor’s, and the worry that the two of you might be too different to make this work. 

He’s an outlaw through and through, and you know it’s why his last relationship fell apart. But you’re not trying to change who he is—you just want him to be safe. And he, ever stubborn, just wants to keep you far away from the gang’s dangerous business.

“Mrs. Rowe, Mr. Willamison, Mr. Morgan, and Mr. Matthews, don’t you all just look fine,” Dutch admires as you all stand before him. 

“Almost look like we’ve got the same stick up our ass as the rest of them,” Bill snorts, tugging at the neck of his suit. 

Dutch shoots Bill a sharp look before addressing the rest of you. “Remember, we’re here for information on Jack. But,” he adds with a smile, “let us take advantage of the wonderful opportunity the lady provided for us.” He nods at you and you offer him a pinched look. “Mingle, see if you can’t find something to get us to Tahiti,” he instructs with insincere cheer.  

You shake your head at the mention of Tahiti. Dutch couldn’t point it out on a map if he tried. There’s never going to be an escape for these people, he’ll make sure of it. As Dutch is talking, Arthur slowly slips away from you, moving to stand beside Bill. 

Hosea notices, eyes narrowing in on the space between the both of you. “Arthur,” he calls out, stopping Dutch from spewing any more half-baked lies. Arthur turns towards him and Hosea nods to your side. “Take the lady's arm,” he instructs. 

Arthur’s brows furrow and he shakes his head. “The man in there thinks I’m just a half-wit chauffeur. Ain’t no fool holdin’ a lady’s arm,” he grouses, glancing over at you. 

“Arthur,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What did you-”

“Arthur,” Hosea interrupts, voice firm as he nods once more at you. “Take the lady's arm, I won’t say it again.” Arthur sighs but his face remains infuriatingly neutral as he comes to stand at your side. He slips his arm into yours without a word and it makes your chest clench. “Well,” Hosea prompts, “aren’t you gonna tell her she looks pretty?”

“Hosea, really-” you start, but Arthur cuts you off. 

“You look pretty.” You snap your mouth shut, eyes narrowing as Hosea gives a satisfied nod and saunters off after Dutch, probably grinning to himself. You glance up at Arthur, analyzing his face for any signs of deception or reluctance. He’s being genuine, you can tell that much. Leave it to Hosea to wring a compliment out of the man. 

Arthur starts walking you both forward, following Dutch and Hosea. Two armed guards stand before the entrance of the estate. They each step forward, holding their hands up and stopping you all from progressing any further. 

“No weapons, by request of Mr. Bronte.” Bill opens his mouth to protest but Dutch holds up a silencing hand. 

“Not a problem, gentlemen.” You step to the side, letting them empty their holsters. One of the guards glances towards you and the beaded purse on your arm. He eyes you warily and you scoff with feigned offense. 

“You think a lady like myself carries weapons? Really?” You shake your head and do your best to look outraged. “I suppose next you’ll be asking to look up my skirt too!” You can see the other's faces blanche but the guard backs off, hands raised as he lets you through. “I never,” you huff, glaring at him as you pass by. 

Dutch is the first to catch up to you. He steals Arthuir’s spot by your side and takes your elbow in his hand. He guides you up the front porch stairs and you resist the urge to jerk your arm out of his grip. “You play your role quite well,” he compliments.

You give him an appreciative smile and open the clasp of your purse for him. “I’ve got a conveniently sized companion in my purse if you get too familiar, Father,” you bite out, showing him the small gun hidden within the fabric. He only chuckles, tucking you back into his hold. 

The sounds of the party outside begin to leak through the extravagantly decorated halls of the estate and you feel your heart kick up. It’s been a long while since you’ve had to entertain one of these functions. You haven’t had the time to worry about your hair, or makeup, or how scandalous your dress was, in so long. You’ve forgotten how nerve-wracking it can be. 

You find yourself squeezing Dutch’s arm, desperate for something to ground you and finding no comfort in him. Your hand fists itself in the silk of your dress, wrinkling it and staining it with your sweaty palm. 

You step out onto the back terrace and stride towards the railing overlooking the vast garden. Below, a sea of socialites, businessmen, and politicians mills about, their laughter and pleasantries drowning out the quartet playing. Each of them mingles and laughs at each other’s jokes. But you know better, you see through the charade. They’re predators cloaked in silk, circling one another, each waiting for the faintest scent of weakness before they strike. There is no true friendship or kindness between people like this. 

“Alright—” Dutch begins, turning to address the group behind him, but a thick Italian accent cuts him off.

“Ah, my guest of honor.”

The man from the bar strides past Arthur, his attention fixed on you and Dutch.

Dutch’s face splits into a wide, practiced smile as he steps forward, extending his hand for a shake. “Sir, this is my father-” you begin to introduce but the man interrupts. 

He takes Dutch’s hand with a grin. “Dutch Van der Linde. And you,” he says, turning toward you with a gleam in his eye that makes your stomach twist, “the beautiful Mrs. Rowe.”

Arthur and Bill exchange a tense glance, their hands twitching instinctively for the guns they were forced to leave behind.

The man bursts into laughter, clapping his hands together at the sight of their wary expressions. “Please, gentlemen, do not insult me. I am no fool.” His gaze slides back to you, his grin widening. “But I do enjoy pretty things—like your charming companion here—putting on such delightful performances for me.”

You should have known better. Information shouldn’t have come so easily. Your grip on Dutch’s arm slackens, and without hesitation, you step toward Arthur. 

“Well, you seem to know us, sir,” Dutch interjects smoothly, attempting to reclaim control of the conversation. “I can’t say we share the honor.”

“Angelo Bronte,” he introduces himself smoothly, shaking Hosea’s hand before moving through the men one by one. Finally, he reaches you. With a practiced elegance, he takes your hand, his touch light as he bends to press a kiss to your knuckles.

His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and calculating, as his lips brush against your gloved fingers. “A pleasure,” he murmurs, his voice rich with charm. “I do hope you’ll save a dance for me.”

Your face screws up in distaste before you mask it with a practiced smile. Words fail you as you’re overcome with the urge to put as much distance between yourself and Angelo as possible. 

He lingers, his presence making your stomach twist with discomfort, for another moment before finally stepping back and releasing you. He turns towards Dutch and gives him a greasy smile. “I believe we have business to discuss,” he says smoothly, nodding toward Hosea. “If you and your companion would join me in my study.”  

It’s a demand, not an invitation, as Bronte steps back through the grand doors of the estate. His men move swiftly to escort Hosea and Dutch inside. Dutch pauses, turning to the rest of you. “Talk to everyone you can,” he instructs, his tone clipped and focused.

You scoff under your breath. Even faced with an Italian mobster, Dutch’s mind is fixed firmly on profit.

“I’m headin’ to the bar,” Bill grumbles, brushing past you and Arthur without a second glance.

You turn to your partner, offering him a faint, hesitant smile but avoiding his gaze. “Feel like dancing?”  You fear the same cruel rejection he’d given you earlier. 

Arthur glances at you with a shrug, already heading for the stairs. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his tone teasing, dry. “I might be a bit too dull-witted for a dance.”

You roll your eyes, trailing after him, his jab lingering between you like an unspoken challenge. You take his arm and he begins shouldering through all the nicely dressed people. They send him affronted looks but he pays no mind, heading toward the bar Bill isn’t standing at. “Don’t keep pretending I intentionally hurt your feelings,” you taunt.

He pauses at the bar, gently pushing you in front of him to create a buffer between you and the throng of people. His presence shields you like a wall. It doesn’t help the way the air feels more suffocating with every passing moment. You’re unsure if it’s the corset or the amount of people swarming you that makes it hard to breathe.

“’Course my feelings ain’t hurt,” he mutters, flashing a brief grin before waving down the bartender. Without needing to say much, the man places a glass of whiskey in front of him and moves on to the next person. “I know you had to lie,” Arthur continues, voice quieter now. “I just don’t like you being mixed up in all this, alright? You could-”

“What?” You interrupt, turning to face him, your chest pressing against his. The sight you make must be quite a spectacle for polite society- two people so intimately entwined, neither of you wearing rings. You take his hand in yours, “I could get hurt?”

You let out a self-deprecating laugh and shake your head. “I already have been hurt, Arthur. The O'Driscolls were what dragged me into this, not you. Just being in that camp puts me in danger.”

His brows furrow, something that looks startling like hurt playing across his face. “I can’t be responsible,” he utters, voice low and heavy, “for someone else I care about dyin’.”

You sigh, heart aching for him. “Arthur,” you say softly, hand drifting up to cup his jaw. He leans into your touch, and you practically melt at the sight. You wish you could just keep him locked away. Away from all his troubles and the pain he carries, but you know you can’t. 

“You can’t be responsible for everyone,” you tell him, voice low. “I make my own choices, I’m my own woman. If I choose to put myself in danger that’s my fault, not yours. You’re always gonna be worrying if you keep shouldering all this weight. Let some of it go. Please.”

He sighs heavily, and you know deep down he won’t listen to you, not about this. He’ll always blame himself for the gang’s troubles, and it eats you up inside. You wish he could see himself the way you see him, the way Hosea or Tilly or Sean sees him, not as the man Dutch created.

“Alright,” he whispers, an empty promise, and pulls your hand from his face, lacing his fingers through yours. Your throat tightens as you swallow hard. He’ll never let go. He’d give his dying breath to save someone else.

You blink rapidly, looking away from him as your gaze drifts toward the partygoers. Women in extravagant dresses pass by, on the arms of powerful men, nothing more than accessories to them. You find yourself reaching for the ring on your left hand, only to remember it's long gone.

You had hoped you’d never return to a place like this, to a life full of bad memories. But you should’ve known. No matter what, you always end up back here. It’s what you were raised for, trained for, to please men like Angelo Bronte.

“Can’t believe Hosea had to tell you to compliment me,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He rolls his eyes with a small smile, “You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he tells you, wholly earnest in his words. “But-”

You swear if he's about to call you a bison-

“Arthur!” A voice calls from above, cutting through the moment. You both frown and look up to see Dutch bent over the porch railing. He nods toward the door, then disappears back inside the estate.

“Alright,” Arthur mutters, pulling a key from inside his jacket and turning toward you. You raise an eyebrow, leaning against the bar,  and giving him a questioning look. “Take this and head to the hotel down the road,” he says, handing you the key. “I’ll meet you when this is all done.”

“What is it?” You gingerly take the key from his hand and turn it over. 

“A room key,” he deadpans and you roll your eyes. 

“I see that, but why did you get it?” You ask, but before he can answer, an impatient voice calls his name from above. You tuck the key into your bag, waving him off. “Go on. I need to get out of here before Bronte collects on that dance.”

He grumbles something under his breath and heads back toward the stairs. He’s nearly at the landing when he turns back toward you.“I’ll be with you soon,” he promises, then rushes the rest of the way up to meet Dutch.

You stare at the key in your purse, then glance back at the women around you. This will be the first party you’ve ever left under your own volition. And, without the looming proposal of twenty men you’ve never met. This will be the first party you’ve ever left by choice. If that’s the only win you have tonight, you’ll be happy. 

Saint Denis might be the most backward place you’ve encountered during your time with the gang. Perhaps not as stifling as Rhodes, but certainly no better.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the hotel clerk drawls, his tone dripping with false courtesy. “But we don’t allow women of your… caliber in our establishment.”

You glance down at your fine dress, the way Mary-Beth had carefully styled your hair, and try to reconcile his words with your polished appearance. For the life of you, you can’t fathom how this man sees anything but a proper lady.

“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice sharp.

The man sniffs, his expression folding into something both condescending and disdainful. “Well,” he says, as if speaking to a wayward child, “I happen to remember the gentleman who retained that room. He seems the type to… hire someone like you.”

It takes a moment for his words to land, but when they do, the whites of your eyes flash in disbelief. A whore. That’s what he’s implying you are. Just some woman off the street Arthur must have paid for companionship.

Your fingers twitch, the weight of the gun in your purse suddenly tempting, but you know better. Causing a scene here would accomplish nothing but attracting the attention of Saint Denis’ finest.

Instead, you step forward, your voice dropping into a low, icy drawl. “My husband is going to be quite upset by this treatment.”

He nods his head, lips tilted in faux pity, “I’m sure he will be,” he agrees, voice dripping with sarcasm. He doesn’t believe for one second that you’re married. And maybe you aren’t, but that doesn’t matter. You refuse to let him get away with treating you like this. 

“Oh,” you trail off into a bitter chuckle, the sound sharp and humorless as you glare at the smug little man behind the counter. “Alright. I see how it is.”

He has the audacity to feign innocence, shaking his head with wide, exaggerated eyes. “How what is, ma’am?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you nod to yourself, your decision made, and storm over to the bench by the entrance. Without hesitation, you plant yourself down, smoothing your dress as you settle in for the long haul. “I’ll stay here all damn night if I have to,” you declare, voice loud enough to draw a few curious glances from other patrons. “But I will not be leaving this spot until you apologize.”

The clerk’s smile widens, smug and condescending. “Well,” he says with mock cheer, “I hope you’re comfortable.”

It takes Arthur an hour and a half to finish whatever Dutch had needed him for. You don’t have a clue if it had to do with Jack, Tahiti, or who knows what else. All you know is that your legs are practically numb from the tight heels you’re wearing and the uncomfortable wooden bench beneath you. Still, that doesn’t stop you from leaping to your feet the second you see Arthur walk through the hotel door. 

His eyes narrow in confusion as you stride toward him. “What’re you still doin’ waitin’ out here?” 

You scoff, grabbing his wrist and storming back toward the little man behind the counter, whose wide eyes have already clocked Arthur’s imposing presence. “This little-” You bite your tongue, sucking in a deep breath to steady yourself. Arthur’s brows quirk in amusement as he watches you wrestle your temper into submission. 

“This man,” you start again, glaring at the clerk with barely restrained anger, “refused to let me into our room. Says he doesn’t think people like us belong in a place like this.”

Arthur’s expression hardens with interest, and the clerk quickly starts bumbling excuses, his words tripping over themselves in a frantic effort to backpedal. You plant a hand on your hip, your smile sharp and smug as you watch him squirm under the weight of Arthur’s silence.

“You left my wife,” Arthur says, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you close, “sittin’ out here. All night?” 

The word wife rolls off his tongue so easily it catches you off guard, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. The clerk pales, shaking his head as he stammers, “It was an innocent mistake, sir, I swear. I will happily take you up to your rooms now.”

“No,” you snap, stopping him before he can step away. His strained smile falters as he turns back to you. 

“Ma’am?” Both men look at you, but you’re too incensed to notice Arthur biting back his laughter. 

“I want a proper apology,” you demand. “I sat on that bench for near two hours and all it takes is one word from him,” you jab a finger in Arthur’s direction. He makes a noise somewhere between affronted and amused, but stays quiet.  “And suddenly everythings just fine and dandy?”

The clerk inhales deeply and forces the most half-hearted apologetic look you’ve ever seen. “I am truly sorry ma’am,” he says, tone clipped and mechanical. “Your dress had me mistaking you for someone of much less standing.”

Your jaw drops, and something between a squeak and a growl escapes you. Arthur swiftly snatches the room key back from the clerk and shoots him a glare.“We’ll find our own way to the room.” He tugs you along before you can lunge at the man, whose smug smirk makes your blood boil. Arthur steers you toward the stairs, pushing you gently ahead of him.

“He thought I was a whore, Arthur!” He chuckles and you gasp, whipping around and swatting at his arm. “Do I look like a whore to you?”

“Well, you’re pretty enough to be one—”

“Arthur!” you exclaim, smacking him harder as he laughs and ushers you down the hallway.

When you reach the door, your irritation fades. “Why’d you even get us a hotel room?”

“Well,” he says with a small smile, “I know Shady Belle ain’t up to your standards.”

Guilt twists at you and you shake your head. “Oh, Arthur, no-”

“It’s alright, sweetheart. It ain’t my house.” He takes your hand and leads you inside.

You have to admit, the second you see the clean walls of the room and the freshly-made bed, it’s like weight taken off your shoulders. You hadn’t realized just how much you’d been craving the cleanliness of your old life until now. The idea of a proper bath makes your heart ache with longing.

“How much did this cost you?”

Arthur quirks a brow, slowly sliding your purse off your arm. He frowns slightly at the weight of the gun inside, shooting you an odd look before continuing. “Is that any way to talk to a gentleman?”

“Oh,” you tease, grinning as you turn toward him, “I didn’t know I was talking to a gentleman.” He sets the purse on the table by the bed and closes the distance between you, his hands finding your waist as you loop your arms around his neck.

The conversation takes a more grave shift as you ask, “What did Dutch need?”

Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes. “That Bronte fella. He was the one who took Jack. Needed me and John to fetch some family heirloom. Still, robbin’ graves for an Italian mobster ain’t the oddest job I’ve worked.”

“So, Jack’s back?” you prod, intrigued by the grave-robbing but saving your questions for later.

He nods, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Back at camp. They’re probably celebratin’ by now.”

“And you didn’t want to celebrate with them?”

He shakes his head, his hands drifting to the laces of your dress. “Nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”

“Mr. Morgan,” you scold, your voice low and breathy as he leans closer. “What exactly are your intentions tonight?”

“To get you out of this damn dress,” he murmurs with a chuckle, plucking at a lace and loosening your corset. His eyes meet yours, warm and intent. “Feels like I’m holdin’ someone else’s woman. Wanna see you again.”

You can’t help but smile at the tenderness in his voice, though the words cut a little deeper than you expected. This dress, this persona, the polished veneer of a proper lady- it’s all a mask. And in Arthur’s arms, it feels like it’s already slipping away. 

You tilt your head up, eyes fluttering close in invitation. He doesn’t waste a second before he’s pressing his lips against yours, eager hands working on pushing the corset the rest of the way off. You stumble towards the bed, your fingers drifting down his neck to tug at the bowtie still knotted too tightly around his collar. 

Arthur seems to have better luck than you do with shedding your layers. He also seems to have more experience with ladies garments than he’s let on. You’d laugh at his eagerness if you weren’t just as desperate, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt with frustrated huffs. 

He gives you a gentle push, your legs hit the edge of the bed and you fall back with a soft gasp. You prop yourself on your elbows, looking up at him with a coy smile as your fingers toy with the neckline of your shift, sliding it a little lower. 

“Well, Mr. Morgan?” You tease, your voice low and inviting. “You really gonna keep a lady waiting?”

His lips quirk into a crooked smile, but he doesn’t bother with words. Instead, he leans down, his weight pressing into you as he captures your lips again. Your laughter melts into a quiet gasp as his hands find your waist, tugging you closer. 

The room grows warmer, the world outside fading to nothing as you lose yourself in him, in the way his hands and lips feel against your skin. Your dress slips further, pooling around you like a forgotten memory. Whatever unspoken words linger in the air are stolen away, replaced by breathless laughter and the sweet whispers of a night that belongs to you and Arthur alone. 

The ride back to camp is slow, neither of you in any rush to return to the chaos. Your conversation is devoid of your usual banter, instead you opt for soft glances and easy smiles. Thoughts of your intimate morning together, the way he’d brushed the hair off your bare shoulder, the two of you splashing out half the water figuring out if that bathtub was big enough for the both of you, it was all so perfect. Neither of you want to shatter the rare, fragile peace. Besides, what more is there to say after last night. 

It’s easy to forget why there had ever been tension between you, until you make it back to camp. The noise is overwhelming immediately, loud cheering and shouted questions that you can’t make out through the cacophony of voices. 

Arthur pulls Diablo to a stop, and you follow suit, hitching Lady beside him. He swings down from the saddle first, his eyes narrowing at the commotion around Dutch’s tent. Coming to your side, he offers a hand to help you down, his grip firm and steady. Without letting go, he threads your hand loosely through his,  guiding you through the small crowd gathering near Dutch.

You lift up the edge of your skirt and follow along after him. After last night, you’ve learned the dress can survive some wear and tear, you’re no longer worried about messing it up. The tight tendrils of the night before are loose waves around your shoulders and the flush on your cheeks can no longer be blamed on rouge. You glance over at Arthur and grin, the bowtie and the jacket abandoned back at the hotel, his hair fussed from your wandering hands.

Sean comes bounding up to you both, hollering a loud, “Arthur!” The over-excited redhead practically bounces on Arthur’s shoulders as a broad grin splits his face. Arthur grimaces, swatting Sean’s hands off.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Arthur snaps, already out of patience for Sean’s antics.

Sean grins even wider, “Oh, he’s done it, Arthur! We’re finally gonna get the hell outta here!” Arthur looks over his shoulder at you, wearing a confused expression that you share, just as lost as he is.  

“Arthur! Finally!” Dutch’s voice cuts through the noise, silencing the crowd. He strides over, smiling at Sean before nudging him aside with casual dismissal. Dutch’s sharp eyes flick to you, narrowing with suspicion. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to,” he says smoothly, though there’s a pointed edge to his tone that makes your stomach twist. You stand straighter, unwilling to bend beneath his gaze.

“Dutch,” Arthur starts, his tone unsure. “What’s got everyone so worked up?”

“My dear boy, I have finally found our golden ticket out of here and onto a boat to Tahiti!” You can’t help but feel a spike of doubt. You rarely trust anything he says, but especially not when it comes to Tahiti. But what catches you off guard is the flicker of hesitation in Arthur’s expression.

“Really?” Arthur asks, his voice laced with skepticism as he eyes Dutch warily. If Dutch is surprised, he doesn’t let it show. 

His grin doesn’t falter as he steps closer, resting both hands on Arthur’s shoulders. There’s an air of practiced paternal affection about him. “Arthur,” he says warmly, his voice almost a purr, “have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I can think of a few,” you mutter under your breath, your glare sharp as you meet Dutch’s gaze.

Dutch turns to you with a polished smile, laughing as if you’ve shared some inside joke. “Ah, that tongue of yours—always so sharp, my dear.” You roll your eyes at his patronizing tone, your irritation barely contained. Arthur shoots you a warning look, silently asking you to hold your temper. But you can’t help it. Every instinct in you rails against Dutch, every polished word and easy charm grating like nails on a chalkboard.

There’s no way that whatever Dutch has planned actually works, it never does. In fact, it seems every mission, robbery, or even shopping trip since the mountains has ended up with you being chased by Pinkertons or Cornwall. It’s almost as though someone is letting them know where you’re going to be. You linger on the thought, swirl it around before dismissing it. Dutch’s power comes from having control over the gang. He wouldn’t so foolishly give that away by letting in a rat. He’s a conman, but he’s no idiot.

“I’ve received a tip from our friend Mr. Bronte.” Dutch starts, turning towards the rest of the gang so they can hear him. Arthur watches him with narrowed eyes and a scowl. You observe, face pinched as you try and discern what he’s thinking. “If we want to finally get out of here,” a few whistles from the group and he grins, “our future lay in trains.” he laughs, clapping his hands together and shaking his head. “I don’t know how I never thought of it before, but if there was one place that’s going to have the most foot traffic and money, it’s going to be the train station.”

You walk up to Arthur, snagging the elbow of his jacket and tugging him towards you. He shoots you a bewildered look but you shake your head, urging him not to say anything. “Do you really think this is smart?” Your voice is hushed, one eye trained on Dutch to make sure he’s busy regaling everyone with his tall tales. “Following a tip he got from a mobster sounds risky, even by the gang’s standards.”

Arthur lets out a rough sigh and scrubs a hand down his weary face. You steel yourself for his usual defense of Dutch, instead he just looks like a man beaten down too many times. His shoulders sag in a weary gesture that you’ve seen one too many times. “What choice do I have?” He asks, already sounding resigned to the mission. “It doesn’t matter what I think, he’ll drag everyone else along on his scheme. Someone’s gotta make sure they don’t all get themselves killed.”

“Does it have to be you?” You snap, biting back your volume as your frustration threatens to boil over. Your eyes narrow into slits as you tilt your head, trying to catch his eye. “We’ve had this conversation before, Arthur. Last time you were nearly dead, I don’t much feel like having you come back to me in a casket this time around.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he meets your gaze, looking like a rough mix of guilt and anger. “We’re going to keep having this conversation until you just accept that this is who I am,” he says sharply. “This is what I have to do, if you can’t live with that then this is gonna end just like it did with Mary.”

It almost feels like he’s trying to hurt you, trying to push you away. With a pained scoff, you shake your head, “Dammit, Arthur, maybe she had a point,” you shoot back. “There’s nothing wrong with you being an outlaw, but there is everything wrong with always being the first to throw yourself in front of a bullet.”

He snatches his arm from your grip and your stomach drops to your feet. The emptiness of your hands feels like a physical blow. His expression softens, ever so slightly. “One last job,” the promise lingers heavy in the air between you. His face is a quiet plea but you  can only take a step back from him. Your heart is aching and he isn’t even gone yet. “I swear,” he adds.

“You’ve said that before,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “Go, Arthur. It doesn’t matter what I say, you’re never going to choose me.” He hesitates, his hand hovering near yours like he wants to reach for you. But before he can say anything, Hosea’s voice calls his name from the wagon, pulling him away. You watch him go, your chest tight and your vision blurring as the space between you grows. He doesn’t look back, and you don’t call after him.

This is who he is. And you? You’ll always be the one left behind.

You’re supposed to be packing Arthur’s things. After all, the miraculous Dutch Van der Linde is about to lead everyone out of the wetlands and onto a boat to paradise. You scoff at the thought, twirling a bottle of whiskey in your hand. The last time you drank this, you’d killed a man. You wonder what you’ll do this time. 

A commotion breaks out at the edge of camp, dragging you away from whatever foolishness you were about to get into. Frowning, you drop the bottle to the ground without a care for the way it shatters. You step over the shards of glass and run towards the horses, dread coiling in your stomach. The job was supposed to be quick, but an hour seems far too fast for you. 

Mrs. Grimshaw shouts at whoever’s parking their horse and you narrow your eyes in confusion when you see Charles struggling off Taima’s saddle, his movements sluggish and pained. Concern gnaws at your already frayed nerves when you realize he’s the only one to return. Your mind immediately follows the worst scenarios, Arthur thrown lifeless over a horse. Or, worse, never returning at all. 

Charles staggers to a stop in front of you and you’re forced out of your spiraling thoughts. His face is a mottled portrait of bruises, blood still leaking steadily from his nose. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him look out of sorts and it’s chilling. “They’re gone,” he croaks, hand clenched around his ribs. 

Your hands dart to his shoulders, steadying him. “Who is?” You ask, though you already have the sinking feeling you know the answer. 

“Hosea and Lenny,” he says, his voice cracking. “Dead. Cops got them. Sean and John, were dragged off to prison-”

“Arthur,” you interrupt him, voice short as you impatiently wait for his answer. He winces, from pain or the reluctance to tell you, you can’t tell. “What happened to Arthur?” you ask slowly, voice low and tense. You feel like the string of a bow, taut and pulled back, just waiting to be set free. 

“Got on a boat with Dutch and the others. A ferry, I don’t know where they are, but they’re gone.” He stumbles back from you, turning towards the rest of camp. The world seems to slip upside down. Your hands fall to your sides, grasping at nothing but empty air. 

“They left us,” you whisper, the weight of it sinking in like a blade to the chest. Arthur left you. All the warmth he’d given was stripped away and left you cold.

Your mind races, but it always lands on the same bleak truth: this isn’t the first time you’ve been abandoned. You’d been foolish enough to think it might be different with Arthur. Foolish enough to believe he might stay. 

Charles’s voice cuts through your haze. “The Pinkertons will be here soon,” he shouts, turning toward the rest of the camp. “We need to leave, now!”

You don’t move. Your feet are rooted in place, your mind screaming at you to react, but your body refuses to listen. You’re disgusted with yourself by how much this betrayal is surprising you.

Charles spins back to you, his hands gripping your shoulders with no care for gentleness. “We need to go,” he snaps, shaking you. “Now.”

His urgency finally breaks through, and you nod stiffly. 

Next part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00

[johnpriceslamb]

I feel like having a hyper fem!reader would be really useful when it comes to cons and scams. Charm = Money

The image of going to any town and just absolutely leaving peoples pockets dry just by being a pretty doll they think they can play with when in truth you’re the one playing them. Arthur Morgan in the corner making sure nothing goes south yet getting a bit jealous of the men getting robbed.

caution !! mini babble , hyper-fem reader as usual -.- arthur being a bit jealous is a bit of an understatement ;3 , > 100 wordiez

⊹₊ ⋆ you were pretty .

too pretty, in fact— it makes Arthur’s blood boil .

How could Dutch ever think that this was a good idea to scheme money ? Sure, it was working — and sure, this was the most money they’ve gotten in a day, but … the way you looked at those bastards was similar to the way you look at him is making a vein pop in his head.

Long, dewy lashes tipped with puppy-like eyes — hot damn you were too pretty, it’s making his irritation very evident. He narrows his eyes at the way you presented yourself to those pigs, a soft click to the tongue which quietly drowns out immediately because of the constant chattering amongst the bar. He has to force himself to look away, otherwise he’ll end up dragging a man by the ear for even looking your way. Damnit he’s looking your way again and-

Ah. There she was. pixie-like hands ever so sneakily coming from behind and dragging that delicious looking wallet out of the man’s pockets and into hers. Though you looked innocent with all those laces ‘n bows, you were a bit too sneaky for his liking sometimes. Reason being is the amount of shirts borrowed (stolen) off of him and into your hand.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad of an idea but still.

“— I really must be going.. ‘m afraid the bow in my hair is about to fall ! Give me a minute to adjust this silly thing now, will you ?” Feigning panic of a girl wanting to keep their appearance pristine and delicate, your attempts are futile as the man whom you’ve pickpocketed unconsciously grabs your hand from behind at a painful grip, “But sugar, your hair looks fine—”

You shoot Arthur the look.

You dont dare mention to the man in front of you the way Arthur is striding towards him at a quick pace with his hand curled into a tight fist.

[scionsthings]

Charles x Javier? 🤨

Chavier?? 🤯

Waddaheeeeeeell-

[bimrsadler]

hello, i was wondering if you were down and vibing to do some tired and sleepy arthur sneaking into f!readers bed late late at night after being away from camp for a long time? ty!

Goodnight and Goodmorning

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female reader

Word count: 1,000

Warnings/tags: fluff, high honor Arthur, mutual pining, first kiss

Notes: I absolutely vibe with it! Since you didn’t specify I went ahead and just made it good ol’ fluff, if you had more in mind like smut (or if anyone wants a smutty part 2) feel free to let me know!

ETA: part 2 is here

Sleep didn’t come easy for you when Arthur was gone, not for lack of trying. Tossing and turning, the emptiness beside you and the constant worry of if he was safe kept rest at bay. You wondered if he was somewhere in the The Heartlands under the stars, worrying the same about you.

There was a mutual desire that hadn’t been spoken aloud. Arthur was surprisingly shy for a man of action, you found, and you didn’t want to push him because of this. It happened naturally in moments of solitude away from the others, around the fire when neither of you could sleep, on the outskirts of camp when you found excuses to run into each other. It became more with your head on his shoulder as you drifted off against a tree, his hands on yours as he taught you to shoot even though you already knew how.

Eventually you found your way to his bed on a cold night. Diverging to head to your own tents your gazes lingered and walking slowed; finally hinting to Arthur that there was no harm in wanting company. It was endearing to watch as he stammered a nervous, “I ’spose,” placing a gentle hand on the small of your back.

For a man who kept company at arms length most of the time, he held you close that night. Reassurance was needed before he felt comfortable of course, wanting to hear that you were okay with it multiple times over.

“Promise I won’t do anything untoward.” He must have said that and other iterations of it at least five times before you placed his arm around your waist yourself and confided how much you trusted him.

And it was true. Though Arthur was intimidating, angry and tough as nails; he always made you feel safe. You’d been around “gentlemen” who were perfect on paper but predators behind closed doors.

You’d been in the company of many lecherous and pushy men — some even in the gang, but Arthur? He would put them in their place and apologize to you with their blood on his knuckles.

You always missed his presence in camp but it was a far worse struggle now that you shared a connection.

Drifting in and out the time of night was indiscernible each time you briefly woke, the sound of chatter and guitar steadily replaced by crickets and the dying fire.

As the night wore on the familiar feeling of Arthur’s rugged hands on your bare shoulder roused a fluttering jolt in your stomach. It took his shifting weight behind you and warm chest against your back to convince you you weren’t dreaming.

Peering back the faint moonlight breaking through the canvas revealed Arthur gazing down at you with a grin. “M’sorry, didn’t mean to wake ya.”

“Was worried you weren’t coming back, big guy,” you murmured only half-joking, voice heavy with sleep.

“I’ll always come back darlin’, just hopefully a little sooner nex’time.” He pulled flush to him, “now try’n get some more sleep.”

“Gonna hold you to that,” you stretched underneath his bulky arms with a yawn.

The unexpected feeling of Arthur’s lips pressed gently to your temple made a warmth blossom in your chest, spreading to the rest of your pining body.

Slowly rolling over to be face to face you saw an anxious expression highlighted by bruises and cuts along Arthur’s cheekbones. “I missed ya sweetheart,” he admitted softly while rubbing his thumb delicately along your shoulder.

You inquired worryingly with a gesture towards his face, “what happened?”

“Eh, weren’t nothin’.” He shrugged, brushing it off as usual.

“Sure looks like something.” Propping yourself up on your elbows you reciprocated the comfort and allowed your lips to meet Arthur’s skin for the first time. Lightly wetting them you pressed gentle kisses to each bruise, his breath hitching before he let it out in one long, relieved sigh.

He looked at you with a reverence that was almost overwhelming, how a man as rough and wild as him could radiate such softness for you.

“Guess I needed that, thank you.”

“Maybe you need a proper one Mr. Morgan?”

“Huh?” Arthur’s eyes darted, not quite catching on as you smirked with anticipation. “A proper wh—oh!”

Blushing at the realization that you meant a proper kiss, he swallowed hard. “Well uh, if that’s somethin’ you wanna give me…I’d be a damned fool to say no.”

Brushing a lock of hair off his brow, you leaned in and parted you lips for his. Arthur met you the rest of the way and locked them tenderly, staying still together to savor the moment.

He moved back slightly to peer down at you for any sign of hesitation — finding none of course. Cupping the side of your head with his sizable hand he pulled you close for long, languid kisses, accentuated by his tongue gingerly meeting yours.

The moment was soft and sweet and everything you never thought you’d have with Arthur Morgan. The light whimpers with smiles in between, the ever so subtle urging of your hips wanting more but unsure of how far to take it. It could have easily been a dream you’d had in days past.

As Arthur slowed he pressed his forehead to yours with eyes closed, peaceful and unworried. “This is the only place I wanna be right now…”

Gently adjusting you to lay on your back, Arthur tucked the blankets around you before resting his head on your chest and draping his arm across your midsection.

“Let’s sleep darlin’, we’ll take our time in the mornin’ too…”

It was a gift to know Arthur was this comfortable with you. He wanted to talk to people, to let his guard down and be vulnerable. You were sure he wouldn’t admit it and hadn’t noticed that you had noticed, but it was clear as day in his quieter moments.

Whatever happened on whatever mission Dutch had sent him on, he was battered and tired. If Arthur made you feel safe then you could be his safe haven too.

Running your nails along the expanse of his back and broad shoulders, you watched his head rise and fall with your breaths as he drifted off. The warmth of his skin on yours meant you were sure to follow suit, relieved to have him back and looking forward to what the morning might bring.

[isaadleer]

misunderstanding

Sumary: Young Arthur and you are good friends until you catch feelings for him, maybe was a good idea to forget him with another man, or not. Warning!¡:, fluff¿. nothing’ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader, Jealous Arthur.

It's been some time since you've been going to the town, but this time not for camp supplies, but to meet your new interest, Jerry Clinton, who works at the town’s post office. His skin is tanned with some freckles on his face, his eyes as green as grass, and his hair is brown like yours. To your surprise, Clinton doesn’t mind your social status or your company, meaning the grim outlaws you hang out with. However, his colleagues are quite the opposite; their looks say more than repulsive words.

The only people you've ever loved were Michael, a cute boy you had a crush on as a child and your first kiss. And certainly, Arthur. How much you love him, or loved him, how much you wished for something you couldn’t have or perhaps gave up on something that made you happy.

Your friendship with Arthur has always been very important to you, and to him too; it varied from deep conversations around the campfire to silly jokes and teasing between you two. Maybe it was the age, 18 and 20, or because you made each other happy. And so it continues, the only difference being that he doesn’t know you love him. Loved.

On a sunny morning, with birds singing in tune with your thoughts, you decide to go to town to see Jerry, but you are unfortunately or fortunately interrupted by Arthur on your way.

"Hey! Where are you going?" he questioned, blocking your way to your horse.

"To town, why?" you questioned him back, looking deeply into his eyes, impatient

Arthur was wearing a blue shirt, his typical black bandana, and the hat he’s worn since you met him, the one you like a lot.

“I bet you’re hiding something from me, always having a reason to go to town,” he said, suspicious of your trips.

“Maybe because it’s none of your business!” you exclaimed, continuing to walk and ignoring his presence.

You’ve fantasized so much about what your life would be like with Arthur, loved so much, talked so much, that sometimes you easily get annoyed by his complaints.

All that dirt dirtying your boots, your hair blowing in the wind, your skirt too tight, but of course, what’s really bothering you isn’t that, it’s Arthur trying to meddle in your life. You wanted him to meddle in your life, oh how you wanted it, but not this way.

"Why did you stay out so late yesterday?" he persisted, now walking alongside you.

“I was- was at the general store, buying some stuff…” you quickly replied, trying to explain.

“I know when you’re lying, stop it, tell the truth!” he said harshly, blocking your way, preventing you from getting on the horse.

“Let me get on the horse, Arthur,” you said in a low tone, already losing patience with his questions.

“No, until you tell me why you’re going to town, I won’t let you go anywhere,” he said, looking straight into your eyes.

Arthur was sometimes hard to understand, why does he care so much about this now? Only now?

Ignoring the fact that he’s an outlaw, a murderer, and much taller than you, “You don’t have to let anything; I’ll do what I please.”

Arthur continued to look at you in silence, and after a few seconds, you realized you wouldn’t go anywhere unless you said something.

"I'm just going to talk to a friend, that’s all." You said, lowering the tone that was high before, with a bit of shame.

He noticed your cheeks, which were pale before, turning pink in the blink of an eye.

“What do you need to talk to him?” He frowned and crossed his arms defensively.

“Really, Arthur? You need to know what I’m going to talk to him about?” you teased him, mocking his questions.

“I don’t care…” he suddenly changed his mind, which was unexpected. “Person… Person needs supplies for the camp.” He changed the subject.

“And?” You asked, in a hurry to get to town, not understanding what this had to do with you.

“We should go now; you need to help the camp, you know that, right sweetheart?” he said sarcastically.

“Don’t call me that, and, I do help with the camp, Arthur.” Chills ran through your whole body when he called you that, wanting to deny it, but deep down, you wanted it to be true.

“Let’s go then,” he said, guiding you to the wagon. “Or maybe you enjoy his company more than mine,” He offered a hand to help you onto the wagon.

“Don’t make me say it,” you replied, laughing, accepting his help.

The journey was calm despite all the recent confusion; you talked normally as good friends do.

But your mind is on only one thing, how would you talk to Jerry in the presence of dear Arthur? Maybe you should lose Arthur, or maybe lose Jerry and enjoy Arthur’s company. Lost in your thoughts, you are awakened by the noise of the town, people talking, working, horses walking, wagons moving, construction, all that, even though you often come to town, you don’t really like.

“Why do you need to dress up? Are you trying to impress someone else?” Arthur suddenly said after a short silence. With eyes narrowing with a sharp, intense stare.

“What-” your cheeks reddened with embarrassment. “I’m not…” you touched your warm cheeks.

“You’re looking like tomato sauce now,” He said, giving a fake laugh, looking at you, trying to lighten the mood.

“Stop it, Arthur!” you shouted at him.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” He parked the wagon. “We’ve arrived.”

“Thank god!” you said, getting out of the wooden wagon, feeling your butt almost turn square from sitting for so long.

“Let’s go to the general store, after that, you’re free,” he said.

So you both entered the store, immediately smelling the scent of fresh fruits like apples and pears, which are your favorites.

“Smells so good…” you said softly to yourself. But Arthur looked at you smiling; he probably heard you.

Person’s list was huge, taking quite a while to box all the supplies. To carry to the wagon, you picked up one of the boxes, lifting it to shoulder height. The box was heavier than you thought, causing you to let out a small sound of surprise.

“Let me carry that for you,” Arthur said after watching your struggle, placing his hands around the box.

Your faces were so close to each other that you could feel Arthur’s breath, his eyes penetrating yours. Your heart started to beat faster than usual, and that feeling you tried so hard to hide came back for a few moments. Arthur’s beautiful blue eyes so close to you, you could clearly see his eyeball. The scar on his chin, you still remember when he returned to camp with his chin bleeding, and you remember even more when you helped clean it and bandage it. For a moment you thought he was going to kiss you, for some reason you thought. But you thought many things over the years, and none were true but daydreams.

“I can carry it alone,” You said in a tense, clipped tone.

Even trying to remove Arthur’s hands from the box, he was stronger, and continued holding the box. His mouth opened for a second, trying to say something, but he didn’t… why didn’t he?

Instead, he sighed deeply and took the box from your hands, “Don’t be stupid,”

So Arthur and the shopkeeper loaded all the boxes onto the wagon, not letting you help in any way. You weren’t weak, it was just unexpected, a box that was heavier than you expected. But with that act, Arthur didn’t let you even touch them anymore.

He closed the back of the wagon once he finished organizing everything,

“I need to go to the post office to deliver a letter Person asked for,” Arthur informed.

Your heart stopped, Arthur and Jerry together in the same place? Not even your worst nightmare was that bad.

“Oh,” You exclaimed, with a face like you had seen a ghost in front of you.

“What?” He found your sudden reaction strange.

“Nothing. Let’s go.” You said, trying to hide your nervousness, guiding him to start walking.

Entering the post office, the familiar yellow walls came into view, and the first thing you looked for was Jerry.

Without waiting for you, Arthur went to the clerk to deliver Person’s letter. But to your unfortunate luck, something, or rather someone, touched your shoulder.

“Hey! Didn’t expect to see you here,” A sarcastic voice echoed through the post office. You turned to see who it was, and yes, you know who it was.

“Hey!” You turned around, changing your worried expression to a light and happy one, hugging Jerry, greeting him.

“How are you? Need to post a letter?” He said jokingly.

“Yeah -“ You were interrupted.

“Yes, we already did actually,” Arthur said seriously, placing a hand on your shoulder, with a slightly heavier touch than usual.

You found the boy’s physical contact strange, which wasn’t common, but then you understood what he was trying to do.

Ruin things between you and Jerry.

Even though he’s very young, this act was the height of selfishness and idiocy. When you realized what was happening, you felt like a knife was in your heart, breaking it into pieces. So disappointing, so disappointed you were.

Jerry looked at Arthur’s hand, at your face, and then at Arthur’s face. And his expression that was happy before, was now of complete unhappiness.

"I didn’t know you had company," Jerry said, looking deep into your eyes, ignoring Arthur’s presence, feeling betrayed.

"I don’t—" you tried to say but were interrupted by Arthur once again.

"Yes, I proposed to her a week ago, isn’t it incredible?" Arthur lied, drumming his fingers impatiently on your shoulder—a lie only you knew was false.

"Congrats. If you’ll excuse me, sir, miss," Jerry said briefly, and he left without even trying to understand or talk to you, visibly upset by Arthur’s words. Upset because he thought you had lied, but it wasn’t you—it was Arthur.

Watching Jerry walk away, you tore Arthur’s hand off your shoulder and rushed out of the post office. Your heart pounded in your throat, as if you were going to vomit at any moment—vomit all those feelings. The shame and anger you felt were indescribable, and the urge to kill Arthur at that exact moment was inevitable.

Arthur followed you out of the building after just a few seconds.

Standing with your back to the post office entrance, you turned and started yelling at him, "What is wrong with you? Why did you do that to me? Why did you lie?" Arthur seemed irritated with you somehow, and upset for some reason. "You ruined everything, Arthur! Why did you do that? He really liked me!" you said, almost crying in front of him.

You weren’t just talking—you were shouting, ignoring the fact that you were in the busiest street in town.

"And you liked him? I saw how you looked at him. You don’t like him!" he shouted back, causing everyone around to stare.

"Then why did you do that?" A tear escaped down your cheek.

"Because i love you! Not him!" Arthur said quickly, as if he had lifted a weight off his shoulders that he had been carrying for a long time.

All this time that you hid your feelings, all this time that you tried to replace him with someone else—he had liked you too. You felt like an idiot, stupid for not having said anything before. But even with Arthur’s confession, you were feeling anger towards him, because Jerry was a boy you cared for, even if you didn’t love him.

"You had no right to do that to me, you idiot!" you shouted, frustrated with everything that was happening.

The fact that Arthur upset Jerry, that you upset Jerry, the fact that Arthur loves you, the fact that you loved him—or still love him. You no longer knew if this was just a nightmare or a dream, or the cruel reality.

Arthur went quiet—quieter than he had ever been in his entire life.

"I loved you, goddamn bastard! But that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want or hurt others." Your tears had already spread across your face, making you wipe them away with your trembling hands. "When you went out with that waitress, I didn’t stop you, even though it hurt me so much! I didn’t go there and pretend to be your fiancé!"

Arthur's eyes were studying your movements, trying to understand everything you were saying—so confusing for both him and you.

"I’m sorry, okay?" he said, feeling a burning sensation in his chest.

"No! You’re not sorry! I’m done with you, Arthur—done with your selfish behavior, done with you."

Without looking back, you walked over to the wagon, untied one of the horses, and mounted it.

Leaving Arthur there, perplexed, lost, completely directionless.

You could no longer bear the weight you felt in your heart. Your tears fell non-stop, your hair flying in the wind as you rode away.

You didn’t know where you were going, but you didn’t want to see Arthur’s face again.

————————————————————————

[pinep-ne]

one shot idea- charthur cuddling for warmth???

mmm the classic.... here you go!! thought this would be more entertaining as an... almost developing relationship...? theres tension you just gotta squint...

anywho. i hope u enjoy ^^

-----

It had all become a haze very quickly. An ungodly amount of snow, swept like dust across the Grizzlies.

There's not much to see as there is to hear. They've both flipped up their collars to ease the damned wind. That's already proven itself futile. Arthur can only hear himself speak.

Unfortunate, he feels.

He trails behind Charles, and it's like peering through a pencil-tip hole through a sheet of white paper, trying to make out his silhouette. In attempt to counter this, narrow as the path is, a meager game trail, he's been riding as close to Taima's rear as he can, as much as both horses can tolerate.

God damn mess.

The trail widens, and Arthur squeezes Elijah in, flank to flank. He grabs for Charles' shoulder.

He jumps, torso twisting just to meet Arthur's eyes. Arthur bites his cheek. Adjusts himself in the saddle to lean as close as possible without slipping off. It ends up being closer than he anticipated— their brims and collars brushing slight, like shields to the outside world, connecting and forming this little reprieve between the two of them. It dulls the blaring white, and the wind, and he breathes the space in, trying to focus on getting a single audible word out.

Charles squints at him, obviously desperate to get out of here. They're awfully close, Arthur thinks. But it'd probably be more awkward to back away suddenly, so he stays leaning. Maybe a little further, as Elijah sways, and he nearly falls onto Charles.

Arthur stabilizes himself, hand still on his friend's shoulder. Huffs, "I've come through this way before, scoutin' on the way back from Colter." He tries to keep his voice level, "Little huntin' cabin maybe... quarter mile off this trail..."

Charles nods and turns his sights to... nothing... ahead, then back to Arthur. He shivers, and it's a powerful little thing, and Arthur watches him with a pulling, pleading look on his face. He barely catches the 'alright' from Charles before the man's settled back in his saddle, halting Taima a moment to let Arthur lead.

Arthur gladly picks up the pace as soon as they get on. Eager to get out of this mess. Eager to get this whole trip over with. He'd suggested it in the first place. That map Hosea'd given him, he went and showed it to Charles all giddily not long after. Planted a finger on it, south of Grizzlies West, and figured they could catch a moose, or something alike. But he didn't tell that part to Charles. He only mentioned it was big game, and that was enough to sound like he knew what they were getting into.

Obviously, that didn't work out. He's been a fool.

They reach a thicker part of the forest, where the beast is forced to calm itself, stifled by the trees. Arthur groans with relief, finally out of the whirlwind. Back to his senses, if only slightly. When the cabin comes into view he thinks it's what arriving at heaven must feel like, if he should ever experience that. He looks back at Charles, who gives him a tired look. Feels a pang in his chest, that it must be resentment.

He takes to the horses as they settle, trying to corral them where there's more sun— or where there should be more sun. It's hard to tell. He imagines it's nearing evening, anyhow. Prays to whatever superior being to let all this up by morning, so they can at least have a chance at finding their way home. The adrenaline, the urgency, melts off him in waves. Leaves his body to the cold and hell, if it doesn't hurt. Hell if he doesn't think about the fire that must be in the cabin, being stoked by Charles. If theres enough room in front of it for the two of them to sit. He treats both horses to all the fresh fruit left in his saddlebags, and hops over to the rugged thing.

When he enters, Charles is, indeed, blowing over a small flame. Arthur hangs up his hat and looks around. One of everything— including a bed. Definitely not abandoned. Seasonal residents, maybe; likely for the summer. There's a thin film of dust over most of the furniture. Disturbed, now— a dense, blue fog, filling the room, drifting up like coffee steam. Dully lit, where the snow reflects slight and seeps through the threadbare curtains.

"Arthur."

He starts. Charles is looking back at him, still crouched at the fire. Arthur sniffs, brows furrowed. Charles exhales, long and tired. He sits back, knees drawn up, hugging them loosely, and softens. There's a subtle tilt in the corner of his lips when he speaks.

"You're letting all the cold in," he says, turns back around, and Arthur would take it as something agitated or distant if it weren't for the oddly fond look on his face.

"Oh. Right," he says. Takes a second, shoulders raising, then fumbles behind him for the handle.

Shutting the door, he steps into the center of the room. Charles stands and undoes his scarf, hair cascading down like linen curtains. He bundles it, and throws it on the floor with his boots, and hangs his coat. Arthur, mirror-like, follows him in undressing, keeping as many layers as necessary.

At some point, Charles goes out to collect water. To brew something, if Arthur can guess. He sits on the bed and waits, slumped and done with the damned day. Done with the damned cold. It seeps under his skin, pulsating with shivering bouts, and it aches. His muscles, both tense and limp with exhaustion, make their soreness known. He shakes his shoulders, breathing harsh. Whispers a string of curses. He supposes whoever hates it more can sleep at the hearth. Soak up the last bit of warmth for the night. He adds in a few logs.

The sun sets as if it were falling. Or maybe the horizon's just that far beneath them. Charles returns, and pours a mug for him and Arthur, and there's enough room for the two of them to sit at the fireplace. Arthur leans back on a hand, not entirely parallel to Charles, askew enough to easily catch the soft line of his profile.

He looks down at his mug. Chamomile, Charles had said. Not his favorite, but no tea really is. Not so far at least. He thinks it's selfish of him to tell Charles otherwise. To take the tea for the simple fact it was brewed for him. Satiate that itching part of him that likes to be cared for.

"I can take the floor," he says, and waits. Picks the skin at his lip. He can feel Charles looking at him. Smiling, probably. His face burns.

"Mm. And take up all the heat?" He looks at Arthur, and moves to grab their mugs. He stands to discard them as Arthur sputters.

"Well, y'know, I dragged your ass out here for nothin'. Figured the bed would be a little comfier, but if... if you want I can grab the blankets from the horses, and our bedding, and you can—"

"They're probably all frozen, Arthur." Charles sits back down, closer. "I don't mind sharing."

"Sure." Arthur breathes. He hums, still stumped. "Though... both our built asses might just cave the whole thing."

Charles laughs. It's brief, but full. It makes Arthur laugh, too. He feels like his heart could stop at any moment.

Not for the first time, this gap between them makes itself very prominent. But not of distance. More like an unfinished piece, slowly unfurling itself. How light it makes his breath, his touches. It's so easy that it's suffocating. Consumes him greatly with those implications. He wants to smother it once more, as he has every other time.

But the air shifts, and he lets it, and he realizes they've both sunk into this dance once more regardless.

He thinks that maybe he should say something. Something about turning in, or hitting the hay, or going out for a smoke. But he doesn't, and neither does Charles. There is only the sound of their thin breaths, and the rustling of clothes, and the wind hitting the outer walls of the cabin, and the crackle of the dimming fire.

Charles rises then, and puts it out. Crosses the room to dim the lantern till there is only swallowing darkness, and the faint blush of moonlight off the snow. He walks to where Arthur sits on the bed, waiting. Aimless, blindly brushing the back of his hand across Arthur's bicep, shins hitting the edge of the bed.

Goodnight, he whispers. Arthur watches him get comfortable on the wall-side, sprawled out on his stomach, before he settles down himself, on his back. He mouths the words back, trying to preserve the syllables, or the softness it was said with. He does it again for good measure, enough to hear, to which Charles hums, a lot like a purr.

"It's cold," he says, the low timbre of his voice filling Arthur's head, nestling deep somewhere under his sternum.

"I know," Arthur whispers. He can feel a palm on his arm, frighteningly warm. It slides down, finding the skin of his wrist beneath his sleeve, and he tenses, sitting halfway up. Holding himself up on his elbow, his shadow blanketing. Charles lies on his back, now, hand still wrapped around Arthur's wrist, pulling. Beckoning. Arthur gazes down at the scene, and it hardly does anything to smother the blooming feeling in his gut.

He wishes he could see Charles right now. To decipher the knowing offer he has twisted into his wrist by the gentle features he'd much rather scrutinize. Tempting could be the right word, but Arthur feels he's stepped into something terribly domestic instead. Terrible that it is requited, apparent with only the guise of necessity— because of course they'd both be warmer that way. Of course the night is so cruel, as well as the singular bed, and the storm that snuffed their whole trip, to coerce them so. To persuade his own palm to reach beneath the layers of fabric and find the soft skin there, where neither of them have ever breached so carefully before.

And Arthur realizes then that it's not a apprehensive proposal, but rather an answer.

So he gives the question, and lies back down. Steps into this home they have built together. Finds a spot to nestle himself into, pulling the warmth towards him, as if he could burrow himself beneath it. He all but wraps himself around Charles. Feels a similar motion behind him, now holding each other, facing each other, entirely encompassed. And it's strikingly familiar, being held. In a way he hasn't experienced it before, but that was inevitable from the beginning. He feels Charles hands wander across the expanse of his back, catching on the folds of his shirt, and he says the word again in his mind. Home.

He turns his nose into the pillow, reaching for that closeness again. Voice breathy, and muffled, "You better?"

Charles gazes up at him, and Arthur can't see it, but he can feel it. "Yeah," he hears, silken and hushed, somewhere near his neck.

[koralkoffee]

Mr. Callahan, Sir.

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

AO3 Link

Summary- You don’t understand why you feel the way you do about a notorious outlaw. Perhaps, as you lust for him, you will discover something about yourself.

Warnings- 18+ | slow burn, physical violence, choking, threats, harassment, intimidation, fear, degradation, biting, attempted sexual assault, attempted rape/non-con, reader is a masochist, reader finds out they’re a masochist, congratulations!, possessive behavior, stalking, blood and injury, sir kink, praise kink, breath play, choking kink, breeding kink, masturbation, dom/sub undertones, rough sex, manhandling, fingering, eating out, blowjobs, face fucking, oral sex, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, penis in vagina sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, dirty talk, Arthur is a talker, Arthur is a babbler, Arthur is a beggar, because I said so that's why, creampie, lust more than love, no kissing, ( WC-21,775k )

[shitpostdotjpg]

I miss when I was 12 and fic AUs were silly and whimsical. Now I’m reading fics where 3 ppl die in the first paragraph. Why can’t I read a 25 chapter fic where arthur morgan and charles smith have to be undercover on a couples cruise? What happened to merriment and joy?

[honeyvanity]

wtf do i even do with my life now

[zae-heeyyy]

Boisterous

Summary: Arthur takes you to The Loft. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,095 Warnings: 18+ MDNI Tags: rough sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, biting

a/n: I somehow ended up spending literal hours trying to perfect this drawing. I traced a lot and freehanded a lot too, but overall, I'm happy with the final product. TYSM for taking the time to read, like, reply, and reblog; I appreciate every interaction!

Boisterous: behavior that is loud, energetic, and often unruly. It describes a person or situation that is full of noisy enthusiasm.

When Arthur found "The Loft" two nights ago, he was grateful to sleep in a bed surrounded by four sturdy walls. The accommodation would've been perfect, but you were missing from it all. Lewd images of your past escapades together infiltrated his mind as he tried to sleep, and he made his best efforts to push them aside. Your pretty face lit up his brain, and he wrapped his hand around his cock, trying his best to imitate the ecstasy only you could make him feel. No grip was as delectable as yours, though, and despite a quick release, he was more pent-up than ever. He needed you there with him and planned to sweep you up and bring you back as soon as the sun rose.

The cowboy's sonorous voice roused you from your dreams about him, the early morning sun casting a golden glow on his face as he leaned over you. His beard had grown since the few days you'd last seen him.

"Get dressed. M'taking you somewhere."

Without a second thought, you joined him on the back of his horse within the hour. Arthur spared the details of this urgent impromptu trip, keeping you in suspense for the duration of the ride.

In a few hours, you'd passed through Valentine, went by Fort Wallace, and climbed up into the mountains of the Grizzlies East. As you rode on, the clouds grew thick and gray, and the smell of petrichor filled your nostrils. Arthur caressed a hand you had wrapped around his waist, reassuring you.

"Almost there."

But you weren't close enough; the atmosphere released a torrential downpour in the last fifteen minutes of your journey, leaving you drenched. A little after noon, you reached a towering outpost that Arthur coined, The Loft. Arthur ushered you inside, futilely shielding you from the rain and promising the heat of a fireplace as he closed the door behind you.

While you stood, rubbing your arms for warmth, Arthur checked for signs of other people, climbing a ladder and peaking over the top for a second before sliding down.

You two were all alone, finally.

When he got a good look at you, he realized just how soaked you were, the layers of your clothes sticking to you and showing every curve of your body. Arthur swallowed, mouth salivating from the view of your hard nipples peeking through your blouse.

All the blood left his head and traveled south, damn near making him dizzy. Maybe he should've been embarrassed, but he was just a man, and you were the most alluring thing ever.

Two large steps were all it took to get to you. One hand found the back of your head, and the other rested on your hip as he drew your lips to his, practically swallowing you in a scalding kiss.

You could feel the groan rumbling in his chest, and you giggled against his lips. The noise crescendoed as his lips separated from yours to find your jaw and neck. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, inhaling your scent while the hand on the back of your head traveled to the small of your back.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. "I missed y'so much."

And he had you all alone, truly alone, for the first time in your relationship. He'd been waiting to make love to you the way he really wanted. Your previous rendezvous were hushed, whispered, and sneaky, your moans muffled by Arthur's lips or hand. Even when he whisked you away to a hotel, he was keenly aware of everybody else around who could hear the two of you. Turning you into a whimpering mess filled him with fervent pride, but he wanted those parts of you, especially the sounds you made, all to himself.

The thought of finally hearing all those pretty little noises at full volume was enough to rile him up, and his hand groped your breast, kneading with a force he hadn't used on you before. You shivered against him; some of it was from your arousal, but the other part was the cold.

"The fire, Arthur," you said, shoving him off playfully. Grunting, he tore away from you, grateful for a log near the stove.

While his back was turned, you peeled the wet clothes off your body and dropped your blouse on the floor. Arthur spun back around right as you stepped out of your skirt, leaving you clad in your bloomers and nothing else. His breath hitched in his throat as if it were the first time your body had been bestowed upon him.

"Straight outta my dreams," he declared, his blue eyes shining with pure avidity. And just like that, Arthur strode across the room, dragging a chair with him and putting it against the door nob, just in case. You were back in his arms in an instant, his kisses emphasized with unadulterated sounds of pleasure. A rough hand slid into the waistband of your bloomers and grabbed a fistful of your ass, squeezing, letting go, and repeating.

You sigh breathlessly as he feels you up, leaning into his touch. Then without warning, he tastes you hungrily, tongue fucking your mouth.

His chest vibrates with titillation again, and you're hoisted up into his arms just a beat later, his hands cupping your rear. You squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist and holding on tight as he carries you across the room and dumps you on blue cotton blankets. Breathing heavily, you watch under eyes saturated with desire as he promptly removes his own damp clothes.

You were just as taken aback by his body as he was with yours. Brown curls adorned his chest and stomach and gathered in a carnal wreath around his manhood. Touching him was like running your hands over a textured map: his scars, old and new, like rivers and valleys, while his muscles, firm and hot, were mountains and volcanoes. You could spend eternity exploring that map. Arthur would never get used to you ogling him in such a way, but now your hungry eyes lured him to you.

He climbed on top of you, pinning you under his weight. Usually, he'd ask if you were okay, but you answered the question before he'd even asked by tangling your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles to bring him closer.

His hard-on brushed against your leg, making him shudder. You helped him remove the last garment of clothes between the two of you, lifting your hips to help him pull the bloomers down your legs and off your feet.

Arthur normally took his time meticulously exploring you, leaving kisses in his wake, but damn it, the thought of the sweet grip of your pussy had been on his mind for days, and he needed it now.

His forehead leaned against yours, and he clutched your jaw, holding your face still to gawk at it. If someone saw him this way, they'd think he'd just completed a full sprint, every exhale coming out in a loud pant. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, turning him animalistic. He couldn't wait any longer.

The gunslinger dipped his head to look between you, a guttural utterance escaping him as you spread your legs, exposing your needy cunt. He held his cock, nearly discolored from being so hard, and rubbed it up and down your center, coating himself in your juices.

"Need you, woman," he bellows. The bass in his voice sends goosebumps spreading down your arms, and you nod, mouth agape, eyes staring into his. His jaw also hinges as he watches himself disappear inside you. Once wholly sheathed, he moans long and loud, a stark contrast to his regular subduedness.

You'd never seen him like this, so desperate and uninhibited. Your body responds to the unexpected but welcomed change, your pussy clenching around him, making both of you jolt. Holding himself up on his forearms, he rocks his hips into you at a steady pace, leaning down to kiss your neck.

Shy and coy Arthur had left the building, replaced by wolfish Arthur, willing to howl and snarl for what he wanted. And in the moment, he wanted to brand you with his mouth. Bruising you was defacing a masterpiece, but it was a crime he was happy to commit. He was an outlaw, after all. He nipped at your neck with his teeth, leaving a mark before moving on to another spot to do the same.

You cried out, the first orgasm of the night building within you. He knew your body well and adjusted to give you what you needed, straightening his back, digging his thumbs into your ribs, and pistoning in and out, his hand going to rub your clit. Head tipped back, he moaned, no, roared, with every thrust.

You knew this was rare: Arthur Morgan losing complete control of himself. He was lost in you, lost in your wetness, lost in your tightness, and lost in those sounds. His head snapped down, and he stared right through you, eyes wild.

"Let me hear you," he demanded, slowing his strokes to get your attention. Head spinning, you gasped, too cock drunk to pay attention to what he was saying.

Grumbling, he pulled out of you to switch positions, now standing on the side of the bed. He guided you back to him, aligning your backside with his crotch. He hugged you to his chest, your back pressed into him. Your hands instantly went to his forearm, holding onto him as he practically held you in the air.

"I said let me hear you," he growled in your ear, accenting each word of his demand with an electrifying pulse of his hips. You arched your back into him, his name coming off your lips like thunder.

"That's it, darlin’."

Perverse sounds of wet skin slapping together and boisterous cries filled the cabin.

You were starting to see stars, your vision blurring as you focused on the pressure building in your insides, wanting so desperately for it to boil over. Your toes dug into the buckskin rug at your feet, trying to keep the rest of your body upright.

Arthur was a machine, pounding into you with the goal of bringing both of you to the edge. He didn't relent—didn't show any mercy for the mess you'd become under him. It was overstimulating in the best way possible.

You just needed a second, just one, to get your barrings. Attempting to scoot forward for that break was futile. Arthur moved with you, his length plunging deeper than ever.

"C'mere," he growled as his cock grazed against that sweet spot in the depths of your core, making you holler out and lose the little balance you had left. It didn't matter, though; he held you taught against him, pinning your body between him and the bed. Keeping one arm wrapped around you, the other touched you right where you craved.

"Now," he groaned into your ear, fingers circling your clit antagonizingly slow. A chuckle exited him as you melted to his touch. "Want you to come undone right here. Can you do that for me?"

Droplets of sweat fell from his head onto your back, and you moaned out, "Y-yes, Arthur."

You didn't take long then; a wave of warmth crashed over you as your velvet walls contracted around him, making the man curse into the now-hot cabin air. His hips kept their steady rhythm as you came, Arthur chasing his own climax now.

"Good girl, good girl, good girl," He moaned with every thrust as you clenched around him. He folded himself in half, once again putting his full weight on you, his heart pounding against your back like a drum. More erratic now, his rhythm lost its steady cadence as his balls tightened, his orgasm coursing through his veins.

He pulled out of you, one hand still gripping your side as the other one pumped furiously at his cock. Moaning, whimpering, and whining, Arthur threw his head back as hot spurts of his lust splattered across your back.

Hand falling from your hip, his breath slowed as clarity flowed back into his eyes. Using his discarded bandana, he wiped his sins away from your back before gently rolling you over. He scratched the back of his neck, a sly grin making home on his face as he watched you splayed out and spent. Arthur had gotten everything he'd ever wanted: a bed, four walls, and you.

[not-neverland06]

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

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

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Jack's gone missing and there's only one place that's going to have the answers you need. St. Denis may just be one of the dirtiest places you've set foot in. Still, if stomaching a mobster chatting you up, means getting the boy back, then you'll just have to deal.

A few weeks later

Arthur’s shoulder is still sore where he’d been shot. You lay under his left arm rather than his right so you don’t irritate it any further. After he’d started moving around on his own again, you’d gone back to sleeping in the women’s tent. 

He knows how uncomfortable the cramped tent is now that they have to make room for you and Sadie, so he let you sleep in his tent on days he wasn’t in camp. One night, he’d come back earlier than expected after a hunting trip and you’d been asleep on his cot. When you’d woken up, his good arm was wrapped around you and you had been tucked into his chest. Neither of you said anything about it, you just continued sleeping there, even on the nights that he was around. It’s comforting, having him watch over you again just like when he had first saved you in the mountains. There’s a familiarity to it that you’d been missing. 

Still, as comfortable as you are sleeping beside him, your nights are restless. You’re plagued with guilt for what you’d said while he was sick. It almost feels like taking advantage of him while he was at his most vulnerable just so you could whisper what Dutch might call ‘your poison’ into his ear. You had a personal agenda, even if it was for his benefit too. You wanted Arthur for yourself, together and away from this life. Mostly, you wanted him out from under the control of Dutch, and safe. Still, you had no right to preach about Dutch being such a conman when you’re doing the same thing. 

Tonight, you’re awoken by the same nagging thoughts. Your eyes flutter open as your stomach twists with a painfully familiar guilt. Huffing, you adjust yourself higher up Arthur’s chest, trying to force yourself to get comfortable again. His arm flexes around you as he shifts onto his side. 

You tuck the rough wool of Arthur’s blanket under your chin but it doesn’t do anything except irritate you further. Trying to make sure you haven’t disturbed him too much, you risk a glance up at Arthur’s face. He’s the most at ease when he’s sleeping. It’s the one time you’ve seen him look his age, as the stress and tension melt away from him. 

He’s healthier now and beginning to look alive once more. His cheeks are filling out, no longer so gaunt and hollow that the bone nearly pokes through. When he greets you in the morning his eyes are warm and bright. They don’t carry the flatness of fever and the threat of death. He’s slowly started to regain his appetite, clothes no longer hanging so loosely off his frame. And he finally shaved that horrendous beard he’d grown while he’d been sleeping. It’s a relief now that the reason for staying up all night isn’t because you're making sure he doesn’t stop breathing in his sleep. 

Sighing, you carefully maneuver your way out from under his arm, sitting up in the cot. His hand drops from your shoulder to your lap as he readjusts himself to your absence. You look back at him and grimace. Just another secret to keep. 

You killed your husband and no one except Charles and a whore will ever know about that. But that had felt right like you’d done the world a service getting rid of him. And you know, that getting Arthur to see past blind loyalty to the gang and to Dutch is better in the long run. But taking advantage of the fact that he was bed-ridden and couldn’t run away from having that conversation was wrong. You’re feeling like the scum you make Dutch out to be. 

You brush your hair back and get to your feet, deciding to go sit with Charles while he’s on watch. It’s usually what you end up doing when you can’t sleep. Neither of you will talk but it's comforting just to have his calming presence near you. Your fingers are on the knots of the tent flap when a scream rips through the cold night air. 

Eyes wide with fear, you stumble back a step. Arthur shoots up in bed and you whip around just in time to see him drag his revolver out from under the pillow. “What’s wrong?” He barks out the question as he leaps to his feet, coming to stand in front of you. 

Your eyes dart between him and the gun. He’s wide awake like he hadn’t been deep asleep only a minute ago. And you didn’t even know that gun was there. You forget, sometimes, just how on edge these people have to be to survive. Thinking it’s you who screamed, Arthur snaps your name out when you don’t respond.

A shout rings out now, coming from just outside the tent. It’s a woman’s voice but you don’t know which one. Arthur guides you behind him and goes towards the tent flaps. When you try to follow him he barks out a brisk, “Stay” and runs out of the tent, half-dressed, gun in the air, looking crazed. 

Ignoring Arthur, you push open the canvas just enough to poke your head out. Most everybody’s been woken up by the commotion. They’ve all got their guns out, looking for whatever threat has someone hollering like a dying animal. You look past them and towards the fire where Abigail is beating on John with every ounce of strength she has. 

The fire casts a shadow against her wild eyes, making her seem larger than life, near inhuman. “You bastard!” She screams, slapping John so hard across the face you can hear it connect from where you are. “How can you just stand there!” 

Arthur gets to them first. He tucks his gun away and grabs Abigail’s wrists, ripping her away from John so she’s forced to stop hitting him. He’s muttering something to her and you can’t hear it but you imagine he’s trying to calm her down and get her to explain herself. 

John and Abigail don’t get along on the best of days, but this is odd even for them. You’d thought you’d seen her at her angriest when she’d found out what Karen and Sean had done in her bed, but this was an entirely different beast. 

“They took him!” Choking back tears, she shouts, “They stole my son!”

 Despite the urgency of Abigail’s situation, the priority remains to keep those still in camp safe.  Jack’s kidnapping was a wake-up call. The gang will never have a moment to feel safe again. No matter where you run to or who you partner with, there will always be a threat hanging over your heads. Dutch has Arthur and Charles out looking for a new place to set up while the rest of you remain behind and pack. 

Before, you would have helped the women pack up their tent and any other miscellaneous items. But your duties have shifted from working with them to what feels like Arthur duties. You take care of his things now, pack up his wagon while he’s gone, and throw your meager belongings in beside his. You feel remarkably wifely as you fold up his clothes and it sends a cold chill through your stomach. This is not a pleasant familiarity. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen the transition from helping around camp to solely taking care of Arthur. At first, you had assumed it was simply because he was so ill that he needed the aid. But now it seems as though they changed your handler from Mrs. Grimshaw to Arthur. She no longer demanded anything of you or tried to take charge of how you act. 

You wouldn’t say that Arthur has taken advantage of the situation. He never asks anything of you, what you do for him you do of your own free will. But it doesn’t ease the sense of dread you feel. You take care of him, his clothes, and his belongings because you don’t know what else to do. Never have you had the opportunity to choose another way of life. You had been born as an object to be bought and traded, sent to a finishing school that disciplined you in the arts of being a wife. You don’t know any other way and that terrifies you. 

There’s a deep-seated worry that this infatuation with Arthur is only a way for you to survive. By latching onto him, you’ve given yourself someone to take care of and someone who will protect you. There’s no chance of abandonment now that the two of you are so connected. 

It’s shameful, this fear of yours. Still, though, it lingers even when it’s unwanted. 

Lady grazes lazily in the grass beside you. Her tail flicks with boredom, her head always perking up when she hears another horse huff and thinks Diablo might be coming back. They’ve grown remarkably attached and you can’t say that you haven’t noticed she’s been a lot calmer lately. You think being around him so much helped ease her into her new environment. You wonder if that’s what happened between you and Arthur, but you just never managed to fully assimilate. 

Taking Lady’s reigns you hitch her up to the wagon and jump onto the driver’s seat. Without Arthur, you won’t have anyone else to ride with.  Leaning back against the wood, you watch as Molly struggles with some crates. She stumbles, nearly tripping into the mud as she tosses them on the back of the wagon. Dutch doesn’t offer her help, he’s too absorbed in his hushed conversation with Hosea. 

The way Dutch treats her, the dismissive coolness, and then the sudden surge of love every few weeks, frays at her mind. Her patience and sanity have slowly been dwindling and you can see it plainly on her face. She’s gone mad and temperamental and is never happy anymore. Is that the fate of any woman who loves an outlaw? 

Trelawney has a family in the city somewhere. How often does he see his wife or his children? 

Abigail and John are no great love story. She’d been the gang’s favorite whore before John got her pregnant. Then, he’d had no other choice but to take care of her and their child. Their relationship was born out of resentment and necessity. The most affection you’ve ever seen between them was her yelling at him for getting clawed up by a wolf. 

Mrs. Grimshaw watches Molly struggle for a minute or two before coming over and silently offering her aid. They don’t speak and the tension is clear between them. Mrs. Grimshaw, Dutch's former lover, and his current jaded woman. Susan had the intelligence to get out before Dutch broke her completely, now she was nothing more than an associate to him. How quickly do the affections of outlaws fade?

But Arthur isn’t John and he certainly isn’t Dutch. You can’t compare him to anyone because you’ve never met another man like him. He’s not your husband. There’s no ties keeping you together. No oaths to break or rings to bury. You can leave anytime you want, the only reason you’ve stayed so long was because it was your choice. 

If you keep looking for your old life in every aspect of your new one, you’ll never move on. If you keep looking backward, you’ll be terrified of everything. You can’t allow yourself to live like that again. 

Grabbing the reins you take a deep breath and close your eyes. You picture your old house, the cracks in the foundation, and the holes in the walls. Still, you hear your husband’s voice carrying through the halls as he shouts at you. There’s nothing like that here, nothing to fear. The memory doesn’t carry any of the pain it used to. It’s like a ghost of a past you’ve nearly forgotten. You just have to finish letting it go. 

Shady Belle’s name carries a certain elegance with it. It sounds like a dignified estate, one you might not find in the city but would certainly find near plantations. In your mind, the name brings about images of your childhood home. The same one that had been taken care of by your family for generations. 

However, the rotting monstrosity of termite-infested wood and stinking mud is certainly no great estate. When Arthur proudly shows you the new camp he and Charles have found, it is an exercise in control not to grimace in disgust. You know you’re spoiled by the way you grew up. To these people, simply having a roof is a luxury. 

Arthur looks at you expectantly as he gives you a hand off the wagon. You bite your lip, brows furrowed as you try and think of anything complimentary to say about the house. It’s difficult to think with the stink of the marsh flooding your senses. “It is certainly something,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at the door that’s not screwed on right. 

You suppose, in a way, it reminds you of your husband’s estate. When the coffers were run dry and your husband had scared away the rest of the cleaning staff. Arthur chuckles and helps you around the puddles of mud blocking the entrance to the home. 

“I know, I know,” he relents, sounding slightly amused by your clear disdain. “It is pretty ugly. But,” he grabs the door’s handle and shimmies it roughly a few times before the rusted hinges let out a loud groan and it goes swinging open. “We do get our own room.”

He motions you towards the stairs and your brows perk with interest. “And,” you glance over your shoulder at him and grin, “what, pray tell, would we need the privacy of our own room for?”

He rolls his eyes at your question and gives you a not-so-gentle nudge up the stairs. “I’m sorry, when did I start speakin’ to the Lady Rowe?” You turn around intending to playfully swat at his shoulder when he unexpectedly grabs your wrist and pulls you to him giving you a rough kiss.  

Pulling back breathlessly, your surprised eyes dart toward his lips, “Well, you’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” You tease. Taking the lead, he guides you through the winding hallway until you reach the very last door in the house. He seems eager to show you and it almost has you excited. 

However, from the way the wood floor creaks under your feet and you can feel the house swaying in the wind, you don’t have high hopes for the state of the room. Besides, when was the last time Arthur or anyone else in the gang had actually slept in a real house? You’re sure he’d get excited by anything at this point. 

He gives you a small smile and throws the door open. You relax your expression, trying to make sure no unkind thoughts show on your face as you step through the door. Your eye twitches slightly and you bite your tongue. This was deplorable. 

The “window” is a hole in the wall that looks like someone had been thrown through. When you look up you can see the sky through the roof. It’s about as small as your old closet and the moist smell is nearly unbearable. The humidity out in these parts is going to be the death of you. You go one step further and swear your heel nearly goes through the floor. 

However, despite all of these issues, there is one very wonderful thing about this room. The bed pushed up against the wall actually looked half-clean and was far larger than Arthur’s tiny cot. “Well, Mr. Morgan, this is something indeed.” He lets out a proud huff and your gaze drifts through the “window.” You grimace as you spot a gator clamping down on a deer in the marsh outside. 

Outlaw life you could handle, but living in the moors was certainly asking a lot. 

If there were any trails left leading to Jack, they would be found in St. Denis. It was suggested that you use your former connections to try and find information on the boy’s whereabouts. The gang didn’t seem to understand that you had no connections of your own. They were either your husband’s or your father’s. And you certainly didn’t want to call upon any of your father’s old partners, that would lead to nothing but trouble. Though, you wouldn’t be surprised if you ran into them. As disgusting and poverty-ridden as the city is, it’s exactly where men like that love to linger.

“I’m still not sure bringin’ you along was a good idea,” Arthur frowns at how you have to ride side-saddle in the skirts you’d donned for this. As much as you’ve grown to love pants, that kind of modern-day fashion isn’t going to work for what you need to do. 

After what happened in Valentine, you know Arthur doesn’t like dragging you into the gang’s business. But you’re reluctant to let him out of your sight now. You can’t trust Dutch to take any care or precautions for Arthur’s safety. Besides, Cornwall and the Pinkertons wouldn’t be so desperate as to start shooting at you in the middle of the street. There’s too much risk they might hit the wrong congressman and lose themselves their funding.��

“Arthur, might I remind you that I’m more at home here than I am in camp.” A mangy mutt barks at the horses as you pass by. You can just imagine the fleas crawling through his coat, mud matted into what little fur he has left. A boy not much younger than Jack runs up to him and tosses him a stick. You can see the ribs poking through both of them. 

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh and sets you with a firm look, “Really? This is home to you?”

Slowly, the run-down huts around you give way to smoking factories and haggling merchants. Smog and filth pollute the air, the fog parts just enough for you to see the high-end estates in the distance. The rich, watching their fortunes grow as their factory workers and servants die a slow death. 

“Poor choice of words,” you acquiesce. “No, I’m much happier out in the wilderness. I only mean this is where I was raised to be born, bred, and die. There’s a culture to the sniveling men who live here, and I happen to be quite familiar with it.”

“Well,” Arthur sniffs and you watch him toss a coin into a beggar’s outstretched bowl. “I don’t feel like gettin’ comfortable here. Why don’t we make this quick?” You want to laugh at his impatience, but you can’t deny how your stomach is twisting at all of the decay bordering the city. 

You nod your head, nudging Lady on a little faster. It doesn’t take long for the poverty to fade and make way for the “grandeur” of St. Denis. You still see filth, crime, and unseemly business tucked away into the corners of the city. No matter how hard the wealthy try, they can’t keep the dirt off their hands. It’s impossible to turn a blind eye to the murkiness of what you once thought was a black-and-white world. 

“Where do we even start?” Arthur asks, nose turned up in disgust at the city. You don’t want to make him stay here any longer than you need to. If this is what the future of your country is to look like then you have no qualms becoming a feral mountain woman. 

“If there’s anything rich men love more than making money, it’s losing it.” You nod toward the saloon up ahead and smile. “If anyone has information they’ll be there. Either at the poker table or watching it.”

Arthur nods and you see him nudging Diablo to go faster but you hold out your hand, stopping him. “Wait a moment, Arthur. We’ll need to get our story straight if we’re going to get anything useful out of this.” 

“Oh, come on,” he huffs impatiently just wanting this to be over and done with. “We don’t need a story for this.”

“We most certainly do,” you admonish. You click your tongue disapprovingly at him and shake your head. “They’re not just going to talk to any hick off the street.”

“Hey-“

“You’re to be the help,” you continue, ignoring his protests. “Or, my escort,” you amend when you see the disgruntled look on his face. “They don’t let women at the betting tables so I’ll leave you to the men there.”

“And you?”

“I’ll work those at the bar. They’ll be the most loose-lipped anyway.” You lead the horses to the hitch posts by the side of the saloon. Arthur gets off Diablo and comes to stand by your saddle. He holds a hand up towards you and you swat it away with a rude huff. “Mind your place, sir. The help does not touch,” you inform him, nose turned to the air. It takes a herculean effort not to laugh at how easily his face screws up in irritation. You are enjoying this far too much. 

The annoyed look drops when he sees you struggle to shift your legs to the other side of the saddle. He backs away, hands in the air and a smug look on his face. You peer over the edge of Lady and grimace. You seem to have forgotten just how tall your mare is without Arthur’s usual assistance. “Sure you don’t need help?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the post of the saloon. 

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Arthur.” You drop from the saddle with a jolt and wince a little at the impact on your ankles. He rolls his eyes as you pass by him. 

“Come on, this is ridiculous,” his voice is pleading with you to not go in there. You don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want you involved or just because he doesn’t want to talk to the men waiting for you inside. 

“This will work,” you insist. “As long as you’re not too familiar with me.”

His face drops and his eyes narrow into slits. “Familiar?” He grumbles. You give him a dainty nod, dodging away from the hand that tries to snatch up your wrist. “Fine,” he snaps, spirit finally broken by your own stubbornness. 

“But if this don’t work,” his hand drifts down to the revolver holstered on his hip. “I got somethin’ that will.” When will men learn there are better ways of getting what they want than whipping out their pistols?

“What?” You deadpan, “You’re gonna shoot every man you see until you get your answers?”

He shrugs his shoulders, stalking past you and towards the entrance. “Maybe.”

“Oh,” you scoff and pick up your skirts, rushing to keep up with his easy stride. “Come on you stubborn fool,” you grouse. 

Right before you both reach the entrance, you clear your throat. He pauses, turning around with a glare. “I do believe it’s ladies first,” you remind him. His lips purse and he takes one reluctant step back. “Thank you,” you use your prissiest voice just to rub some salt in the wound.

“I hate this already,” he grumbles, glaring daggers at your back. 

“Hush,”  you bite your lip to stifle the laughter threatening to surface. You must admit, you’re getting a bit of a power rush being able to command him around like this. You’re so used to taking orders that you’ve forgotten what it feels like to give them out. You had once run your house until your husband took over. It’s been a long while since you fell into this role. 

Taking in a deep breath, you straighten up your shoulders and close your eyes. Remembering the vanity that comes along with a role like this, you smooth out your skirts and open the door to the saloon. The chatter and cigar smoke bring you back to memories of sitting in your father’s office while he filled out his reports. He was so cruel if you’d made too much noise while he was working. His favorite thing to tell you was always, “The proper way of the lady is to be seen and not heard. Women are something to be admired, not understood.”

Looking around at the men in this room, you know they’d tell you the same thing. Women aren’t wanted here unless the men have a hand up their skirts or a business deal with their husbands. Even after all your time with the gang, you still find yourself being cowed. You almost want to turn back around and leave. But it’s Jack’s life on the line and you can’t let his mother down simply because you got scared. 

You pull a wad of cash out of the beaded purse on your arm and lead Arthur toward the poker table. After haggling with Dutch for an hour, you’d manage to convince him to hand over some of the camp's funds. He didn’t need to know how much of it you were planning on pocketing for yourself. 

The men around the table glance at you suspiciously out of the sides of their eyes. But they don’t say anything to you until you start to pull a seat out. “Woah, little lady,” one of the men raises his hand and quickly grabs the arm of the chair, jerking it from your grip. He chuckles patronizingly and shakes his head, “I’m afraid there’s no women allowed at this table.”

“Well,” you give him a sickly sweet smile. “It’s a good thing I’m not playing.” Arthur comes to stand beside you and the man’s face pales. With the brim of his hat just barely blocking his eyes, the only thing they can see of him is the revolver on his hip and the nasty looks he’s sending them. He grabs the back of the chair and jerks it out of the man’s grip, nearly sending him flying. 

“My escort, here, will be playing for me.” Arthur takes his seat without another word and you slide the bills into his hand. Leaning over the edge of his chair, you whisper in his ear, “Try not to lose all my money, sweetheart.”

He tugs a cigar out of his vest and lights it up. He puffs silently on it and you spot the way his lips curl slightly at the edges. You can tell he’s doing his damnedest not to laugh at the little show you’re putting on for him.

“How are we doin’ today, gentlemen?” Arthur addresses the men at the table, voice rough and you can already see them getting antsy just being near him. He should have no trouble getting what he wants from them. He doesn’t even have to wave his gun around, he just needs to sit there and look terrifying. 

You leave him to play his part and move towards the bar at the back of the saloon. There are a few men sitting around, but you have to be careful about who you choose. Someone too drunk won’t be of any use to you. And someone stone-cold sober is going to get very suspicious of a friendly woman who isn’t a whore asking them too many questions. 

Rounding the tightly packed poker tables, you stand by the edge of the counter. There’s no point trying to order, they won’t serve a woman. Unless you’re one of the ladies employed by the establishment, you won’t be getting much service. You hop onto one of the stools, taking in the men slumped against the bar. 

One of them is clearly a laborer who wandered into the wrong bar and was too embarrassed to leave. A few others aren’t too drunk, but they’re talking amongst themselves. You’d nearly left when you saw how crowded the place was, you won’t be able to handle a whole group on your own. The rest, except for one at the end of the bar, look like they’re about to tip right off their stools. 

The man at the end is well dressed, his suit finer and clearly more expensive than any of the others in here. He’s nursing his glass of whisky, the bottle by his elbow and only a quarter-empty. He holds a cigar between his fingers, the smoke curling up into the air around his head. The expression on his face isn’t particularly inviting, but he seems like the best shot you have at finding something that makes this whole trip worth it. 

Slipping from your spot, you drift towards his side, keeping only a stool between the both of you. The goal is to not draw too much attention to yourself. You only need something small for him to notice you, it can’t be obvious that you’re trying. Experience has taught patience in letting them come to you, not the other way around. Reel them in too early and everything falls apart. 

“Excuse me,” you call out to the bartender, a small tilt to your lips as you give him a dainty wave. The man beside you only gives you a brief look before turning back to his drink. But you notice the way he’s turned slightly towards you, most likely intrigued by what a lady like yourself is doing in a place like this. 

The bartender glances towards you with a nearly affronted expression. “Could I get a drink?” You force the pitch of your voice higher yet softer than it normally would be. You know the appeal of innocence and virtue to men like this, as disgusting as it is, it works. 

The bartender shakes his head, voice gruff, “Don’t serve women here. You’ll have better luck somewhere else.” 

“Well,” your shoulders slump and your face falls as you feign disappointment, “That’s a shame.” You feel the stranger watching you and turn like you’ve just noticed him. “I can’t exactly leave,” you explain to him. His brows perk, an invitation to continue even as he remains silent. 

Waving behind yourself, you point out Arthur. “I’ve stolen my daddy’s favorite toy. I can’t leave until he’s won me enough money for this pretty necklace I saw the other day.” There was a time when you actually spoke like this, even thought like this. It almost feels simpler, those days when the most important thing was having the prettiest dress in the room. Given the option, though, you would never go back. Not now that you can see the world so much more clearly. 

You’re entertaining him if nothing else. There’s a quirk to his lips as he listens to you talk. He doesn’t truly care what you have to say, but he likes the company. Turning towards the bartender he snaps and grabs his attention once more. “A drink for the signora,” your brows furrow together at the thick Italian accent. 

You’d heard once, through your husband, that more Italian immigrants seemed to be moving to bigger cities like St. Denis. Italian mobsters seemed to flourish here. You just hadn’t expected to find one in this bar. 

The bartender’s shoulders stiffen, his hands freezing in their idle movements of drying out a glass. You drop the ditzy look from your face for a moment, eyes narrowing in on the odd interaction. The bartender puts a glass before you, his hand trembling as he does. The Italian man watches it all with an eagle-eyed smirk. You can’t help but feel like you’re witnessing some show of dominance. 

The Italian man waves him away and he pours some of his whisky into your glass. “It’s bold of you,” he tells you, not offering further explanation. 

“What is?”

He smirks and takes a deep drag of his cigar. The smoke billows from his mouth like a cloud, wafting over your face and smothering the air around you. Your teeth dig into your lips hard enough to hurt as you struggle not to cough. 

His eyes rove over you and you feel like a diamond under the scrutinizing eye of a jeweler, being checked for flaws and value. “Coming in here unmarried and without your father knowing.”

“Oh,” you wave him off and giggle, your hand drifting towards the back of his arm. He looks smug at the touch like he’s won something. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you feel as though you’re being watched. Risking a glance over your shoulder you see Arthur already staring back at you. His eyes are practically slits when he sees the hand you have on the Italian’s arm.

You clear your throat and quickly take your eyes off of him. “Do you see how big my escort is?” You ask, practically talking down to him. “I don’t have to worry much when I’ve got him standing beside me. It’s just too bad,” you trail off as you reach for the glass beside you.  

“What?” He prods, straightening up as you take your hand off him. You take your time answering, pressing your lips to the rim slowly and taking a long drink. It tastes of bog and burns the whole way down, and you have to turn away to hide your pinched as you struggle to swallow it. Still, when you turn back to him you manage to look pleased. 

“To be quite honest, he’s touched. Got kicked in the head by a mule a few years back and isn’t good for much more than fighting and labor.” God, Arthur’s going to kill you if he hears any of this. You can’t risk looking back at him again, though. Right now, he’s nothing more than a prop. 

“Still, an unclaimed, beautiful,” he adds as though that makes you sound any less like a piece of land, “woman out and about like this. I can’t imagine your father’s pleased.” 

You titter, batting your lashes and shrugging. “What daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, I’ve got serious business to deal with in the city.”

“Right, your pretty necklace?” His tone is familiar, you’ve been hearing it all your life. He’s not listening to you, he doesn’t care what you have to say, he’s just imagining what you’d look like on his arm. Or under him. It makes your skin crawl but you’re not so stupid that you don’t use his attraction to your advantage. 

An Italian man who can terrify a bartender with a single word, lurking in the dark corners of St. Denis. He seems like just the man you’re looking for. You play into what he wants, making your voice lighter, younger than it is, and leaning so he can see the way your corset perks up your cleavage. 

“Well, beyond the necklace. Though, that is just as important. I have this friend, Abby. Poor thing got born on the wrong side of life and had to do awful things for a living. Then, some no-good outlaw gets her pregnant. So, she’s stuck traveling with him now. And if that’s not bad enough, her poor little boy got stolen from her a few days back. I was hoping I might help her out somehow. Maybe send her a pretty dress.”

You shrug noncommittally as though it truly means nothing to you. He hums under his breath, putting his cigar out on the tray beside him. “I think I can help you out, signora. I’m having a party at my home tonight. I know a lot of,” he trails off, tongue licking across his lips like a hyena lapping at its maw. “Influential people,” he finishes. “If you’re willing, you can attend,” you’re about to agree when he adds one little stipulation. “As my date.”

“Oh, well,” you glance over your shoulder at Arthur now. He’s talking to some of the men around him but he’s still got one eye trained on you. When he sees you looking he frowns, turning to face you fully. 

You want to say no so badly. You don’t want to deal with another man like this for the rest of your life. In fact, you’d be much happier going back to camp and pretending none of this ever happened. But he might have the connections you need, not just for helping Jack, but possibly to help the whole gang. You swallow down your discomfort and force your most flattered smile. 

“I’d love to.” You answer, feigning a dreamy lilt in your voice. He pulls a fountain pen out of his jacket pocket and writes something down on a napkin. He slides it over to you and stands, taking your hand in his own he bends to press a kiss to your gloved knuckles. 

“My estate, signora, eight o’clock.” You watch as three men in different parts of the saloon all get to their feet and surround him. He nods forward and they march like proper soldiers, your eyes drift toward the guns on their hips and you let out a rough sigh. 

You take a glance at the napkin and see that he’s written an address on it. Wonderful, you’ve just gotten yourself a date with the mafia. You see Arthur out of the corner of your eye as he cashes out and gets to his feet. You bite your lip and frown, how in the hell are you going to explain this to him?

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Arthur snaps as you both walk into The St. Denis Tailor. 

“Arthur,” you bite your tongue, holding back the insult dancing just on the tip of it. “I’ve already told you that this is necessary.” He tilts his head with a disbelieving look and you throw your hands up in the air in defeat. “He might know how to get Jack back.”

“Yeah, but did you have to tell him I was your ‘daddy’s simple servant’?” He demands, taunting you with the rude words you’d used earlier. 

You take in a deep breath, preparing yourself for a real and true argument, just as someone clears their throat behind you. Turning, you find a sheepish tailor standing behind the register. He waves slightly at the both of you, face flushed from hearing you bicker on your way into the store. 

“Could I help you find something today?” You shoot Arthur a glare over your shoulder and approach the man with a tense smile. 

“I need a suit and a gown for an event tonight.” You start pulling out the money from your bag as Arthur scoffs loudly behind you. 

“A suit,” Arthur begins to protest. 

“Yes, a suit!” You snap, turning around and giving him a sharp look. “You want me to go to this alone?”

He crosses his arms and sets you with an aggrieved look. “Obviously I don’t, woman. But if I’m just your fool of an escort, why do I need to dress up?” He looks smug, as though he’s caught you in a trap of your own design. 

“Oh,” you’re close to stomping your foot like a child as you screw your face up at him. “You are impossible, Arthur. Do you want to find Jack or not?” He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he huffs and throws himself down on a seat by the door, refusing to meet your eye. 

You turn back to the tailor with a strained smile and slam the bills down on the counter. “A suit and a gown,” you reiterate, already knowing this is gonna be hell to get through with Arthur. 

The man takes the money, glancing between the both of you with trepidation. You pass him another ten and his face lights up. “Of course, madam, right this way.” He pulls back a curtain behind the counter and motions you both towards the fitting rooms. 

The tailor won’t have time to make a custom dress for you tonight. You’ll just have to hope he has something close to your size. Still, you find yourself browsing through the fabrics and laces he has laid out in the front. Your fingers drift over the more expensive silks and it drags you back to the parties you used to attend with your family. 

They were always filled with mindless drivel that was simply a cover for their true purpose. Conversations that always bored you were meant to probe your family for weaknesses. Being back here feels like throwing yourself back to the coyotes. Every face you pass, every conversation you hold, is carefully curated to present the image that person wants you to see. There’s nothing genuine about high society. 

“I don’t want that damn bow tie,” Arthur snaps at the tailor behind the curtain. You roll your eyes and take a seat near the fitting room. You should have just gotten Arthur’s size and picked the suit out yourself. You hadn’t realized how difficult he would be about this. 

You’re certain he’s only mad about you going behind his back and getting an invite to the party. Not only have you involved yourself in the gang’s business, you’ve placed yourself directly in the middle of it. It’s not as though you’re eager to be getting involved like this. 

It’s just after what happened to Arthur, every time he leaves camp you’re starkly aware that there’s no promise of his return. Perhaps it’s given you this itch to be closer to him than normal, but you feel as though it’s a perfectly natural reaction after painstakingly caring for him for weeks. You and the other women had been the only thing to stand between him and death, you’re not willing to let Dutch throw him back into danger without a care. 

The curtain slides back and you straighten up, waiting for Arthur to come out. One shiny black shoe slinks out, slowly followed by his leg. “Honestly, Arthur, you act like this is a punishment,” you complain as he takes his sweet time coming out. 

“With the way this collar is choking me, it might as well be,” he snaps, finally stepping all the way through. Despite the way he roughly tugs at his bow tie, the suit fits him quite well. He could almost look like a gentleman if it weren’t for the sour expression on his face. 

Letting out a soft sigh you stand up and walk towards him, “You look handsome, Arthur, really.” He shoots you a doubtful look and you send him a teasing smile, swatting his hands away from the collar. You loosen the bowtie for him and he gives you a grateful look. 

A little bit of the tension ebbs away from you both, a bridge slowly rebuilding. “I feel ridiculous,” his tone contains just a tad less of the irritation from earlier. 

The problem between you is that each of you desires to protect one another. Arthur wants you as far as he can get you from the gang. You don’t want to let him out of your sight. Neither of you are ever going to give in, it’s always going to be a constant push and pull of stubborn desires. Pockets of peace can be found in a simple moment like this, but you worry that there’s always going to be a divide. 

“You certainly don’t look ridiculous sir!” The tailor calls out cheerfully, eyeing his suit on Arthur with pride. 

Arthur huffs out a small laugh, “Alright,” he relents, “guess I’ll take this one.” You pick a piece of lint off his shoulder and take a slow step back. 

“Your turn, madam,” the tailor parts the curtain for you and you give Arthur one last brief smile before stepping behind it.

It doesn’t take you long to find the dress you want. You don’t have many options so you choose the one that will fit, and the one that will hurt Dutch’s pockets the most- a rather exuberantly-priced ruby red evening gown. 

Red gossamer wraps around your shoulders and one of the more comfortable corsets you’ve ever worn cinches your waist. Red silk ruches around your hips and back to give you more curves than necessary. It broaches the line of scandalous but it’s one of the only options the tailor has for you. Admittedly, it would better fit a lady of the night, but your goal isn’t to make a good impression. You only need information tonight, what the people you speak to think of you means nothing. 

You pull the heavy fabric of the curtain back as the tailor stares with pride at his creation. Pulling the white gloves up your elbows you walk towards Arthur. “Well?” You hold your arms out, excitedly spinning to show off the back of the gown. You tip your head over your shoulder, anticipating a look of awe, a compliment, maybe even a kiss that will leave the poor tailor scandalized.  

Instead, Arthur looks you up and down, giving away nothing. You smile broadly at him, heart picking up the longer he’s quiet. The tailor peers around the curtain, brows furrowed as he glares at your companion. “Sir?” He prods. 

Arthur shrugs, “It’s a dress. Whaddya want me to say?” You hear the tailor gasp quietly in offense. 

“Well,” your lips thin as you laugh, it doesn’t quite mask the sting of rejection, but you try. 

You turn and look at yourself in the mirror. The woman staring back at you in the mirror isn’t someone you recognize. Circles under your eyes, wrinkles from squinting against the harsh sun, and skin that’s been wind beaten. It’s all so glaringly different to the woman you used to see. Months of muddy pants and cotton shirts have worn away the softer edges of your reflection, and this is the closest you’ve been to feeling feminine since the mountains. You’d been hoping for something less dismissive. 

“You sure know how to make a girl feel pretty, Mr. Morgan.” Your voice is sharpened by hurt and anger. His face slacks and he winces like he’s finally realized just how callous he sounded. You shake your head, whip the curtain closed, and step back. The heat of disappointment strikes hot in your chest. What did you expect? Outlaws don’t know the first thing about courting ladies.

“You look gorgeous, madam,” the tailor tells you as he hands you your other clothes. You force a weak smile in return. Compliments like his are weightless. What would they mean from someone like Arthur?

It would’ve taken so little to spare you a kind word or even an appreciative glance. It makes you think of your husband, how kind he used to be before he grew tired of you. He’d been a “proper gentleman” raised in the knowledge of how to court and care for ladies. That ended with him in the belly of animals. 

A lady and an outlaw, worlds apart in what they need and understand. How could a story like that end? 

You feel your throat tighten, stomach-churning, as too many fears hit you all at once. You’re lightheaded and unsteady on your feet as you wonder if the divide between you both is too wide to cross.

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris

[angelseraphines]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ fandoms & characters I write for ੈ♡˳

the characters I'm currently writing for will be marked purple. my favorite characters to write for will be marked purple & bolded

if the character you're looking for isn't listed here, but still belongs to one of the fandoms here, I may still be open to writing for them, just ask!

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ aemond targaryen, aegon 'the elder' targaryen, daemon targaryen, jon snow, robb stark, edmure tully, jaime lannister, oberyn martell, stannis baratheon, daemon blackfyre, aegon 'the conqueror' targaryen, maegor targaryen, brynden 'bloodraven' rivers

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ THE WALKING DEAD ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ negan smith, rick grimes, daryl dixon, glenn rhee, shane walsh

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ STAR WARS ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ anakin skywalker, obi-wan kenobi, han solo, luke skywalker, din djarin, kylo ren, poe dameron, qui-gon jinn

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ PEAKY BLINDERS ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ thomas shelby, luca changretta, arthur shelby, john shelby, michael gray, alfie solomans

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ SUPERNATURAL ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ dean winchester, sam winchester, john winchester

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ NARCOS ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ javier peña, steve murphy

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ HANNIBAL ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ hannibal lecter, will graham

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ GLADIATOR ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ marcus acacius, lucius, commodus, emperor geta, maximus

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ JAMES BOND ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ le chiffre, james bond, agent c, lyutsifer safin

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ INDIANA JONES ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ indiana jones, jürgen voller, réne belloq

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2 ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ arthur morgan, dutch van der linde, john marston, hosea matthews, javier escuella, micah bell

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ LOST ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ james ford, jack shepard, sayid jarrah

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ HARRY POTTER ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ severus snape, sirius black, remus lupin, james potter, lucius malfoy

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ SQUID GAME ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho, cho sang-woo, seong gi-hun, park gyeong-seok, hwang jun-ho, lee myung-gi, kang dae-ho, choi su-bong

╭┈─ ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ MONEY HEIST KOREA ✧ ˚ · .

╰┈➤ berlin, the professor, denver, rio, moscow

[marsismadeofgold]

When the breeze shifts the branches next to him he sees the sunlight glint off of the water beyond- a tiny pond, barely more than a puddle, but in the midday light it shines. He can’t help leaning towards it, driven by that instinctual need for a cold relief to a summer’s day, but he recoils before he can make contact with the water. His eyes catch sight of a skeletal dead thing below the surface and he falls back onto his ass, shivering suddenly despite the heat. Recoiling hasn’t helped- every time he closes his eyes a pair of sunken ones stare back, set into a gaunt face on a too-thin frame. It’s been a long time since he has been scared of dead people, but the man in the pond is not a dead person.

The man in the pond is Javier Escuella.

Wrote another backstory !! It’s pretty short this time (rip the Tilly fic which ended up at some stupidly long wordcount) but this one involves a lot of my fave jmarston and also poker only I don’t really know anything about poker so it’s probably not too accurate. Anyway give it a go if you want!

[slicedmayonnaise]

oh my GOD WHY AM I ACTUALLY CRYING??? I NEED A HOT POCKET I NEED TO TAKE A BREAK I CAN'T DO THIS TODAY