#sheriffaxolotlwriting

[sheriffaxolotl]

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

Summary:

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

Chapter 1: How Did I Get Here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment later.

Voices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spitfire.”

The world vanishes, and the darkness swallows you whole.

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

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

[sheriffaxolotl]

Rough Hands and Gentle Strokes: Arthur Morgan x Art Teacher

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Headcanons on if Arthur was to fall in love with an Art Teacher

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How You Meet

You’re teaching art to children in a small town when Arthur stops by to resupply. He first notices you when he hears the children’s laughter, drawn to the cheerful atmosphere of your outdoor class. Curious, he lingers nearby, watching as you patiently guide the kids through a drawing exercise. One of the children notices him and insists he join the lesson, much to his embarrassment. Despite his protests, your gentle encouragement convinces him to stay. By the end of the lesson, Arthur has sketched an awkward horse that earns him a soft, amused smile from you.

The First Real Connection

After the lesson, you thank him for his participation and make a passing comment about how rare it is to meet someone who sketches in town. Arthur’s curiosity gets the better of him, and he shyly shows you a few pages of his journal. His modesty about his work tugs at your heart, and your genuine admiration breaks through his guarded demeanor. The two of you spend the afternoon talking about art and life. Beneath his rugged exterior, you discover a quiet depth and a warmth that draws you in.

Balancing His Secret Life

Arthur doesn’t tell you about the Van der Linde gang at first. He says he’s a traveling ranch hand, not wanting to scare you away or put you in harm’s way. As your relationship deepens, he struggles with the guilt of hiding the truth, but his protectiveness outweighs his desire to be completely honest.

Discovering His Life

Over time, you start piecing things together—rumors in town and inconsistencies in Arthur’s stories. When you finally confront him, your heart sinks at the truth. Though shaken, you listen as he explains his complicated life. Despite your fears, you recognize the goodness in him and choose to stay, believing he’s capable of so much more than the life he’s stuck in.

Making It Work Around the Gang

Arthur visits you whenever he can, cherishing the stolen moments of peace you bring to his life. He’s careful to keep you safe, often leaving supplies or money behind for your art classes. You insist you’re not a burden, but he can’t help wanting to provide for you in his own way. If the gang’s activities bring them too close to your town, he warns you to lay low, even if it means not seeing each other for a while.

Gentle Encouragement

Arthur is mesmerized by your passion for teaching art to children. He doesn’t fully understand your craft, but he listens intently when you explain it, marveling at your talent. One day, a child gives him a drawing they made during your lesson, and he proudly keeps it in his satchel, carrying a piece of your world with him.

Sketchbook Bonding

One evening, Arthur hesitantly shows you his journal again, admitting it’s “just a habit.” When you praise his sketches, he feels a warmth he hasn’t known in years. You offer to teach him shading techniques, and soon, the two of you are sketching side by side under the stars, sharing a quiet intimacy.

Childlike Joy

Watching you interact with the children melts something in Arthur. Whether you’re showing them how to mix colors or encouraging their creativity, your kindness tugs at his heart. Occasionally, he joins in, awkwardly holding a paintbrush while the kids giggle at his attempts.

Creative Surprises

Arthur isn’t poetic, but he expresses his feelings through thoughtful gestures. He carves you a wooden palette engraved with flowers or brings you rare pigments he finds during his travels. Each gift is a quiet declaration of how much he cares.

Artistic Muse

Sometimes, you secretly sketch him while he’s focused on a task, capturing his rugged charm and vulnerability. When he discovers these drawings, he’s flustered yet deeply moved, secretly tucking them into his journal as a cherished keepsake when you’re not around.

Teaching Him Perspective

Your lessons on how art helps children “see the world differently” resonate deeply with Arthur. Slowly, he starts to apply this philosophy to his own life, finding beauty in small moments, even amid the chaos of the gang.

Tension Between Worlds

The weight of Arthur’s life sometimes scares you, and there are nights when you lie awake wondering if he’ll come back. Arthur wrestles with guilt, occasionally trying to distance himself to protect you. But you always bring him back, reminding him that you love the man he is, not the world he’s in.

Handmade Gifts

Knowing your love for crafting, Arthur surprises you with small tokens: a handcrafted easel, a leather case for your brushes, or flowers he’s picked himself. Though awkward in giving gifts, his sincerity makes each one precious.

Art as Healing

You introduce Arthur to the idea of using art to process emotions. While initially skeptical, he begins sketching moments that weigh on his mind, from memories of loss to serene sunsets. Your encouragement helps him find solace in his journaling.

The Children Love Him

Despite his gruff demeanor, the children adore Arthur. They rope him into art lessons, and while he pretends to be annoyed, he secretly enjoys their laughter. You tease him, calling him your “assistant.”

Escaping Together

When the weight of life becomes too much, you and Arthur retreat to a quiet meadow or lake. With your sketchbook and his journal, you find peace in the simplicity of nature and each other’s company.

A Shared Dream of Freedom

In your quiet moments together, you talk about what life could be like if you left everything behind. You dream of opening a small art school for children, and though hesitant, Arthur admits he likes the idea of a peaceful life by your side. While he rarely considers settling down, being with you makes him wonder what it would be like—perhaps helping you run a small art studio for children. Though he never says it aloud, the dream lingers in his heart, giving him purpose and grounding him amidst the chaos of his world.

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This is shamelessly self-indulgent, as I'm working towards my degree to become a teacher and stressing over assignments that are due. To destress for a bit, I ended up writing this. I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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[sheriffaxolotl]

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

Summary:

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

Chapter 1 : How Did I Get Here?

Chapter 2 : A Day to Remember

Chapter 3 : A Place to Rest

Chapter 4 : Bar Fights and Hats

Chapter 5 : Crossing Paths

Chapter 6 : Fading Footsteps

Chapter 7 : Weight of Words

Chapter 8 : Through His Eyes

Chapter 9 : Blood on the Saddle

Chapter 10: Tangled Words

Chapter 11: A Stranger Among Strangers

Chapter 12: Between Laughter and Silence

Chapter 13: Doubts and Worries

[sheriffaxolotl]

Fallen: A Path to Redemption (Chapter 1) Alastor x Reader

"Solace, you say? Well, my dear fallen friend, in Hell, solace comes with a price."

“What kind?”

“How about... your soul, my dear.” Word count: 4,521 ✿ Friends to Lovers ✿ Slow Burn ✿ Eventual Romance ✿ Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |

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As you walked through the dimly lit streets of Hell, a sense of foreboding washed over you, the very essence of the city casting a sinister spell upon your senses. It sprawled out before you like a twisted labyrinth, each turn leading deeper into the heart of sin and suffering. Pentagram City, as it was known among its residents, sprawled out in all directions, a sprawling city of sin and suffering that seemed to stretch on for eternity, or at least that is how it felt to you have come to view it now after all this time.

The buildings that lined the streets were a haphazard mix of architectural styles, their crumbling facades adorned with a color scheme that was only ever in a variety of red. Neon signs buzzed and flickered overhead, casting ominous shadows that danced along the cracked pavement below. The sickly glow they emitted bathed the streets in an otherworldly light, a haunting reminder of the darkness that permeated every corner of this forsaken city. You found yourself needing to look away from the neon lights at times – their intensity causing your eyes to strain. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur and decay, a putrid Odor that seemed to cling to everything it touched here. Demonic creatures and sinners slunk through the shadows of the city, their glowing eyes watching from the darkness with a predatory hunger and desperation. Tormented souls wandered the streets in a daze, their anguished cries blending with the distant wail of sirens and the rumble of infernal machinery.

"Ah, another lovely day in Hell," you muttered to yourself, your nose wrinkling in distaste as you navigate through the crowded streets. Despite your years in this infernal city, the sights and smells never failed to unsettle you, a constant reminder of the sin that surrounded you.

Despite the horrors that surrounded you, you continued to press on, driven by a sense of purpose that burned within your soul. For within the depths of Pentagram City, amidst the shadows and the suffering, lay the key to your salvation – or perhaps your damnation.

In your eyes, amidst the chaos and despair of Pentagram City's twisted landscape, there lay a strange beauty waiting to be discovered. Along the endless alleyways, vibrant murals adorned the walls of abandoned buildings, their colors a stark contrast against the gloomy surroundings. As you navigated the cracked pavements, the haunting melody of street performers filled the air, their voices intertwining to create a mesmerizing symphony that reverberated through the twisted alleyways. It would have been a captivating spectacle, if not for the crude and lewd nature of the performances that seemed to saturate the city's public spaces.

"Yep... just another day," you muttered under your breath, steeling yourself against the onslaught of sights and sounds that assaulted your senses.

Amidst the chaos, you remained a beacon of determination, your steps echoing softly against the cracked pavement. Despite the darkness that surrounded you, you pressed forward with unwavering purpose. As you approached cannibal town, you couldn't help but shudder, your eyes instinctively averting away from the sights and horrors that littered the streets. Yet, you continued on, fueled by a resolve that refused to be swayed by the gruesome reality of your surroundings. After all, you had a radio station to keep running, and nothing was going to stand in your way today.

"Keep moving forward," you reminded yourself, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling that washed over you as you accidentally made eye contact with one of the sinners indulging in their gruesome feast by the side of the road. Hastening your pace, you focused your gaze ahead, determined to put distance between yourself and horrors of cannibal town as possible.

You were in a hurry today. Accidentally sleeping in had made you late to open the studio, and you knew you couldn't rely on looping music for too long before the sinners started to catch on. Despite the weight of your past bearing down upon your shoulders, you moved with a sense of purpose and determination, each step a testament to your unwavering resolve. Heavy bags sagged beneath your weary eyes, a silent testament to the sleepless nights and endless anxiety that had plagued your every waking moment recently. But today was not a day to dwell on fatigue or worry. Today, the radio station needed to be opened, and you were determined to make it happen.

"Just one foot in front of the other," you whispered, pushing onward through the chaotic streets.

But still, despite the ever-looming darkness that threatened to engulf you at every turn, you pressed forward, your eyes locked on the distant horizon. Ahead lay the radio station, a symbol of purpose and duty for you in a city consumed by chaos.

You had been blaming your recent unease and restless nights on the intensified thoughts of redemption that had been plaguing you recently. Yet, even amidst the uncertainty and fear, you clung to the belief that redemption was not merely a distant dream, but a tangible possibility waiting to be seized. In this labyrinth of sin and suffering, where despair lurked around every corner, you remained determined to confront whatever trials lay ahead. For you, the path to redemption was not just a journey—it was a destination worth fighting for.

With each step you took along the twisted streets, you felt the weight of centuries bearing down upon your shoulders, a burden that had grown heavier with each passing day. Despite the ever-present darkness that loomed over you like a suffocating blanket, you refused to be consumed by despair again. Each twist and turn of the twisted streets only fueled your determination, propelling you forward towards the elusive promise of redemption. It was a journey fraught with uncertainty, but you were prepared to face whatever trials lay ahead, for the chance to forge a new path and reclaim what had been lost.

Redemption.

The word echoed in the depths of your mind, tinged with bitterness and longing. It had been centuries since you had been cast into Hell, stripped of the ability to use your wings and left to wander the streets of this city alone. The memory of your fall from grace still lingered like a ghostly specter, a constant reminder of the choices that had led you to this place.

But it had led you to him.

As you traversed the dimly lit streets, memories of your fateful encounter with Alastor flooded your mind like an unstoppable tide. The recollection of that momentous day, spanning centuries past, consumed your thoughts with relentless intensity.

The memory of your first encounter with the enigmatic radio demon, when he had emerged as one of Hell's most dreaded overlords, lingered vividly in your mind. It was a day that left an indelible mark on your soul, altering the very course of your life.

The echoes of that momentous meeting resounded within you, every detail etched into your memory with unwavering clarity. It was a day of immense significance, shaping the intricate interplay between you and Alastor within the chaotic landscape of the underworld.

You could still see it all so clearly—the moment before you thought you stumbled into him, lost in the unfamiliar streets of the city, your heart heavy with despair and longing for solace in a new world that offered none. Your wings, once radiant and majestic, now hung limp and broken at your sides, a painful reminder of the fall from grace that had brought you to this wretched place. But even as you struggled to conceal your angelic identity beneath a makeshift cloak of filth and debris, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, of being hunted by unseen eyes that lurked in the shadows.

And then he appeared, like a specter emerging from the darkness, his presence as palpable as the weight of the world upon your shoulders. Alastor, with his piercing red eyes and the unsettling grin seemed to slice through the darkness like a blade. He sized you up with a predatory gaze, his gaze cutting through your facade with unnerving precision. You knew that he saw right through you, saw you for what you are under the filth and despair.

In that moment, you realized that Alastor knew exactly what you were – a fallen angel, stranded far from the heaven you once called home. And as he stood before you, his knowing smirk spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of the power he held over you in this infernal domain. Even as he offered that mock bow and spoke in that gentlemanly tone of his.

It was a meeting that would change everything, setting into motion a chain of events that would shape the course of your destiny in ways you could never have foreseen. For in Alastor, you saw not just a powerful demon, but a potential ally—a way to navigate the treacherous depths of Hell.

He extended his hand, a sinister grin stretching across his lips as he proposed the deal – a pact sealed in the very fires of Hell itself. In exchange for your soul, he offered you protection and guidance, a glimmer of hope in a world that had turned its back on you. It was a tempting offer, one born of desperation and fuelled by the promise of salvation in the face of unrelenting darkness.

In your moment of weakness, you had accepted, unaware of the true cost of your decision. He had seen your vulnerability, your need for solace, and he had preyed upon it with cunning precision. But deep down, you knew the truth – it was a transactional exchange, a bargain struck between two souls bound by desperation and necessity. And so, the deal was forged, the terms set in stone, and you found yourself inexorably bound to him by the chains of your own making. Little did you realize then the true nature of the bargain you had struck or the toll it would exact upon your soul in the days and years to come.

You can recall as the years passed you had found yourself becoming more entwined in Alastor's world. You began to see the true extent of his power and influence. He was not just a mere overlord, but a force to be reckoned with, a master manipulator who pulled the strings of Hell's darkest secrets. You struggled to keep up with him at first, for his idea of "guidance" meant putting you in the position of his assistant.

Despite the suffocating darkness that cloaked him like a shroud, there was something undeniably captivating about Alastor, something that drew you in despite your better judgment. It was a strange concoction of fear and fascination, a whirlwind of emotions that left you feeling both exhilarated and unsettled in his presence. Which was probably why you found yourself not completely out of sorts over the deal you had made. Hell, at times you found yourself becoming comfortable by his side.

He was unlike anyone you had ever encountered before, a force of nature unto himself, with a charm that was as beguiling as it was dangerous. His very essence seemed to exude chaos and unpredictability, and yet, there was a magnetic quality to him that you couldn't quite resist. It has been the reason you hadn’t resisted when you found yourself forming an acquaintanceship with the demon. You never forgot the fact that you formed a deal with him, but you also know you would have perished in hell without it. As the years passed, you found yourself increasingly entangled in his web, your role shifting from mere acquaintance to something deeper. Despite the shadow of your initial deal looming over your interactions, there were moments of genuine connection, where laughter and shared interests bridged the gap between the two of you.

But for all his allure, there was a darkness that lurked beneath the surface, a sinister quality that sent shivers down your spine. Beneath the charm and charisma, there lay a cruelty and arrogance that left a bitter taste in your mouth. You couldn't ignore the way he toyed with people's lives, finding amusement in their suffering as if it were mere entertainment for his twisted amusement.

It was a trait that you found repulsive, a stark reminder of the true nature of the demon before you. Despite any moments of camaraderie or shared interests, you kept him at arm's length, wary of the darkness that lurked within him. You refused to be drawn into his games, determined to maintain your sense of morality amidst the chaos of Hell.

"It was a good thing that you did as well," you remind yourself. The longer you remained within his grasp, it became painfully evident that he saw you as nothing but a pawn in his elaborate scheme. To him, you were merely another soul to be manipulated and discarded at his whim. The realization was like a cold slap to the face when you stop trying to see your deal through rose-colored glasses, pushing you to stay focused on your own motives and to keep in mind the true nature of the bond that bound you to him.

As the years unfurled like dark tendrils, you found yourself inexorably drawn into the intricate web of Hell's inner workings, your place at Alastor's side shaping your very being in ways you never thought possible. Together, you traversed the twisted pathways of infernal politics and power dynamics, your partnership born out of the necessity and survival in the unforgiving depths of the underworld.

With each passing day, you witnessed firsthand the extent of Alastor's influence, his mastery over the sinners of Hell a testament to his cunning and resourcefulness. You watched as he wielded his power with ruthless efficiency, his charismatic charm masking the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. It made scene why he was able to make so many deals.

And as you stood at his side, you found yourself undergoing a metamorphosis of your own. No longer did the trappings of your celestial heritage define you; instead, you embraced the sleek, mobster-inspired garb favored by Alastor. The celestial radiance that once emanated from you had dimmed, replaced by a darker allure that mirrored the sinister depths of your new reality. However, you clung to remnants of your celestial heritage, evident in the half-up crown braid adorning your head. In your eyes, it was a subtle attempt to retain a semblance of your former self, a last remnant of your symbol of a halo.

It wasn't just your outward appearance that changed as the years passed. With each passing day, you felt yourself growing more adept at navigating the streets of Hell, your mind sharpened by the constant challenges and intrigues that came with your role as Alastor's assistant. You don’t know when it happens. Perhaps it was after the passage of the first century since your fateful deal over your soul, but you couldn’t avoid being emerged as Alastor's trusted confidante in other eyes, your allegiance to him unwavering as you navigated the perilous currents of the underworld by his side.

With each challenge met and each intrigue unraveled, your wit grew, your mind sharpening like a finely crafted blade. You became adept at deciphering the subtle machinations of Hell's sinners, your insights becoming invaluable to Alastor as you worked in tandem to uphold his dominion over the ever-shifting landscape of the city. As his right-hand woman, you stood steadfast by his side, a formidable duo poised to conquer whatever obstacles lay in your path.

You could feel yourself falling into old habits by his side.

Until he disappeared.

In the wake of Alastor's sudden disappearance, you found yourself adrift in a sea of uncertainty, your current world thrown into disarray by the absence of the radio demon. For the first few weeks, you struggled to make sense of his sudden departure, your mind consumed by questions and doubts. You had gotten into a routine with the radio demon – weaving a new web of purpose that you had found to be rather manageable. You didn’t see this as an opportunity for freedom. Without Alastor, anything could happen to you in Hell without his protection. It had thrown you into a hole of despair – much like the stage you had entered Hell in.

But even in the midst of your confusion, you remained steadfast in your loyalty to Alastor. You refused to believe that he was gone for good – You had to, clinging to the hope that he would return to reclaim his rightful place at the helm of Hell's airwaves. Or you pray he did. You didn’t know how long you could get away without him being there before one of the overlords figured out what you were. If they did, you were sure it would result in a swift death or an eternity of torture. In hell, funnily enough, considering your situation. Maybe you just hoped he was okay because he had your soul in his possession. But you know the real reason. You were genuinely concerned for him. Even if you tried to keep him at arm’s length – you know you considered him a friend.

In those first few weeks of his absence, you had felt adrift, your once unwavering sense of purpose shaken to its core. You had spent countless hours wandering the dimly lit streets of Pentagram City, searching for any sign of Alastor's whereabouts, but to no avail. You decided to think that he would be relying on you to keep his radio studio alive, and you took on the task with fierce determination. Day and night, you tended to his affairs with meticulous care, ensuring that his presence remained felt even in his absence. You know at the end of the day it was a desperate attempt to find a purpose.

It was no small feat, keeping the radio scene alive and thriving in Alastor's absence, but you refused to let his legacy fade into obscurity. Mostly in the fear that you did, you might be done for. You poured your heart and soul into the task, channeling your energy into maintaining the electrifying atmosphere that had become synonymous with Alastor's name. It had been nerve-racking at first. You had never spoken over a radio before – let alone knowing that others would be listening.

And as the weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years, you found yourself growing stronger and more resilient in the face of adversity. You had become a pillar of strength in Alastor's absence, a testament to your unwavering dedication to keeping a hold of this for your sanity or the hope that this would keep the other overlords away. And though you longed for the day when Alastor would return, you knew that you would continue to hold down the fort until that time came.

During this time, you did feel a sense of emptiness that seemed to gnaw at your own soul. You missed him. Maybe it was his way of speaking or how together you were able to enjoy moments listening to music – not feeling the need to make commentary or talk for hours. Him drinking his black coffee while you enjoyed the tea he despised so much.

Yet, during this time, you were able to find solace in the returning thoughts of a path of redemption that you had strayed from so long ago. You hadn’t thought about it for a while. Hell, you had been too busy while working aside from Alastor. But the more time you were by yourself, the more you thought about it. It started with small, hesitant steps – a whispered prayer offered up to the heavens in the dead of night, a longing to reconnect with the divine forces that had once guided you.

With each passing day, you felt the pull of your celestial origins growing stronger, a yearning deep within your heart to find your way back to the light. You sought solace in the rituals and practices that had once defined your existence, craving the sense of purpose and fulfillment that came with walking the path of righteousness.

Without Alastor there… maybe you would have a chance at it again. And though you knew that your journey would be long and arduous, you refused to give up hope. You clung to the belief that redemption was possible, even in the darkest corners of Hell, and you vowed to yourself to do whatever it took to find your way back to the light.

As you traversed the shadowy streets of Hell, a palpable sense of unease settled over you like a suffocating fog. The air was thick with tension, and an ominous foreboding lingered in the murky depths of the underworld. With each step, you felt the weight of your surroundings pressing down upon you, a relentless reminder of the darkness that pervaded every corner of your existence in Hell.

You are brought back to the present from your racing thoughts as the sound of demonic whispering and shouting can be heard as a group of sinners crowds TVs outside a store. You move closer as you stand on your tiptoes to look over the top of heads and horns. A bit of a bump here and there as more sinners crowded around. That’s when you saw it – a flickering projection of someone on the News. You soon recognized who the face and voice belonged to. Lucifer’s Daughter. Charlie Morningstar. And you were now huddled into a group of sinners as you watched Charlie’s latest blunder, cast upon a weathered screen for all of Pentagram City to witness. The sight of it sent a shiver down your spine, a sickening knot forming in the pit of your stomach. Charlie was singing about something about a Hotel for sinners, the words blaring out from the television like a grotesque mockery of redemption.

Refusing to subject yourself to the spectacle of Charlie's folly, you averted your gaze and shuffled out of the crowd of sinners as you got back to the footpath. You quickened your pace, heart heavy with the weight of your responsibilities. The burden of your duties hung heavily upon your shoulders, a constant reminder of the role you played in the ever-unfolding drama of Hell. You might be able to get a few words in over what you just saw. Pull in a few extra listeners.

With determination etched into every line of your face, you focused on the familiar path leading back to the sanctuary of the studio, the comforting hum of routine beckoning you like a beacon in the darkness. Amidst the chaos and turmoil that engulfed you, you sought solace in the familiarity of your work, eager to find refuge amidst the swirling maelstrom of uncertainty that surrounded you.

As your hand reached out to grasp the familiar door handle of the studio, a sudden surge of energy crackled in the air, causing you to recoil in shock. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and a sense of foreboding washed over you like an icy wave crashing against the shore. Before you could even begin to process what was happening, you felt an invisible force wrap around you, pulling you into its grasp with irresistible strength.

With a startled cry, you stumbled backward, your heart pounding in your chest like a drumbeat of dread. Darkness enveloped you like a suffocating cloak, swallowing you whole and leaving you disoriented and breathless. The sensation of being transported through space and time assaulted your senses, disorienting you in a whirlwind of confusion and uncertainty.

For a fleeting moment, you felt as though you were being torn apart at the seams, your very essence stretched thin and fragmented across the fabric of reality. Colors blurred and merged in a dizzying kaleidoscope of chaos, and the world around you seemed to warp and twist with each passing moment.

‘I guess it was nice while it lasted… Good lord, please make my death swift.’

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the tumultuous journey came to an abrupt halt, leaving you standing in the eerie silence of an unfamiliar place. Your heart raced in your chest, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you struggled to regain your bearings. You glanced around frantically, your eyes wide with alarm as you tried to make sense of your surroundings. Wherever you were, one thing was certain – you were far from the safety of the studio, and the unknown loomed ominously before you like a specter in the night.

As the suffocating darkness finally lifted, you found yourself standing in the grand foyer of the Hazbin Hotel, your senses still reeling from the sudden transition. The air crackled with an otherworldly energy, and an eerie glow bathed your surroundings in a spectral light that sent shivers down your spine. Confusion and apprehension gripped you like icy tendrils as you struggled to make sense of your abrupt arrival.

Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat echoing in the silence of the cavernous space around you. The realization dawned like a bolt of lightning – You had been blindsided by Alastor's powers, whisked away to the hotel without so much as a warning. Panic clawed at the edges of your mind, threatening to consume you in its relentless grasp.

Before you could gather your wits, Alastor's voice sliced through the silence like a knife, his words dripping with sinister amusement as he greeted you with a twisted melody. Your breath caught in your throat; you felt your pulse quickening at the sound of his voice. You turned slowly, your gaze meeting his crimson eyes glittering with mischief.

"And here is my dear assistant!" He exclaimed; his tone laced with a cruel kind of charm. "Truly a lovely beauty that fell from grace!"

A mixture of emotions swirled within you at his words. While there was a sense of joy at his return, there was also a wariness that lingered in the back of your mind. Despite the warmth of his presence, there was a chill that ran down your spine as you stood face-to-face with the Radio Demon. You were all too aware of the darkness that dwelled within him, the cruelty hidden behind his charismatic smile.

And yet, despite the shadows that surrounded him, there was a sense of comfort in his familiarity—a reminder of the bond you once shared - For better or for worse. As you bask in the glow of his presence, a sense of caution mingled with gratitude. You were grateful to have Alastor back by your side once more, even if it meant navigating the treacherous waters of his unpredictable nature.

With each passing moment, the realization settled in like a weight upon your shoulders – you were reunited with an old friend. And though you knew the challenges that lay ahead, you faced them with a renewed sense of awareness, knowing that Alastor's presence was both a blessing and a curse. ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿

My AO3 account!

Just a reminder that this is my first ever Fanfiction - Besides the Dabble I posted I've never really done anything like this before. As I mentioned in the announcement chapter of Fallen, I was into creative writing in high school. I never took it further than that because I'm super into art. Recently I've started to get pains in my drawing hand however so I thought I would pick up another hobby to be able to have a break but still allow me to have fun being creative.

°˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° I appreciate feedback and if you like this please check it out on AO3 to leave a kudo or comment °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

I'm already planning to make some drawings for this as well - if you are interested in that my Instagram is @Ivory_Sketching

[sheriffaxolotl]

Fallen: A Path to Redemption (Chapter 2) Alastor x Reader

"Solace, you say? Well, my dear fallen friend, in Hell, solace comes with a price."

“What kind?”

“How about... your soul, my dear.”

Word count: 5,403 ✿ Friends to Lovers ✿ Slow Burn ✿ Eventual Romance ✿ Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 |

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Well, this certainly wasn't how you envisioned spending your day.

Taking in your surroundings, you find yourself standing in the grand foyer of a hotel. Normally, a hotel lobby would be alive with the hustle and bustle of guests and staff, but here, it resembles more of a ghost town - nothing but a hollow shell.

Despite its dilapidated appearance, there was an undeniable charm to the Hotel. Its faded grandeur spoke of a bygone era, a time when it had been a beacon of luxury and opulence. But now, it seemed destined to fade into obscurity, a relic of a forgotten past. Maybe that’s why you liked it.

With a wry smile, you couldn't help but shake your head in disbelief. It's a disaster in every sense of the word. This place would need a desperate touch-up. As you scan the room, you notice a few other individuals, their curious gazes fixed upon you. Some faces are familiar, adding a touch of familiarity to this otherwise surreal moment.

Charlie Morningstar. The name echoes in your mind, stirring up a knot of conflict over what you heard her discussing on the news this morning. Her vision for the hotel clashed and aligned with your own beliefs, leaving you torn between admiration for her ambition and concern for the consequences of her actions.

Husk. The feline demon's presence brings a wave of familiarity, and you share a silent acknowledgment with him. There's no need for introductions between the two of you; you were witness to the deal he struck with Alastor to retain his powers. You remember the mix of pity and sympathy you felt for him at the time, though you tried to convince yourself it was for the best.

Niffty. Your absence during the deal-making process for her doesn't go unnoticed. You had been on annual leave at the time, a rare break from the chaos of Hell. The irony isn't lost on you as you inwardly chuckle at the thought. Who would have thought the Radio Demon would grant you such a luxury? In some twisted way, the perks and benefits he offered over the years almost rival those of Heaven.

Alastor, the enigmatic Radio Demon, his presence here still puzzles you. What could have possibly prompted him to bring you to this strange place? You mull over the possibilities, the puzzle of his actions spins through your mind, each potential answer more confounding than the last.

The angry-looking moth lady and the arachnid demon are two figures you're unfamiliar with, though there's a nagging sense of recognition with the latter. You rack your brain, trying to recall if you've crossed paths with the arachnid before, but nothing concrete comes to mind.

Sensing that they're waiting for you to break the ice, you take the initiative and step forward, offering a polite introduction. "Hello, I'm (Y/N). It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," you say, placing a hand over your chest and executing a graceful curtsy.

The princess's eyes light up with excitement as she eagerly returns the gesture, albeit with a hint of haste and clumsiness. It's endearing, and a small smile tugs at your lips. She seems harmless enough – at least, that's the impression you get. But in Hell, appearances can be deceiving.

"Oh my gosh!" Charlie practically leaps towards you, her enthusiasm palpable as she seizes your hand and shakes it vigorously. The boisterous energy of her greeting threatens to jostle the rest of your body as she welcomes you to the Hotel with unbridled excitement. "Welcome to the Happy Hotel! I'm positive you are going to love it here!" she gushes, her words bubbling with genuine warmth.

You offer a forced polite smile as you reluctantly withdraw your hand. "Ah, well, we'll see," you reply, unable to shake off the uncertainty lingering within you. "I still don't know the exact reason I'm here for…" Your voice trails off as you cast a sidelong glance at Alastor, who looms over the scene with an intimidating presence. You can't help but feel dwarfed by his stature, a sense of insignificance washing over you in his grand shadow.

"Well, what else if not to help me and keep track of paperwork!" Alastor interjects with his signature taunting grin, gesturing mockingly to a stack of paperwork piled high on the reception desk. You suppress a grimace at the sight, inwardly bracing yourself for the daunting task ahead. That's a lot of paperwork to tackle …. It's going to be a long day.

"Wow. That's definitely a lovely stack if I don't say so—" You begin, making your way over to inspect the paperwork, but before you can even lay a finger on it, the poor pile collapses, sending papers cascading across the lobby in a flurry of chaos. "Oh! Oh no!" you exclaim, scrambling to gather the scattered documents before they disappear into the chaos of the hotel.

"I'm so sorry!" Charlie rushes over to lend a hand, her expression mirroring your panic as she apologizes profusely. "I really haven't had time to organize it, and Vaggie has been so busy—" Her words tumble out in a jumble of apologies and explanations, but before you can reassure her that it's okay, Alastor intervenes.

"No harm done, dear!" Alastor's voice cuts through the commotion, his wide grin betraying a hint of amusement as he surveys the scene before him. "Accidents happen, after all. No need to make such a fuss, dear!" Alastor interjects smoothly, his voice oozing with confidence as he effortlessly lifts the princess off the floor. " (Y/N) has an innate ability with paperwork! She'll get it sorted in no time! No time at all!" With a smug grin, he gestures grandly with his arm, the epitome of self-assuredness. "So, what do ya think?"

Charlie's eyes light up with unbridled excitement as she gazes around the lobby, taking in the flurry of activity Alastor has set into motion. "This is amazing!" she gushes, her cheeks flushed with amazement. She can hardly believe her luck right now. Before her was a real group of staff for the hotel. That Alastor had pulled out of thin air.

"It's... okay," Vaggie huffs, her demeanor a stark contrast to Charlie's bubbling enthusiasm. She stands by her girlfriend's side, arms crossed tightly over her chest, radiating skepticism. It's clear that she doesn't share Charlie's excitement about the new staff, her distrust evident in the furrow of her brow.

Vaggie's reservations stem from her deep-seated mistrust of the newcomers, all handpicked by one of the most dangerous and powerful overlords you can come across in Hell. While she loves Charlie dearly, she can't help but feel a sense of frustration and apprehension. She knows her girlfriend's heart is in the right place, but she also recognizes her naivety. Not all demons deserve a second chance, and Vaggie fears that Charlie's unwavering optimism might blind her to the true intentions of their new recruits.

Despite her reservations, Vaggie remains committed to supporting Charlie's vision of redemption. She wants to believe that there are demons out there genuinely seeking redemption, eager to turn their lives around. She's determined to protect Charlie and the hotel from becoming another pawn in the Radio Demon's twisted games. ‘At least one of the sinners Alastor brought looked half decent..’ Vaggie thought as she glanced over at you, watching as you had been glancing curiously through the paperwork. You don’t seem half bad.

Alastor's laughter fills the air as he pulls both girls close, his arms enveloping them in a deceptively warm embrace. "This is going to be very entertaining!" he declares with a mischievous glint in his eyes. With a swift motion, he distracts Charlie by extending his hand, inviting her to dance, while simultaneously maneuvering to push Vaggie out of the way. The room is suddenly filled with the faint strains of music, drifting in from some unseen source.

"Ugh," you groan softly to yourself as you gather up the last of the scattered paperwork, carefully restacking it onto the reception desk. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't help but be reminded of Alastor's flair for theatrics. It's almost impressive how seamlessly he manages to orchestrate chaos and entertainment in equal measure.

"You have a dream, you wish to tell," Alastor croons as he spins Charlie around the room, his magic weaving through the air to transform their outfits into something far more dapper, as if they were out dancing of an old fashioned movie. The sudden change catches Charlie off guard, but she adapts quickly, twirling gracefully in his arms. "And it's just laughable, but hey, kid, what the hell?"

As the impromptu song and dance unfold before you, you find yourself tuning it out, focusing instead on the task at hand. With a determined air, you break down the pile of paperwork into smaller, more manageable piles. Inventory. Bills. Subscriptions... You pause, a furrow forming between your brows as you come across a particularly peculiar document. What subscriptions could possibly be of interest in Hell? With a shake of your head, you push aside the thought, deciding it's best not to dwell on the mysteries of paperwork in Hell.

Caught off guard by the snap of fingers, you're swept up in a whirlwind of theatrics as a strange sensation washes over you. Before you can even comprehend what's happening, your clothes morph into an elegant V-neck black 1920s flapper dress, complete with fringes that sway with every movement. But as the music fills the air with its lively melody, you feel yourself being pulled into the rhythm of the dance by a mysterious force. It's as if invisible hands guide your movements, coaxing you to join the lively spectacle unfolding before you. But amid the musical chaos, your gaze catches a familiar sight—– the silhouette of a shadow whisking in front of you, unmistakably one of Alastor's shadows. The shadow pulls you further into the song and dance, its presence both eerie and mesmerizing. Despite the uncertainty of the moment, you can't help but surrender to the magic of the music, allowing yourself to be carried away by the rhythm.

"Inside of every demon is a lost cause," Alastor sings, his voice carrying through the room as he grabs Angel and Husk close, manipulating their movements as if they were mere puppets on a string. In the blink of an eye, hats appear atop their heads, completing their transformation into characters straight out of a vintage cabaret. Husk seems torn between irritation and resignation, his fist raised threateningly before ultimately settling for a defiant flip-off directed at the Radio Demon. Angel, on the other hand, merely smirks and responds with finger guns, already embracing Alastor's proclamation with a devil-may-care attitude. "But we'll dress them up for now with just a smile!"

Before you could even register what was happening, Alastor materialized in front of you, his presence commanding and unmistakable. A fox fur draped around his shoulders added a touch of elegance to his attire as he deftly wrapped it around your neck, the soft fur caressing your skin with a delicate touch.

With surprising dexterity, he spun you around, the fur trailing behind you like a playful companion. The sudden movement left you momentarily stunned, your senses reeling from the unexpected whirlwind of events. As you tried to regain your composure, your eyes widened in shock at the audacity of his actions.

A teasing grin played on Alastor's lips as his hand landed firmly on your backside, the gesture bold and brazen. A wink accompanied his playful demeanor, adding to the mischief dancing in his crimson eyes. The sheer audacity of his behavior left you speechless, your hand instinctively flying to cover your open-mouthed gasp.

Caught off guard by his unexpected antics, you found yourself at a loss for words, your mind struggling to comprehend the sudden turn of events.

Alastor seems satisfied with his handiwork, his grin widening as he dances away with a flourish while he continues his song and dance. But on his way, he shoves Vaggie out of the way, a move that doesn't go unnoticed by the fiery moth demon who angrily shakes her fist at him. Anger burns in Vaggie's eyes as she glares daggers at Alastor, her frustration palpable even from across the room.

As I try to collect myself after the unexpected encounter, you didn’t how to interpret Alastor's bold actions. While he's always been comfortable enough to nudge me or place a guiding hand on my back, his recent actions were something he had never done before – even in jest.

Lost in your thoughts, you're suddenly jolted back to reality by a deafening explosion from the other end of the room. The doors to the hotel are sent flying, taking little Niffty along with them in a whirlwind of chaos and confusion.

As the chaos settles and the others rush to inspect the hole in the wall, you can't help but grimace at the impact the tiny demon took, already anticipating the soreness that will undoubtedly plague Niffty tomorrow. While the rest of the group shares a look of surprise, you divert to get the door off of Niffty, who miraculously bounces back up the moment the door is lifted off her.

"Again!" Niffty exclaims with a gleeful grin, her enthusiasm undiminished by the unexpected collision. Before you can offer any protest, she darts off, joining the others who have ventured outside to investigate the cause of the explosion.

It's only a few moments later that you emerge from the hotel, your gaze drawn upwards to the sight of a looming aircraft hovering ominously above. The sound of voices reaches your ears, and you strain to make out the words amidst the chaos.

"...harboring the striped freak!" The declaration draws your attention, and you look up to see a familiar figure—a snake-like demon you recognize from encounters with Alastor in the past. Memories flood back to you of the times when he would orchestrate ridiculous attacks on the Radio Demon, his antics once a source of amusement. But now, faced with the reality of the situation, amusement is the furthest thing from your mind as you brace yourself for what comes next.

As the snake-like demon addresses Alastor with a less-than-menacing expression, you quickly make your way to join the others, glancing up just in time to catch Alastor's contemplative expression.

"Do I know you?" Alastor's question is met with a wicked grin from the demon, his malicious intent clear despite the seemingly genuine tone of his voice.

"Oh yes you do!" The demon's reply is accompanied by a retreat into his aircraft, his actions accompanied by the aggressive clanking of levers and buttons being pushed. The tension in the air is palpable as everyone braces themselves for whatever comes next.

"And this time I have the element of... Surprise!" With those ominous words, a giant weapon emerges from the aircraft, positioned directly in front of you all at eye level. The air crackles with energy as the weapon charges, threatening to unleash destruction upon everyone in its path.

"Hahahaha, I'm so evil!" The snake-like demon's cackle echoes through the air, sending a shiver down your spine as you prepare for the inevitable confrontation that lies ahead.

As the menacing aircraft and its looming weapon are ensnared by fiery rings and engulfed in smoke, monstrous black tentacles emerge, gripping the ship tightly. The cacophony of sirens blares through the air, mingling with the snake demon's horrified screams as it struggles against its inevitable demise. Amidst the chaos, Alastor remains unperturbed, his signature grin etched upon his face.

Static crackles and arcane symbols materialize around Alastor, his figure shrouded in an aura of otherworldly power. His shadowy minions swirl around him, a silent testament to his mastery over the dark arts. The tension in the air is thick as the inevitable unfolds before your eyes.

With a deafening explosion, the aircraft erupts into flames, scattering debris in every direction. The group stands frozen, a mixture of dazed and terrified expressions etched upon their faces. However, you can't help but shoot Alastor a knowing look, silently questioning the necessity of such a dramatic display. After all, you've seen worse from him before – unfortunately.

Despite the destruction wrought by his actions, Alastor remains unfazed, his grin widening as he revels in the chaos he has caused. It's a chilling reminder of the darkness that lies within him, a darkness that you know all too well.

With a sudden shift in demeanor, Alastor's cheerful and oddly friendly persona returns in full force, his arms outstretched in a display of excitement.

"Who's hungry for some grub?" he exclaims, his voice exuding enthusiasm. "I'm in the mood for some jambalaya! My mother once shared with me her wonderful recipe for jambalaya. In fact, it nearly killed her! Ha ha ha!"

As he makes his way back toward the hotel, Niffty skips along beside you, her boundless energy infectious. You fall into step behind Alastor and the others, observing the dynamics between them. Angel Dust blows a playful kiss to Husk, who looks on with a mix of confusion and irritation. Charlie offers Vaggie a reassuring smile, but the worry still lingers in her girlfriend's expression.

When you lock eyes with Vaggie, you offer her a small, reassuring smile of your own, hoping to alleviate some of her concerns. However, your attempt at comfort is short-lived as you hasten your pace to catch up with the group. The events of the day whirl through your mind, leaving you with a sense of unease about what lies ahead.

You didn’t notice the sign on the hotel changing from ‘Happy Hotel’ to ‘Hazbin Hotel’.

You followed the group through the makeshift entrance, the remnants of the door scattered around. Your steps quickened as you headed toward what you assumed to be the direction of the kitchen, but your focus was abruptly diverted by the sight of the paperwork once again strewn across the reception desk floor.

"Oh boy," you muttered under your breath, a tinge of frustration evident in your voice. With determined strides, you hurried over to the mess, bending down to gather the papers. As you sorted through them, a sense of order began to emerge as you stack them into piles. Bills, reminders, a letter from... oh, coupons, and yet another bill—

"It’s not very polite to sneak up on people. One of these days something is surely going to happen," you remarked, your tone laced with a hint of mock warning as you sensed a familiar presence behind you. Turning slightly, you were met with the sight of Alastor, his grin as unsettling as ever. His presence always seemed to catch you off guard, his sudden appearance feeling like a twisted game of cat and mouse.

"Now, now! That's never going to happen, my dear!" Alastor dismissed your concern with a wave of his hand, stepping closer to inspect the stacks of papers you had organized on the desk. His jovial demeanor didn't waver as he continued, "Come on! This can be dealt with later, we have-"

"Am I not here to work?" you interjected, cutting him off abruptly. Alastor paused, his gaze shifting down to meet yours, towering over you with his imposing presence.

"Well, yes! But only charity work that I have volunteered you for!" His tone was almost gleeful as he spoke, seemingly reveling in the idea of assigning tasks to you. Despite the lightheartedness of his words, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease creeping into the back of your mind.

As you glanced up at Alastor, you noticed a strange mixture of pride and something else in his expression, something you couldn't quite place. It left you feeling grateful for the opportunity to contribute to something greater than yourself, even if it was labeled as "charity work." You had been working alone in that radio station for seven years. A change of pace would be nice. Yet beneath that gratitude lingered a sense of suspicion – it was unlike Alastor to offer assistance without some ulterior motive.

Lost in thought, you hadn't noticed his lean a little closer to you until you felt a stray strand of your crown braid being twirled gently. Startled, you glanced up to find his piercing gaze fixed on you, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

"You still wear your hair like you have a halo," he remarked, his fingers delicately toying with the loose piece of hair. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a strange mix of confusion and familiarity within.

A rush of warmth flooded your cheeks at his words and actions, the subtle intimacy of his actions stirring something deep within you. Despite your efforts to maintain composure, you couldn't deny the blush that heated your cheeks. You chalked it up to his absence, convinced it had impacted you more than you realized. Surely, it was just the result of your lack of social interaction or contact with others for the past seven years.

Your heart skipped a beat as he twirled that loose strand of hair and you found yourself holding your breath as you met his gaze. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, leaving only the silent exchange passing between your locked eyes. Was it judgment you detected in Alastor's gaze, or was there something else lurking beneath the surface?

The fleeting moment of connection sent a shiver down your spine again, but you quickly pushed aside the unbidden thoughts, refocusing on the task at hand. There were too many questions swirling in your mind, too many uncertainties to dwell on in that fleeting moment of intimacy. You forced yourself to maintain composure, burying the stirring emotions deep within as you turned your attention back to the paperwork, determined to remain professional despite the unsettling encounter.

With a small, nervous smile, you nodded in response to Alastor's comment, feeling your cheeks still flush slightly under his scrutinizing gaze. "Old habits die hard, I suppose," You replied, attempting to brush off the unexpected intimacy of the moment.

Alastor's grin widened, a knowing glint flickering in his eyes. "Indeed they do," he murmured cryptically, his tone laden with unspoken meaning. He lingered for a moment longer, his presence casting a shadow over your thoughts before finally stepping away with a flourish.

He simply grinned at the state you were in before turning away, his demeanor shifting seamlessly as he made his way back to the kitchen. You followed in his wake, your mind still reeling from the brief encounter. As you both navigated the bustling corridors of the hotel, a sense of unease gnawed at the edges of your consciousness.

Despite your efforts to quell your doubts, you couldn't shake the lingering questions about your friendship with Alastor. Was his warmth genuine, or was there a darker motive lurking beneath his charming facade? He had been gone for seven years – maybe you were just overthinking a little bit. You had spent too much time apart, and now that he was back, you were struggling to readjust to his presence. Memories of your past interactions flashed through your mind, moments of camaraderie and laughter mixed with shared experiences and moments of your odd friendship. You found yourself torn between the familiarity of your friendship and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. 'Mistaking a friendly gesture for something more… Come on, (Y/N)…'

In typical Alastor fashion, he moved on as if nothing had happened, his attention already focused on the task at hand in the kitchen. You hurried to join him, eager to lend a hand and put the unsettling encounter behind you.

As you worked side by side, the familiar rhythm of their collaboration brought a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty. The clatter of pots and pans, the little calling of ingredients being pulled out —it was a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. It reminded you of old memories of similar moments like this – some with Rosie at your side as well. It causes you to smile to yourself a little.

You watched him move with effortless grace through the bustling kitchen, you couldn't help but wonder what he had been doing for seven years.

Before you could dwell on it further, Alastor snapped his fingers with a flourish, and in an instant, both he and you were adorned in matching aprons. The sudden change brought a startled laugh to your lips, momentarily breaking the tension that had been building within you.

"Ah, much better, don't you think?" Alastor chimed in, his grin widening as he gestured to their new attire. "Now we can tackle these culinary delights in style!"

You couldn't help but chuckle at his remark, feeling the tension easing between you. "Absolutely," you replied, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "Nothing like a bit of flair to spice up the cooking process."

As you worked together, the playful banter between you and Alastor flowed effortlessly, each teasing remark and shared laugh easing the tension that had lingered in the air. It was moments like these that reminded you why you had missed him during his absence, why his sudden return had stirred up such conflicting emotions within you.

But amidst the laughter and camaraderie, there was an undeniable undercurrent of something more—a subtle shift in the dynamic between you that left you feeling both exhilarated and apprehensive.

As you continued to work alongside Alastor, your attention occasionally drifted to the tender moments shared between Charlie and Vaggie. Their love for each other was palpable, evident in every glance and touch.

And of course, there was Niffty, flitting about the kitchen with boundless energy and enthusiasm, a ball of energy. Her antics never failed to bring a smile to your face, even if she was a bit odd at times.

You couldn't help but notice the way Angel Dust flirted shamelessly with Husk, his usual charm turned up to eleven as he attempted to win over the grumpy bartender. It was a sight that never failed to amuse you, the sheer audacity of Angel's advances paired with Husk's deadpan responses never failing to bring a smile to your face. You chuckled to yourself as you watched their interaction unfold, grateful for the lighthearted distraction.

During all this you got a moment to introduce yourself to Vaggie and Angel Dust, even if it was just quickly. The latter seems to really look you over with a raised brow. But you tried to not read into it.

Once everything had been finished and everyone did their own little jobs to get the table set – even with a bit of complaints from certain individuals -, it was a nice moment considering everything that happened that day.

At the head of the table sat Charlie, her vibrant energy filling the room as she presided over the idea that her vision for the hotel was coming to life, with a wide smile and infectious enthusiasm. To her left, Vaggie sat with a stoic expression, keeping a watchful eye on the newcomers, while to her right, Alastor lounged in his seat, his signature grin never leaving his face.

You found yourself seated between Alastor and Niffty, the energetic maid chattering animatedly as she passed around platters of food with lightning speed. Despite the chaos of the moment, there was a sense of warmth and camaraderie that permeated the air, a feeling of belonging that you had rarely experienced in the past few years.

As plates clinked and glasses clattered, conversation flowed freely around the table, a cacophony of voices and laughter that filled the room with life. The sound of Husk getting annoyed at Angel Dust flirting or Niffty popping off for a moment to chase something on the ground added to the lively atmosphere. It was moments like these that made you feel like maybe you had been missing out on something.

Despite the cheerful ambiance of the dinner table, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling of unease that lurked beneath the surface. As the conversation flowed around you, laughter ringing in your ears, you couldn't help but feel like an outsider looking in at that moment.

Charlie's infectious enthusiasm and Vaggie's watchful gaze created a sense of warmth and inclusion, yet you couldn't shake the feeling of being disconnected from the group. Memories of past betrayals and broken trust danced at the edges of your mind, casting a shadow over the otherwise joyous occasion.

You found yourself retreating into the safety of silence, unable to muster the courage to contribute to the lively banter. Despite the genuine smiles and friendly gestures directed your way, you couldn't help but question the sincerity of it all.

Was it all just a facade, masking hidden agendas and ulterior motives? Or were you simply allowing your past experiences to cloud your judgment, projecting your own insecurities onto those around you?

You tried to push aside the nagging doubts and insecurities that plagued your mind, but they stubbornly persisted, whispering cruel reminders of past betrayals and disappointments. The laughter and conversation continued to swirl around you, but you felt like a stranger in your own skin, unable to fully immerse yourself in the moment. You couldn't help but feel like you are a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. It was a familiar feeling, one that had haunted you since your fall from grace —a constant reminder of your inability to trust others completely.

As you sat there, feeling disconnected from the lively atmosphere around you, a subtle shift in the air caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Alastor's gaze lingering on you, his keen observation picking up on the subtle signs of your discomfort.

With a knowing smile, he turned slightly in his seat to face you better. "My dear, forgive me if I'm mistaken, but you seem a bit... unsettled tonight," Alastor remarked, his voice low.

You glanced up at him, surprised by his perceptiveness. "It's nothing, Alastor," you replied, trying to mask your unease with a casual shrug. "Just... feeling a bit out of place, I suppose."

Alastor's smile faltered slightly at the edges, a flash of something flashed in his eyes before it was gone. "Is there something troubling you, (Y/N)?" he asked, his tone gentle yet probing.

You hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. But with Alastor's gaze fixed on you, you found yourself opening up despite your reservations. "I suppose... I haven't been the best socially since your disappearance," you admitted, your voice tinged with vulnerability. "It's always been hard to trust others completely, especially after everything that's happened."

Alastor's eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, his lips curling into a playful grin. "Well, well, well," he teased, his tone light but tinged with amusement. "You mean to tell me that my absence has left you socially inept, (Y/N)? I must say, I'm quite flattered."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help but chuckle at his jest. "Oh, please," you retorted, playfully swatting at his arm. "Don't let it go to your head, Alastor. I'm sure I'll manage just fine without your charming presence."

Alastor feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "Ah, but where's the fun in that?" he replied, his grin widening. "Why, you'd be denying yourself the pleasure of my company, my dear."

"Perhaps you're right," you conceded with a smirk, enjoying the banter despite your lingering worries. "After all, who else would I have to keep me on my toes with their ridiculous antics?"

Alastor's grin widened, and he leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ah, but my dear (Y/N), you know you wouldn't have it any other way."

"But fear not, my dear (Y/N), for I promise to make your suffering as enjoyable as possible."

You couldn't help but laugh at his audacity, the tension in your shoulders easing as you shared this moment of camaraderie with him. Despite the uncertainties lurking beneath the surface, you found solace in Alastor's familiar presence, grateful for the brief respite from your worries.

Little did you know, however, that the calm before the storm was merely a fleeting illusion, and that soon, your world would be turned upside down once again.

♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿

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Before I sign off, I wanted to extend a heartfelt thank you to each and every one of you for your comments and kudos/likes. Your support and engagement mean the world to me, and I'm genuinely surprised and grateful for the response the Drabble and the first chapter has received. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I can't wait to share more with you soon. Until next time! - Ivory

[sheriffaxolotl]

Fallen (Alastor x Fallen Angel reader Drabble)

âmes damnées (ˈɑːm dɑːˈnei) a person who is willingly or blindly the tool of another person.

In the forsaken corners of Hell, where shadows danced with the echoes of lost souls, a fallen female angel wandered, her once-ethereal beauty now marred by the harshness of her surroundings. Her porcelain skin, once kissed by divine light, bore the scars of her descent, a testament to the trials she had endured. Tattered remnants of her once-glorious wings hung limply at her sides, their feathers dulled and tarnished by the weight of her sins. A filthy makeshift sheet of a cloak was thrown over her as the edges dragged along behind her.

Despite the darkness that surrounded her, there remained a haunting elegance to her presence, a lingering trace of the celestial grace she had once possessed. Her eyes, though clouded with sorrow, still held a spark of inner strength, a testament to the resilience of her spirit amidst the turmoil of Hell. Her name, whispered only in mournful sighs, had long been forgotten in the abyss.

The perfect prey. Thrown away, lost, and forgotten.

It was amidst this desolate realm that she encountered Alastor, the enigmatic radio demon whose presence exuded a captivating aura of mischief and menace. His bright red irises and thin black pupils follow the slouched figure as they wander with no destination.

"Well, well, well," Alastor crooned, his grin wide and wicked as he regarded the fallen angel before him. "What do we have here? A celestial beauty fallen from grace?" Alastor continued as his hand came to lay upon his chest, a mock gentlemanly bow following his words.

The fallen angel's gaze met Alastor's, her eyes a reflection of the sorrow and regret that weighed heavy upon her soul. "I seek solace," she confessed, her voice a fragile whisper in the darkness. A soul worn down that was struggling with what appeared to be soul-crushing failure. The corners of Alastor’s grin perked up even more at the sound of her pitiful voice.

With Alastor's smile widening, the fallen angel could see the gleaming rows of razor-sharp teeth. "Solace, you say? Well, my dear fallen friend, in Hell, solace comes with a price." Alastor said as he taps his cane next to him with an emphasis on each word he spoke. He watches the way her eyes flicker over his appearance, a calculating stare even with the way he could see fatigue clouding her judgment. Clouding it well enough for her to speak her next words.

“What kind of price?”

And so, amidst the swirling shadows and the wails of the damned, a pact was forged between the fallen angel and the radio demon, their fates intertwined in a dance of darkness and redemption within the infernal depths of Hell. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪

I just wanted to write something small to get the idea out but if anyone is interested in it I would like to write more :) Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 |

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[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 11) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Start: Chapter 1 Previous: Chapter 10 Next: Chapter 12:

Summary:

“Not takin’ lip from you,” you shot back, tossing a piece of carrot his way. He caught it easily, his grin widening. “Ain’t givin' any lip, woman,” he said, taking a bite and chewing casually, his eyes meeting yours.

Chapter 11: A Stranger Among Strangers

  ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

Over the next few days, as your strength returned and you grew more comfortable moving around camp, you found yourself gradually being drawn into its small community. Everyone had their role, their quirks, and their routines, and while some welcomed you more easily than others, the fabric of the camp was undeniably close-knit.

You couldn’t help the way you feel out of place.

Abigail and Jack were among the first to notice you once you ventured out of Arthur’s makeshift setup. You’d been by the camp’s washing line, fumbling with a bucket of water that Susan had insisted needed moving, when you caught sight of a young boy darting through the tents. Jack was chasing a wooden stick, laughing as it bounced across the dirt.

“Careful, Jack!” Abigail’s voice called, warm but firm. She looked up from a pile of laundry near the fire and caught sight of you, pausing for a moment before offering a small, welcoming smile.

“Feelin’ better?” she asked, her voice light as she set down a shirt she’d been folding.

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Getting there. Still feels like I’ve been kicked by a mule, but I’ll live.”

Abigail chuckled softly. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. If you need help gettin’ settled, just holler. Lord knows this place could use a few more decent folks.”

There was an ease to her demeanor, a subtle kindness that made you feel just a little less like an outsider. It became quickly apparent that Abigail was a busy woman, her time split between watching over Jack and tending to whatever needed doing around camp.

Jack, on the other hand, was pure energy wrapped up in a small frame. As you started to walk away, he darted toward you, clutching his stick like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Is it true you’re a lady gunslinger?” he asked, his big, curious eyes locking onto yours.

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden question. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Uncle says you’re some kind of sharp-shooter,” he said proudly, puffing out his chest as though sharing some grand secret.

“Uncle says a lot of things,” Abigail interjected, shaking her head but smiling fondly at her son. “Don’t go botherin’ her, Jack.”

“He’s not bothering me,” you said quickly, smiling down at the boy. “But I think Uncle might be stretchin’ the truth just a bit.”

Jack tilted his head, clearly unconvinced, but before he could press further, Abigail ushered him away with a promise of a snack. You watched them walk off, the warmth of their interaction settling over you as you turned back to your task—determined to haul the bucket of water across camp without aggravating your side.

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

John, on the other hand, wasn’t so quick to strike up conversation. You first spotted him near the horses, sitting on an overturned crate while cleaning one of his pistols. The metallic click of the gun parts echoed softly, blending with the background hum of camp life.

You’d been passing by, carrying some firewood to the supply wagon, when his voice stopped you.

“You’re the one Arthur dragged in, huh?”

His tone wasn’t unkind, but there was an edge to it, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of you yet. You turned to find his sharp eyes studying you from beneath the brim of his hat.

“That’d be me,” you replied evenly, setting the firewood down and brushing off your hands.

John nodded, returning his focus to the pistol in his hands. “He don’t usually go outta his way for folks he don't know.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant as a compliment or not, so you simply shrugged. “Guess I owe him, then.”

“Guess you do.” He glanced up again, his expression softening slightly. “Arthur’s got a good read on people, though. If he thinks you’re alright, you probably are.”

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he turned his attention back to his work, effectively ending the conversation. You didn’t linger, sensing that John wasn’t one for long talks, and you won't one to push. Still, the mention of Arthur stayed with you, lingering in the quiet moments as you made your way back into the woods around camp to gather more branches. Thoughts of him—his steady gaze, the quiet moments shared—kept surfacing, weaving through the soft rustling of leaves and the gentle crunch of twigs beneath your feet. The camp buzzed in the distance, but for a while, it felt like the forest held only your own musings.

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

Sadie, though mourning—which you found out when talking to Abigail—seemed like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. The pain of her loss was still raw, visible in the stiffness of her posture and the faraway look in her eyes. You’d seen her sitting near the edge of camp one morning, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stared out into the trees.

You’d been passing by on your way to fetch some water when your footsteps crunched on the gravel, drawing her attention. She glanced up at you, her expression briefly unreadable before her lips curved into a faint, almost reluctant smile.

“Morning,” you offered, unsure if you should say more.

“Morning,” she replied, her voice quiet but steady.

Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, and you had the distinct feeling she was sizing you up—not in an unkind way, but as if trying to determine who you were.

“You need any help with somethin’?” you ventured cautiously, shifting the bucket in your hand.

Sadie shook her head, her grip tightening briefly on her arms. “No. I’m fine.”

There was an edge to her words, not cold, but distant, like she wasn’t ready to let anyone in just yet. You nodded, not pushing further, but as you turned to leave, she spoke again.

“Thanks, though,” she added, softer this time, and when you glanced back, you thought you saw the faintest flicker of gratitude in her expression.

She didn’t say more, and you didn’t linger. Sadie was grieving, and she needed space. You respected that, though you hoped, in time, she’d find a way to let others help her when she needed it.

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

Javier, by contrast, was easy to talk to. You remembered him from Valentine—the bar fight in particular. He had been charming the saloon girls before it, or well, before Arthur showed up. In camp, you noticed he was often by himself or with a small group, strumming his guitar under the shade of a tree.

The first time you approached him, it was late afternoon, and the warm notes of his music carried across the camp. You’d been gathering some firewood nearby, drawn by the gentle melody. He glanced up as you neared, his dark eyes meeting yours with an easy warmth.

“You play?” he asked, nodding toward the guitar in his lap.

“Not a note,” you admitted with a small laugh, setting down your bundle of wood. “But I can appreciate good music when I hear it.”

Javier chuckled, his fingers still plucking at the strings as he spoke. “Well, stick around. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

You sat a few feet away, watching as his hands moved deftly over the instrument. The song was unfamiliar, but there was something comforting about it, a rhythm that seemed to blend seamlessly with the natural sounds of the camp.

“You were in that fight in Valentine, weren’t you?” you asked after a moment, a grin tugging at your lips.

He glanced up, a playful spark in his eyes. “Ah, sí. A wild night, that one. And you—you were the one Arthur dragged into it, no?”

“Dragged is a strong word,” you teased, crossing your arms. “I held my own, thank you very much.”

Javier laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

The two of you exchanged a few more stories about that chaotic evening, and you found yourself relaxing in his presence. Javier had a way of making you feel at ease, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to some of the camp’s louder personalities.

As the sun dipped lower, he played another tune, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the camp disappeared. It wasn’t until he stopped to retune the guitar that he glanced at you again, his expression thoughtful.

“You’re fitting in well here,” he said simply, his tone sincere.

“Trying to,” you replied, lowly.

Javier nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. “Keep at it. This place... it’s not always easy, but it’s good.”

His words stayed with you long after the music ended, thinking them over.

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

Uncle, on the other hand, was impossible to avoid—and not always in a good way. His eccentric behavior and strange humor made him a permanent fixture of the camp’s oddities. He’d wander around aimlessly, cracking jokes that didn’t always land, laughing too loudly at his own remarks, and regaling anyone who’d listen with dubious tales of his youth. At first, you found his antics bewildering—how could someone so seemingly lazy and nonsensical have a place in this camp? But there was a certain charm to his unpredictability, and, when you least expected it, he’d surprise you with a moment of genuine insight or a kind word.

One morning, you caught him reclining near the fire, hat tipped over his face as if he were sleeping, but as you passed by, he suddenly spoke up. “Y’know, all these serious folks around here could learn a thing or two from a little relaxation.”

You paused, unsure whether to engage. “Is that what you call it? Relaxation?”

He tipped his hat up and grinned at you, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I call it livin’, darlin’. You should try it sometime.”

It was hard to tell if he was being sincere or just trying to get under your skin, but the exchange left you shaking your head and smiling despite yourself. For all his flaws, there was something oddly endearing about Uncle, even if you’d never admit it to him.

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

By that afternoon, as you passed by the camp, Bill was sitting against a tree, polishing his rifle. His eyes followed you as you moved past him, the look in his gaze far from friendly.

“You know,” he drawled, spitting a stream of tobacco into the dirt, “shouldn’t be messin’ with things you don’t understand. That bucket’s too heavy for you. Might as well save yourself the trouble.”

You didn’t stop, keeping your steps steady, but the edge in his voice stung. “I manage just fine, thanks,” you muttered under your breath.

Bill let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Suit yourself. But you’re just gonna slow things down, making a mess of things. Women always do.”

You bit your tongue, but something about his smug tone made you want to throw the bucket over him.

But you didn't, maybe next time though.

When you were coming back from another lap you realized he’d silently shifted a pile of gear out of your way, as if to make your task easier without drawing attention to it.

Odd.

             ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

And then there was Molly. You had caught glimpses of her from Arthur's tent, finding you watched her a bit during your recovery. She carried herself with an air of sophistication that felt at odds with the rugged, chaotic life of this camp. Her laughter rang out across camp like bells, light and musical, though it was rare for her to direct it at anyone in particular. Molly had a certain charm—quick-witted and sharp-tongued when she wanted to be—that you had seen and heard from the conversations you overheard between her and Dutch or other camp members.

She often fussed over her appearance, brushing her hair or adjusting her dress, her movements delicate and deliberate. You caught yourself feeling a twinge of envy for the way she always seemed so put-together, no matter the circumstances. She carried herself with a confidence that stood out, always impeccably dressed despite the rough conditions, a reminder that she had a life outside all this—a life she seemed to miss terribly, or so you assumed.

Your interactions were few and brief, but she always seemed polite enough. When you had passed by one evening, she had looked up from where she was sewing, her hands deftly working a needle through fabric. “I don’t know how you keep up with all this running around,” she had remarked lightly, a faint smile on her lips. “I’d be half-dead after a single day.”

You’d simply shrugged, not sure what to make of her. She wasn’t unkind, but there was a distance in her words, as though she wasn’t entirely interested in getting to know you—or anyone else, for that matter.

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

Once you felt well enough to graduate from hauling buckets of half-filled water from the stream nearby, you decided it was time to take on more substantial chores. The camp had taken you in when you needed help, and you weren’t about to let anyone think you were a freeloader. Determined to prove yourself useful, you set your sights on helping Pearson in the makeshift camp kitchen. It seemed simple enough—a little slicing, stirring, maybe seasoning here and there. How hard could it be?

The trouble started almost immediately. Pearson, ever the gruff perfectionist, launched into a tirade about the “right” way to prepare vegetables before you even had a chance to get settled. You barely had time to roll up your sleeves before he shoved a knife and a pile of carrots in your direction, muttering about how “greenhorns can’t even hold a blade right.”

Still, you tried to follow his lead. You had steady hands, trained for far less domestic tasks, but Pearson’s constant grumbling and pacing turned the simple act of slicing carrots into a nerve-wracking ordeal.

“Too thick,” he barked, leaning over your shoulder. “You trying to choke everyone? This ain’t some fancy saloon stew!”

Flustered, you adjusted your grip, only for the knife to slip and nearly nick your finger. “I know how to handle a knife,” you snapped, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Pearson raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, returning to his stew pot with a shake of his head.

You were about to snap back that you were doing just fine when a shadow passed by the corner of your vision. You glanced up, and there was Arthur, strolling through camp with a freshly hunted buck draped effortlessly over his shoulder. He moved with the kind of confidence that drew attention, his boots crunching against the dirt as he approached. Sweat glistened on his brow, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular arms that flexed with each step. His shirt, damp with sweat, clung to his frame as he walked.

The sight of him momentarily knocked the focus right out of you. You didn’t even notice how still you’d gone until he stopped near the kitchen and set the deer down with an audible thud. He glanced your way, a teasing grin spreading across his face as he leaned on a nearby crate, watching the chaos unfold.

“Well, look at you,” he drawled, his voice warm and laced with amusement. “Right little kitchen hand, ain’t ya?”

His tone was lighthearted, but the way his eyes lingered made you feel like he was enjoying this a little too much. Heat crept up your neck, and you gripped the knife tighter, trying to regain your composure.

“You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help?” you shot back, trying to match his teasing tone, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you.

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “Don’t look at me. I don’t reckon Pearson’d trust me near his stewpot either.”

Distracted, you almost didn’t notice when the knife in your hand slipped, the blade grazing far too close to your fingers. Your breath hitched as you froze, your heart skipping a beat.

Pearson’s bark came immediately. “Dammit, woman! You tryin’ to maim yourself? I don’t got time to patch up fools!”

You flinched at the sharpness of his tone, frustration and embarrassment flaring up inside you. Arthur, still lounging against the crate, raised a brow and tilted his head as if deciding whether to intervene.

“Easy, Pearson,” he said finally, his voice calm but with a trace of humor. “Don’t reckon she’s lookin’ to take your job.”

Pearson grunted, clearly unimpressed, and stalked off to check the stewpot, leaving you and Arthur alone for a moment. You exhaled slowly, shaking your head as you set the knife down carefully.

“Not a word,” you muttered, glancing up at him.

Arthur held up his hands in mock surrender, the smirk still tugging at his lips. “Didn’t say nothin’. You’re doin’ fine, really. Could use a little less blood in the stew, though.”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. His teasing was maddening, sure, but there was something in his tone that made it clear he wasn’t really judging you.

“Not takin’ lip from you,” you shot back, tossing a piece of carrot his way.

He caught it easily, his grin widening. “Ain’t givin' any lip, woman,” he said, taking a bite and chewing casually, his eyes meeting yours.

You quickly looked away, cursing internally at the weight of his gaze. “Maybe next time I’ll let you handle the carrots,” you muttered under your breath, earning another chuckle from him.

As he turned to leave, his voice carried over his shoulder. “Just try not to take a finger off, alright? Camp’s got enough excitement without that.”

You huffed, brushing stray hair out of your face and muttering under your breath, “Impossible man.”

Still, as you looked down at the pile of half-sliced carrots, you realized you were smiling despite yourself.

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

After Pearson’s scolding, you tried to keep your frustration in check. He wasn’t wrong, of course, but the sting of his words lingered. You didn’t want to be seen as the camp’s walking disaster—not after everything they’d done for you. Maybe returning to your previous chore, like fetching water, would give you a chance to redeem yourself—or at least avoid further humiliation.

Huffing softly, you grabbed a pair of empty buckets from beside the wagon. Normally, you’d only take one, but your mood had you feeling determined, or maybe just stubborn. Two buckets would show everyone, including Pearson, that you were capable of pulling your weight.

The walk to the stream wasn’t far, but the sun was rising steady, and the buckets seemed to grow heavier with every step. You clenched your jaw against the dull ache that crept into your side—a lingering reminder that you weren’t entirely healed yet. Still, you pressed on, ignoring the discomfort as best you could. The soft trickle of the stream came into view, and you knelt down carefully, the cool water flowing over your hands as you filled each bucket to the brim.

When it came time to lift them, the real challenge began. The moment you stood, a sharp, searing pain lanced through your side, forcing a hiss from your lips. You paused, gripping the handles tightly and trying to steady yourself.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, shifting your grip and attempting to find a way to balance the weight.

“Need some help?”

The unexpected voice made you startle slightly. Turning, you found Jack standing a few feet away, watching you with wide, curious eyes. His small frame and bright expression seemed out of place in the rugged wilderness, but his presence was oddly comforting. You hadn’t even noticed him approach.

“Jack,” you said, forcing a smile despite the ache in your side. “What’re you doing all the way out here?”

He shrugged, kicking a pebble into the stream. “I was exploring. Mama says I shouldn’t go too far, but I wanted to see what you were doing.” He tilted his head, looking at the buckets. “You don’t look like you’re doing too good.”

You huffed a laugh, adjusting your grip on the handles. “I’ve got it under control. Just... a little heavy, that’s all.”

Jack stepped closer, peering at the buckets as if assessing the situation. “I can carry one,” he offered, puffing out his chest in an attempt to look more grown-up. “I’m strong, you know.”

The idea of Abigail’s son hauling water buckets was enough to make you shake your head. You could already imagine her reaction if she found out. “That’s sweet of you, Jack, but I think your mama might have my head if she saw you out here doing my work.”

Jack frowned but didn’t argue. Instead, he squatted down by the stream and picked up a smooth stone, rolling it between his fingers. “You don’t need do it all by yourself,” he said quietly, his tone thoughtful. “Uncle Arthur says it’s okay to ask for help.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. For a boy so young, Jack had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things. You crouched down beside him, wincing slightly as your side protested the movement.

“Mister Morgan said that, huh?” you asked, smiling faintly.

Jack nodded, his face serious. “Uh-huh. He says even strong people can’t do everything alone.”

His earnestness was enough to ease the tension you’d been carrying since leaving camp. You ruffled his hair gently, making him giggle. “Well, sounds like Mister Morga’s a smart man. Maybe I’ll take his advice.”

Standing slowly, you glanced at the buckets, then back at Jack. “Tell you what. How about you keep me company on the way back? That’ll help more than anything.”

Jack grinned, clearly pleased with the compromise. “Okay!”

As the two of you started back toward camp—Jack chattering about all the animals he wanted to see and you nodding along—you couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. The buckets were still heavy, and your side still ached, but somehow, it didn’t seem quite as bad.

Maybe you should tell Abigail Jack had wandered quite far from camp the next time you saw her. Maybe you should offer to keep an eye on him. You mulled it over in your mind as you carried the bucket toward Pearson’s wagon.

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

The next day, you decided to try something else.

Apparently, you were no good at washing clothes either. Armed with a washboard and a bucket of soapy water, you figured this was something even you couldn’t mess up. Leaning over the bucket, you scrubbed diligently, but your arms soon began to ache. Water splashed everywhere, soaking the ground beneath you, and suds clung stubbornly to your sleeves.

The final blow came when a shirt you were washing slipped from your hands, carried downstream by the current before you even realized it. You lunged after it, nearly toppling over into the water.

Nearby, Tilly and Mary-Beth sat folding laundry, their movements efficient and practiced. They exchanged amused glances before Mary-Beth’s soft laughter broke the silence.

“You’re more of a sharpshooter than a laundress, huh?” Tilly teased, though her tone was lighthearted.

You sat back on your heels, shaking your head with a rueful grin. “Guess I’m better at making messes than cleaning them.”

Mary-Beth smiled warmly, setting a freshly folded shirt on the pile beside her. “Don’t worry. You’ll find your place here. Everyone does.”

Before you could argue, they took over the washing, leaving you to sit back, damp and defeated. Still, you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself.

As you sat back, watching Tilly and Mary-Beth take over the task with effortless ease, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of inadequacy. The laundry wasn’t just clean; it was perfectly folded, stacked neatly like they’d been doing it their whole lives. You bit the inside of your cheek, glancing down at your damp sleeves and the soapy mess you’d left behind.

“Well, at least I’m good for entertainment,” you muttered under your breath, half to yourself, half to the women nearby.

Tilly glanced over with a chuckle, brushing her hands against her skirt. “Oh, don’t let it get to you. Everyone has their strengths.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice just a little. “You should’ve seen Karen the first time she tried baking bread. The gang had to convince her she hadn’t poisoned them.”

Mary-Beth giggled, adding, “Or the time Uncle decided to ‘help’ Pearson in the kitchen. We were picking burnt beans out of stew for a week.”

The stories pulled a reluctant laugh out of you. “So, what you’re saying is, I’m not the first disaster you’ve had around here?”

“Far from it,” Mary-Beth said with a grin, her voice full of warmth. “We’ve all had our moments. Even Arthur.”

That caught your attention. “Mister Morgan? What’d he do?”

Tilly smirked knowingly, setting another folded shirt in her lap. “Let’s just say he’s better off in the saddle than trying to mend anything. The man once stitched his own shirt to his pants without noticing.”

You barked out a laugh, the image of Arthur Morgan grumbling over a needle and thread too vivid not to enjoy. It was the first time in days that you’d felt anything close to normal.

Mary-Beth’s smile widened. “Oh, it’s true. He’s a damn good shot, but anything that requires actual patience—forget it.”

You shook your head, still chuckling. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at him the same way again.”

Tilly leaned back, tossing a completed stack of laundry onto a neat pile. “Trust me, he’d probably take it as a compliment.”

The three of you shared a quiet moment of laughter, the tension that had clung to you for days easing just a bit. Maybe you weren’t cut out for laundry, but at least you weren’t alone in your mess.

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

As the afternoon sun shifted, you found yourself wandering back into camp, searching for something else to do. You spotted Charles by the campfire, sharpening his knife with slow, deliberate movements. A neat pile of firewood sat at his feet, and for a moment, you hesitated.

You’d met Charles only briefly a couple of days prior when he introduced himself. It was a quiet moment, just after you’d started walking around camp instead of being confined to bed. You’d been easing your way along the edge of camp, careful not to disturb anyone, when he’d approached with that calm, steady presence of his.

“Charles Smith,” he’d said simply, offering a hand.

You’d taken it, noting the firm grip and the quiet sincerity in his dark eyes. “Nice to meet you,” you’d replied.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were resting,” he explained. “Figured you’d want to get your bearings first. But... if you need anything, just ask.”

That had been the end of it. No prying questions, no awkward small talk—just an offer of help, given freely. It had stuck with you, though. Something about Charles seemed grounded in a way you didn’t often see in this life.

Now, as you approached the campfire, you found yourself grateful for his earlier kindness.

“Need a hand with that?” you asked, gesturing to the firewood.

Charles looked up, his dark eyes assessing you for a moment before he nodded. “If you’re up for it. You’ll need to use the hatchet, though. Don’t think your aim’s good enough to split wood with a bullet.”

The teasing in his tone was subtle, but it was there, and you grinned. “Oh, you’d be surprised. But I’ll stick to the hatchet.”

He handed it over, stepping aside to give you space. You’d chopped wood plenty of times before, but after a few swings, it was clear your strength wasn’t what it used to be. The first log splintered awkwardly, and the second sent the hatchet bouncing off at an odd angle, nearly taking your fingers with it.

Charles reached out, steadying the log with one hand. “Here. Like this.” He positioned your grip on the hatchet and shifted your stance slightly. “Let the weight do the work. Don’t muscle it.”

You followed his advice, and this time, the blade sank cleanly through the wood, splitting it in two.

“There you go,” he said with a rare smile. “Not bad.”

For the next few minutes, the two of you worked side by side, the rhythm of chopping and stacking lulling you into a calm focus. Charles didn’t say much, but his quiet presence was comforting. It reminded you of the value in simply doing—finding purpose in the small, tangible things.

By the time the sun dipped lower, painting the camp in hues of gold and orange, you’d stacked enough firewood to keep the camp warm for days. Wiping the sweat from your brow, you leaned against the chopping block, catching your breath.

“Thanks for the help,” Charles said, his tone genuine. “Not everyone pitches in like this.”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Figured I’d make myself useful."

Charles nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, you did good. This’ll keep the camp going for a while. Just don’t push yourself too hard.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but the sound of approaching footsteps made you glance up. Arthur emerged from the tree line, his stride easy but purposeful. His hat was pulled low against the golden glow of the setting sun, casting a shadow over his expression, but there was something in his stance—tense, deliberate—that caught your attention.

“Charles,” Arthur greeted with a slight nod before his eyes flicked to you. “Didn’t know you were takin’ up lumberjackin’.”

His tone was casual enough, but there was an edge to it, like he was sizing up the scene. He leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, watching you and Charles with an unreadable expression.

You raised an eyebrow, wiping your hands on your pants. “Figured it was better than sittin’ around doing nothing.”

Arthur’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, his jaw tightening slightly before he gave a low chuckle. “Well, you look like you’ve been put through the wringer. Hope Charles here didn’t work you too hard.”

Charles, seemingly unbothered, shrugged as he finished stacking the last of the firewood. “She held her own. Better than some of the others around here.”

“Is that right?” Arthur drawled, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Didn’t think you were the type to take on apprentices, Charles.”

You frowned, glancing between the two men. “It’s just firewood, Arthur. No need to make it sound like I’m learning a trade.”

Arthur pushed off the tree, his expression softening as he looked at you. “Just sayin’. You’re still recoverin’. Don’t want you overdo—” He paused, his eyes catching on the faint smirk Charles was giving him, and his voice shifted. “—overestimatin’ yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mister Morgan.”

Charles chuckled under his breath, grabbing his knife and giving Arthur a nod. “She’s fine, Arthur. You don’t need to keep hovering.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened again, but he gave a faint grin, tipping his hat. “Ain’t hoverin’. Just lookin’ out, is all.”

The air felt heavier for a moment, the unspoken tension between them palpable, but Charles shrugged it off as he stepped away. “Well, I’m done here. Firewood’s all set. You two enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He gave you a brief smile, then walked back toward the campfire, leaving you and Arthur alone.

Arthur watched him go, his posture relaxing slightly as he turned back to you. “He’s a good fella, Charles. Quiet, but reliable.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Seems like it. Why? You worried about something?”

Arthur hesitated, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, he seemed to weigh his words. Finally, he shook his head, his voice softer now. “Nah. Just makin’ sure you’re settlin’ in alright.”

You didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on you, warm and steady in the fading light. For a man who could be so guarded, there was something honest about the way he looked at you now, like he was trying to figure you out but didn’t mind taking his time.

“I’m fine,” you said, your tone gentler. “Thanks for checking, though.”

Arthur gave a short nod, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Good. Let me know if you need somethin’. Don’t need you runnin’ off with Charles to split wood all the time.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, turning back toward camp, “you’ll get used to it.”

And as he walked away, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself, the faintest flicker of warmth settling in your chest.

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

The camp was still bustling with evening activity—chatter around the campfire, the clink of tin mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter. You let out a breath, thinking about Arthur’s words and the strange comfort they brought.

But that peace was short-lived. You turned toward the wagon where you’d been keeping some of your things, intent on finding something useful to occupy your hands. Before you could take more than a few steps, Susan Grimshaw appeared, her sharp gaze locking onto you like a hawk spotting prey.

“Well,” she started, hands on her hips, her tone already carrying an edge, “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable, but there’s plenty more that needs doing around here.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confrontation. “I wasn’t exactly sitting around—”

Susan cut you off with a curt wave of her hand. “I’m not interested in excuses. Everyone pulls their weight in this camp. If you’re fit enough to be choppin’ wood and chattin’ with Arthur, you’re fit enough to help Pearson with the supplies or other chores.”

Her words weren’t unfair, but they stung nonetheless. You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but something in Susan’s expression gave you pause.

“I get it,” you said, keeping your tone level. “I’ll help where I can.”

Susan’s brow arched, clearly not expecting your lack of resistance. “Good. Starting tomorrow, I’ll have a list for you. No more wandering about without purpose.”

You felt your jaw tighten, but you nodded. “Fine.”

She gave a curt nod and turned to walk away, leaving you standing there, frustration bubbling under the surface. You weren’t trying to shirk responsibility, but the constant need to prove yourself in a camp full of strangers was beginning to wear on you.

You took a moment to breathe, reminding yourself that this wasn’t about pleasing Susan or anyone else.

As you turned to head back toward your spot by the fire, you nearly ran into Abigail, who was carrying a bundle of laundry.

“She give you an earful?” Abigail asked, her tone more amused than sympathetic.

“Something like that,” you muttered.

“Don’t take it personal. Grimshaw’s like that with everyone, especially the women. She thinks it’s her job to keep us all in line.” Abigail adjusted the laundry in her arms, her expression softening. “But she means well... most of the time.”

You gave a small nod, not entirely convinced. “Guess I’ll have to get used to it.”

“You will,” Abigail said with a small smile. “Just don’t let her see you slackin’. She’s got eyes in the back of her head.”

The comment drew a faint laugh from you, easing some of the tension that had settled in your chest.

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

Emotionally, you felt drained after the past few days. Talking to so many people in such a short amount of time wasn’t something you were used to. You needed space, a moment to clear your head. After a brief pause near the campfire with Abigail and Jack, you quietly slipped away, heading toward Tater.

The horse stood with an air of quiet confidence, as if she knew she’d been spoiled and cared for. Her coat gleamed under the fading light, and her saddle looked as though someone had taken the time to polish away every scuff. Tater nuzzled against you, her soft breath warm on your hand as you gently stroked her neck.

"Hey girl," you whispered, a small smile tugging at your lips, "you got a secret admirer or something?"

Tater snorted softly, swaying slightly in contentment. You chuckled, leaning against her side as you ran your fingers through her mane. The quiet moment was soothing—just you and Tater, away from the chaos of being social.

You closed your eyes for a moment, the sound of the campfire and distant chatter fading into the background. It wasn’t often you took time like this to ground yourself, to reconnect with something that wasn’t people. It was just Tater and you.

You took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill your lungs as you leaned against the horse, feeling a quiet sense of peace.

But that tranquility didn’t last long.

From the edge of the clearing, you heard footsteps approaching. Your eyes opened, and before you knew it, Arthur appeared from the trees, his long stride steady and confident. His hat was low over his face, casting shadows across his brow, with a rifle over his shoulder.

"Taking a break, huh?" His voice was calm but held an edge of curiosity. He must be coming back from watch.

You straightened, adjusting your stance. “Thought I’d give myself a minute,” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “Figured Tater could use some attention... Someone been looking after her while I've been bedridden, I think.”

Arthur studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering on Tater before finally resting on you. “Yeah, she’s been lookin’ well. Seems someone’s been takin’ good care of her…”

You shrugged, your fingers still brushing Tater’s mane. “She’s a good horse. Didn’t see the harm in it.”

Arthur’s gaze shifted between you and the horse, his brow furrowing slightly. “Not the sort to stand around doin’ nothin’, huh?”

You glanced up at him, a faint smirk playing on your lips. “I wasn’t exactly sitting idle.”

Arthur tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer before letting out a soft chuckle. “No, I guess you weren’t.” His tone remained neutral, though there was a faint glint of something you couldn’t quite place in his eyes.

Arthur cleared his throat, shifting his weight as he adjusted his rifle on his shoulder. For a moment, he didn’t respond, and the silence between you stretched again. You studied him as he watched Tater, the faintest crease of thought on his brow.

“I reckon you don’t need to keep giving up your bed for me anymore, Mister Morgan,” you said, breaking the quiet. “I’m feeling well enough now.”

Arthur shifted his gaze from the horse to you, his brow furrowing just a bit. “Ain’t a matter of needin’ to. Just figured it made more sense, is all.”

You crossed your arms, tilting your head as you studied him. “Don’t seem like you got much sense when it comes to your own rest.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t look away. “I’ll manage.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “You’ve been sleeping on that log over there for days. Might be time to take your bed back.”

Arthur didn’t answer right away, his gaze flickering to the ground. The tension between you seemed to grow, heavy but not uncomfortable. His fingers tightened on the rifle as he shifted his weight again, posture a bit more rigid now.

“Maybe,” he finally said, his voice softer, more measured. “But if you need it, I’ll keep movin’ out of the way.”

You frowned, tilting your head, sensing the quiet resistance beneath his words. “I don’t need you to.”

“You sure about that?” His voice was quieter now, almost a murmur.

“Yeah,” you said, softly. “I’m sure.”

Arthur studied you a moment longer, his gaze lingering, as if trying to gauge if you were being honest. Then, slowly, he gave a small nod, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Alright, then.” He mumbled as he moved closer to you, his hand settling on Tater, as he pets the horse.

“You seem real insistent on gettin’ your way,” Arthur said, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. You don't miss the way his fingers brush against your hand as he pats Tater.

You smiled, stepping closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “Someone’s gotta keep you in check, Mister Morgan.”

Arthur tilted his head, his smirk growing. “Yeah? Might be you’ve got a knack for it.”

His eyes held yours, and in that quiet, shared space, there was a flicker of something deeper. You didn’t look away.

"Maybe."

Arthur’s smile lingered as he let his hand slide down Tater’s neck, fingers brushing against yours just a little longer. The tension between you hung in the air, thick and heavy but not unpleasant. He didn’t seem in any rush to break the quiet moment.

After a beat of silence, Arthur shifted his weight, clearing his throat softly. “You always this quiet, or am I just not sayin’ the right things?” His voice was low, teasing, but there was something more to it now—a hint of curiosity.

You took a breath, letting the smirk play on your lips deepen just a fraction. “Maybe you’re not asking the right questions, Mister Morgan.”

His eyes sharpened, narrowing just slightly as he studied you. “Is that right?” His voice dropped a notch, smooth and measured.

You shrugged, your gaze steady. “Might be.”

Arthur stood there a moment longer, his expression unreadable, as though he was trying to figure out whether to lean in or back off. But instead of moving away, he shifted a little closer, his presence enveloping the space between you like a slow, deliberate pull.

He wasn’t pressing, not yet, but the heat of his stare and the quiet understanding passed between you was impossible to ignore.

His hand grazed yours again as he shifted his rifle to his other shoulder, the touch barely there but enough to make the hairs on your arms stand. “You always this bold, or am I gonna have to drag it outta you?”

You smiled faintly, stepping a fraction closer, the distance between you shrinking. “Maybe it’s not about being bold,” Your voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, like the moment itself was fragile and precious.

Arthur exhaled, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “Maybe it ain’t.” His eyes searched yours for a moment longer before he let his hand drop from Tater neck, letting it settle nears yours.

For a second, neither of you said anything. The camp around you felt distant, the firelight casting long shadows across the clearing as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Maybe we’ll see,” he said finally, his tone low and contemplative. His gaze remained fixed on yours, steady, the faintest flicker of something softer behind his eyes.

You didn’t look away. “Maybe.”

Arthur stood there, his expression softening further as he let the quiet stretch between you. The weight of his gaze was intense but not uncomfortable. He adjusted his hat slightly, his fingers brushing the brim, before finally speaking again, his voice low.

“Call me Arthur,” he said, his tone steady. “No need for all that ‘Mister Morgan’ business.”

The sound of his first name on his lips sent a small shiver down your spine. You hesitated for a moment, letting the weight of what he’d said sink in. Arthur. Simple, quiet, familiar. Perosnal.

You met his gaze and offered a faint smile. “Alright… Arthur.”

His eyes flicked down to your lips for a split second before returning to yours, that smirk still there but softer now, more genuine.

“Just Arthur,” he repeated, more to himself than to you, before letting his eyes hold yours once again.

Arthur took a slow breath, his gaze still locked on yours, as though he was trying to say something more, something deeper, but the words hung unspoken. The weight of the moment stretched out, the quiet settling around you both. You could almost feel the space between you narrowing, as though he was leaning closer, even if just a little.

But then, just as the silence was beginning to feel unbearable, Tater gave a low nicker, her ears twitching as she turned her head. The soft nudge against your side broke the stillness, and you couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at the absurdity of the timing.

Arthur blinked, pulling his gaze away from yours, his smirk returning, albeit more subdued now. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “seems someone’s got a better idea of what’s important than we do.”

You shook your head, chuckling softly as you patted Tater. “Looks like she’s not one for quiet moments.”

Arthur sighed, adjusting his hat as he looked at the horse. “Guess not. Can’t seem to catch a break when you’re around, can I?” His tone was laced with humor, though it still carried a thread of seriousness.

You smiled, feeling the tension shift but not entirely dissipate. “Can’t help it if I’m good company.”

Arthur let out a low chuckle, the sound more genuine now. “You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, letting the quiet settle back into the space between you. Tater stood contentedly between you both, her presence grounding, as though reminding you that the world beyond this moment still existed.

But something lingered beneath the surface.

“Well,” Arthur said at last, his tone lighter. “I should get back. Don’t wanna leave the camp without a watch.”

You nodded, reluctant to break the connection, but understanding the need to pull away. “Yeah. Guess I’ll head back, too.”

Arthur tipped his hat, the corner of his mouth tugging into that faint smirk again. “See you around, darlin’.”

As he turned, his footsteps fading into the distance, you watched him go, a strange mixture of relief and longing settling in your chest.

Tater stood beside you, softly nuzzling your hand once more, as though sensing something had shifted. You let out a slow breath, brushing your fingers through her mane, lost in thought.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of whatever it was brewing between you and Arthur. But for now, all you could do was wait and see if the quiet tension would ever return.

You sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. “Awful timing, Tater.”

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

I really should be working on my assessments 📚, but I couldn’t resist writing another chapter now that the setting has reached camp 🏕️ and the gang 🤠. I hope you enjoyed this chapter !

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 12) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Start: Chapter 1 Previous: Chapter 11 Next: Chapter 13

Summary:

“Hard not to,” the words surprised even you with their honesty. You glanced away, feeling a slight heat rise to your cheeks, but not before catching the faint flicker of something—appreciation?—in his eyes. The moment felt heavier now, charged with the quiet certainty that you couldn’t ignore—your growing feelings for him were unmistakable. His gaze met yours again, something tender and understanding lingering in his expression.

Chapter 12: Between Laughter and Silence

     ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The soft crackle of the campfire was the first thing you heard as you made your way back from the horses to the main area of the camp. The sounds of camp life surrounded you: the low murmur of voices, the occasional clink of tin cups, and the distant strains of someone strumming a guitar.

You paused just outside the circle of firelight, letting the warmth of the scene wash over you. Dutch puffed on a cigar by his tent, Hosea chuckled softly at something he said, and Mary-Beth sat nearby, serene with her nose in a book. You lingered on the outskirts, hesitant to step into the calm.

“Hey there,” a soft voice greeted, breaking your thoughts. You turned to see Mary-Beth looking up from her book, her expression warm. “You’ve been keeping to yourself an awful lot this evening. Everything alright?”

You hesitated for a moment before stepping closer to the fire. “Yeah, just needed to check on my horse,” you replied, settling onto a log near her. “Figured Tater could use the company.”

“Is that so?” Mary-Beth’s eyes twinkled knowingly. “Arthur’s been spending a lot of time around you lately. You two seem to be getting along.”

Her teasing tone made you glance away, your cheeks warming. “He’s… been very helpful. That’s all.”

“Oh, sure,” Mary-Beth said with a sly grin. “Helpful. That’s one way to put it.”

Before you could respond, a loud laugh drew your attention to the other side of the camp. Javier was strumming his guitar, and Karen was dancing around the fire, bottle in hand, trying to pull Tilly into her impromptu performance. Tilly, to her credit, resisted with a half-smile, shaking her head as Karen twirled away.

“It’s nice to see people in such good spirits,” you said softly, watching the scene unfold.

Mary-Beth nodded. “Moments like these are rare nowadays. You’ve gotta hold onto them while they last.” Her voice had a wistful edge, and you wondered how many of these moments she’d seen come and go.

Your gaze drifted to Arthur’s tent, empty save for his scattered belongings. He wasn’t far—you could feel it. That quiet, steady presence lingered, even when he wasn’t in sight.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Mary-Beth’s voice was gentle, almost conspiratorial.

You opened your mouth to deny it but stopped yourself. What was the point? Mary-Beth was far too perceptive. “Maybe,” you admitted quietly.

She smiled, closing her book and leaning forward slightly. “Arthur’s a good man, you know. Stubborn as a mule and rough around the edges, but he’s got a good heart. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said, your voice soft.

Mary-Beth’s smile widened. “Good. He’s noticed you too, in case you hadn’t realized.”

Before you could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air, drawing everyone’s attention. “C’mon, people!” Dutch called, rising from his chair with an air of authority. “Time to set plans for tomorrow. Gather ‘round, time to put in the work to figure out how we’re going to get Sean back.”

The men began to drift closer to the fire, conversations quieting as they took their places. Arthur appeared from the outskirts of camp, rifle still slung over his shoulder, and took a seat near the edge of the circle. His eyes met yours briefly, and he gave you a small nod before turning his attention to Dutch.

The fire’s warmth washed over you, and the gang’s voices rose in steady rhythm as Dutch laid out his plans. But your thoughts wandered to Arthur—the rare, fleeting smiles, that unspoken meaning behind his eyes, and the way his presence seemed to anchor the camp, even in silence. Mary-Beth’s words lingered like the warmth of the fire: He’s noticed you too.

You spent most of the time talking to Mary-Beth, Karen, Tilly, and Abigail, who cradled little Jack on her lap—all of whom had drifted over since Dutch’s call for planning. Karen, ever the spirited one, tried to draw you into one of her tales about a saloon brawl she'd caused in a town you weren’t familiar with, complete with dramatic hand gestures and exaggerated expressions. Tilly laughed along, occasionally interjecting with her own sharp commentary, while Abigail kept Jack entertained with a wooden toy, her maternal warmth a stark contrast to the roughness of camp life. It was a comforting scene, the kind that made you feel a little more connected to the group, even if you still felt like an outsider at times.

Yet, your eyes kept drifting toward Arthur. He was still sitting across the way with the men, huddled around a map or whatever it was that Dutch and Hosea were discussing. Every now and then, his gaze swept over the camp, but when his eyes settled on you, the air seemed to shift—subtle but impossible to ignore. Each time, it was like a spark igniting a quiet fire in your chest.

It was only a few days ago you would have called him a friend, someone you kept meeting on occasion that you just clicked with. But now, with how things had been processing, you would be stupid not to admit what you were feeling. You liked this man.

As if sensing your attention, Arthur’s eyes flicked toward you again, and this time, he didn’t look away as quickly. His gaze lingered, steady and thoughtful, before one corner of his mouth quirked into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. The subtlety of it made it feel like it was just for you, a shared secret in the midst of the bustling camp.

You tried to focus on the conversation around you, nodding as Karen launched into another wild story about her antics. But even as the others laughed, your eyes were drawn back to Arthur. The way the firelight caught his features, the quiet intensity in his expression—it was impossible not to notice. And the more you tried not to, the more your gaze drifted back.

When Dutch’s voice rose above the chatter, calling for the attention of the men around him, Arthur finally broke the connection of eye contact, leaning forward to listen. But even as he did, his body angled ever so slightly in your direction, as though some invisible thread still linked the two of you. You looked away quickly, your pulse quickening, and focused instead on Tilly’s teasing grin, realizing you’d been caught staring.

“See something you like?” she whispered, her voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, but you only shrugged, trying to play it off. “Oh, just thinking is all,” you muttered.

“Mm-hmm,” Tilly said, her knowing smile widening as she turned back to the fire.

Arthur, oblivious to the exchange—or at least pretending to be—shifted his weight, his movements slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed against the brim of his hat as he tipped it slightly. You caught a fleeting glimpse of what might have been a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as though he were in on some joke you weren’t yet privy to.

Arthur's gaze flicked toward you once more, and this time, when your eyes met, he mouthed something. You weren’t entirely sure, but it looked like, "You alright?" His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, a subtle punctuation to his silent question. You hadn’t even realized the way your brows had furrowed in response to Tilly’s knowing teasing.

You bit back a smile, your lips curving up as you mouthed back, "Fine. You?"

His response came with a slight tilt of his head and a smirk that you could only describe as playful. "Better now," he mouthed, his hand idly adjusting his hat as if to cover the faintest of grins.

Oh, this man.

A laugh threatened to escape, but you quickly pressed your lips together, glancing away before anyone could catch the silent exchange. Karen, however, was far too observant for her own good. “You look like a cat that just caught itself a canary.”

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. “What? Oh—nothing,” you stammered, shaking your head. You hadn’t even realized your smile had lingered, your mind still half-lost in the quiet exchange with Arthur.

Karen tilted her head, a knowing look crossing her face as you rubbed your eyes, trying to cover your embarrassment. “Guess I’m just tired,” you mumbled, sinking a little further into your seat.

“Well, that’d explain it,” Karen said with a wink, leaning back into the group’s laughter.

“If you’re tired, you should come sleep by us,” Mary-Beth offered kindly. “We’ve got space by our mats. It’ll be warmer there with us.”

Even as you nodded at Mary-Beth’s offer, promising yourself some rest, your thoughts stayed with Arthur, lingering like the warmth of the fire.

Tilly nodded in agreement, her smile warm. “You shouldn’t be out on your own tonight.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering toward Arthur. His eyes caught yours briefly before he turned back to the conversation, his attention shifting as Dutch’s voice rose again. Taking a deep breath, you nodded and stood. “Alright,” you said softly, “thanks.”

As the others began packing up for the night, you followed Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly toward their shared space. Even as you settled into your bedroll, the quiet weight of Arthur’s gaze stayed with you—familiar, almost comforting in its presence.

It wasn’t something you could ignore anymore, the way he looked at you, that quiet understanding between you both. Every moment spent around him felt easy like you didn’t have to pretend or guard yourself. The connection was there, something undeniable and steady beneath the surface.

You pushed the thoughts away for a moment, focusing on the sounds of the camp settling in around you—the crackling fire, the whispers of the others. But deep down, you couldn’t deny how much he still lingered in your mind.

It was a quiet certainty that had started to grow, simple and real, and you weren’t quite sure how to handle it. Not yet, that is.

              ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The morning arrived slowly, the pale light of dawn filtering through the trees and casting long shadows across the camp. You woke with a dull ache in your side, the reminder of your injury settling in. For a moment, you lay still, listening to the soft sounds of the camp coming to life: the rustling of tents being opened, the distant nickering of horses, and the low murmur of voices exchanging quiet greetings.

With a cautious stretch, you sat up, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at your side. Mary-Beth stirred beside you, offering a sleepy smile as she shifted.

“Morning,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

You replied softly, pulling on your boots and rising slowly, working out the stiffness that had settled in your muscles. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of coffee brewing somewhere near the fire. You made your way toward it, pausing to greet a few early risers as you passed.

The warmth of the fire was a welcome contrast to the chill lingering in the air. You grabbed a tin cup and approached the Moka pot bubbling quietly by the campfire. After pouring the dark, rich coffee, you brought it to your lips and took a careful sip. The bitter warmth spread through you, grounding you in the quiet of the morning.

The sharp taste of the coffee steadied you as the camp’s gentle hum began to grow—the sounds of stirring voices, clinking pots, and the quiet rustle of life returning to the camp. Around you, the familiar rhythm of the morning routine settled in, a comforting backdrop to the day ahead.

You felt the presence before you saw him, the faint scuff of boots on dirt and the quiet weight of someone’s gaze settling on you. Turning slightly, you found Arthur standing a few paces away, his hat tipped low over his eyes and his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Mornin’,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying a warmth that seemed to match the fire.

“Morning,” you replied, your lips curving into a faint smile. “You usually up this early?”

He shrugged, stepping closer and helping himself to a cup of coffee. “Figured I’d get a head start. Got a lot to do today.”

You nodded, taking another sip of your coffee. “From all that planning that was happening last night?”

“Mm, yeah, for that,” Arthur said with a wry smile, his eyes meeting yours over the rim of his cup. There was a brief silence—comfortable, not awkward—one that didn’t need to be filled.

“You sleep alright?” he asked after a moment, his gaze dipping briefly to the bandage peeking out from under your shirt.

“Better than I expected,” you admitted. “Mary-Beth and the others were kind enough to offer me a spot by them.”

Arthur’s mouth quirked into a faint smile. “Good. Can’t have you sleepin’ out in the cold, not in your condition.”

“I’m tougher than I look, you know,” you said, a teasing edge creeping into your tone.

“Oh, I know,” Arthur replied, his eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. “Still, don’t mean you gotta prove it every chance you get, darlin'.”

You laughed softly, the sound drawing a few curious glances from others nearby. “Fair enough,” you said, shaking your head. “And what about you? Did you sleep at all, or?”

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I got some shut-eye. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“Hard not to,” the words surprised even you with their honesty. You glanced away, feeling a slight heat rise to your cheeks, but not before catching the faint flicker of something—appreciation?—in his eyes. The moment felt heavier now, charged with the quiet certainty that you couldn’t ignore—your growing feelings for him were unmistakable. His gaze met yours again, something tender and understanding lingering in his expression.

“Better finish that coffee,” he said finally, his voice softer now. “Gonna be a long day.”

You nodded, looking away as the heat rose to your cheeks. “Right. Long day.”

Arthur lingered a moment longer before tipping his hat slightly and turning to go. As he walked away, you couldn’t help but watch him—the way he moved, steady and quiet, that familiar strength that always seemed to pull your attention. There was something about him that made it hard to look away, even as the camp bustled around you. A quiet sense of belonging began to take root, tentative but undeniable.

As you stirred from your thoughts, the distant shuffle of footsteps pulled you back to the present. Susan’s brisk voice called out from a short distance, calling your name. “Come on now. We got work to do. Quit standing around drinkin’ that coffee like it’s gonna do all the heavy liftin’ for you.”

You set your cup down reluctantly, glancing back toward the fire one last time, but Arthur was already gone. The moment you’d shared felt like it had slipped into the folds of the morning, carried off with the quiet rustle of leaves and the distant hum of camp life.

A knowing smile played on Susan’s lips before she turned, motioning for you to follow her. “Come on, Missy. We got chores to finish before the day really kicks in.”

You gave a slow nod and followed her toward the cluster of tents where the camp was already buzzing with activity.

            ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

As the sun started to set over the camp, the silence stretched on, broken only by the occasional murmur of voices, the scrape of a pot being cleaned, or the soft whinny of a horse in the distance. The men had been gone for what felt like ages—Javier, Charles, and Arthur—and each passing hour felt heavier than the last. The weight of their absence pressed against you like a slow, relentless tide.

It wasn’t until much later, when the first signs of life returned, that the quiet tension began to crack.

The sound of hooves broke through the stillness—distant but unmistakable. The familiar shuffle of horses louder, and soon enough, two figures rode into view. The man sitting behind Javier on the saddle was unfamiliar to you, his wild red locks tangled in a mess atop his head.

Sean, you realized, had to be the one riding behind Javier.

He was loud—brash, even—but there was an undeniable charm about him. His Irish accent carried easily, louder than necessary, a grin plastered across his face. “By Christ, you’d think I’ve been gone for years, not just a handful of days!” he called out, his voice cutting through the quiet like a crack of lightning.

He dismounted awkwardly, stumbling just slightly, though it didn’t dampen his swagger. That grin never left his face. “Well, what in the name of Saint Peter’s beard is all this somber nonsense? Figured you all missed me somethin’ fierce. Hell, you must’ve been lost without my charm!”

Javier dismounted beside him, far more composed but sharp-eyed as he scanned the camp. Sean, however, barreled on with his lively energy, filling the air and drawing every eye toward him as if the world revolved around his arrival.

“You’ll be tellin’ me what kind of camp this is when a fella returns home, and nobody’s cheerin’. It’s a fine welcome, let me tell ya!” Sean clapped a few of the gang members on the back, his grin somehow growing even wider. “Didn’t think I’d see any familiar faces, but here you are, all standing around like ghosts.”

It started small—a chuckle here, a smirk there—but soon, even the more stoic members of the gang were fighting off smiles. Sean had that effect: loud, reckless, and impossible to ignore. His voice brimmed with life, drawing the tension of the day away like water down a stream.

“Y'all lucky to have me, that’s for damn sure,” he went on, brushing some dust from his coat with exaggerated flair. “But enough of all that. What’s the story here, huh? Who’s got the whiskey?” His eyes gleamed as they landed on the fire, where bottles were already being passed around. Whatever heaviness had hung in the air earlier was fading, melting into the warmth of the gathering.

Someone handed him a bottle, and with a boisterous laugh, Sean tipped it back like a man who had conquered the world. The camp came alive, his voice rising above the murmurs and crackling flames. Sean’s infectious energy sparked something among the group, the sound of laughter and conversation growing louder with each passing moment.

“Wait now—who’s this one?” Sean’s gaze landed on you, sharp and curious, the grin on his face practically daring you to respond.

You blinked, momentarily lost for words, your lips parting but no sound following, caught off guard by his sudden attention. “Oh, hello,” you replied, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Sean’s grin widened, his hands spreading theatrically. “A quiet one! Saints preserve us, that won’t do. A face like that and no words to go with it? You’re breakin’ my heart already!”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, his charm and sheer audacity too much to resist. “Guess I didn’t realize I’d have to audition to stay here.”

“Oh, you’ve got wit!” Sean crowed, pointing at you like you’d just won a prize. “We’ll get on fine, you and me. Stick with me, lass, and you’ll be tellin’ stories better than Pearson’s stew is rotten—which, for the record, is a low bar.”

You shook your head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. Sean’s larger-than-life personality was impossible to ignore, and the camp seemed to buzz with his return.

Before you could respond, Dutch’s booming voice rang out from nearby. “Sean!” His self-righteous tone cut through the laughter, every word dripping with importance. “Welcome back, boy! welcome back indeed! Oh! A sight for sore eyes, as always.”

Sean turned toward Dutch, his grin never wavering. “Well, now, Dutch. You’ve got the welcome of a man who missed me more than he’s willing to admit!”

Dutch stepped forward, puffing up his chest with exaggerated pride. “Indeed, indeed. The camp thrives with your return, Sean. Your… unique presence always reminds us of what matters most—loyalty, camaraderie, and, of course, a bit of spirit to liven things up.” His gaze flicked around the camp, his tone taking on a rehearsed grandiosity. “You, more than anyone, know what it takes to keep us all moving forward.”

Sean’s grin never faltered. “Well, when you put it like that, Dutch. With me getting my fair share of whiskey, and we’ll all keep ‘moving forward’!”

With that, Sean clapped Dutch on the back and strode toward the fire, his energy contagious once again. The camp, which had started to feel subdued, now buzzed with renewed life, the weight of the day finally lifting.

As the celebration Dutch had declared roared on, you watched Sean weave his way through the group like a spark lighting every corner of the camp. For all his loudness, for all his recklessness, there was something undeniably magnetic about him—a force of nature that couldn’t be contained, and for the moment, no one wanted to stop it.

The camp quickly transformed into what could only be called a celebration. Sean’s infectious energy set the tone, his voice rising above the murmur of conversation as more bottles of whiskey appeared and laughter filled the night. The tension that had lingered all day seemed to dissolve, replaced with a sense of relief and camaraderie.

You found yourself standing on the edge of it all at first, watching as the gang gathered closer to the fire, the warmth of both the flames and the company drawing them in. Sean held court at the center, gesturing wildly as he recounted some exaggerated tale about his escape, his grin splitting his face.

“And there I was,” he declared, his arms spread wide as if conjuring the scene, “face-to-face with their ugliest bastard, and I says to him, ‘Sean MacGuire ain’t gonna be taken down by the likes of you!’”

Someone handed him another bottle, and he took a long swig to punctuate his story, earning laughter from the group.

Your gaze drifted though, searching for someone else. Arthur had been with them—he’d gone out to bring Sean back—but you hadn’t seen him since their return. For a moment, you wondered where he’d slipped off to, the question tugging at the edge of your thoughts.

Before you could linger on it, a drink was thrust into your hand, startling you slightly. “Here now, none of that standin’ around lookin’ lost,” Sean declared, grinning as if he’d been watching you the whole time. “If you’re in this camp, you’re part of the lot, like it or not!”

You hesitated, glancing at the bottle in your hand before taking a tentative sip. The whiskey burned on its way down, but the warmth that followed was oddly comforting.

“Atta girl!” Sean cheered, clapping you on the back with a force that nearly made you spill the drink. “Now, let me tell ya, you’re in for a real treat tonight. Ain’t nothin’ like a MacGuire celebration!”

Before you could protest or slip back into the shadows, someone else pulled you into a conversation. Then another. And another. It was as if the camp had decided all at once that you belonged, weaving you into their stories and laughter without hesitation.

Karen leaned in, her eyes bright with amusement. “Don’t let Sean talk your ear off too much. He’s got a habit of exaggeratin’ worse than a traveling preacher.”

“Oh, come now!” Sean shot back from across the fire, somehow hearing her over the din. “If it weren’t for me, you’d all be sittin’ here bored out of your skulls!”

Laughter erupted again, and you couldn’t help but smile, the companionship pulling you in like a tide.

The laughter and noise of the camp surrounded you like a warm blanket, each cheer and burst of chatter pulling you further into the fold. Yet, even as you found yourself swept up in the celebration, a small part of your mind remained detached, wandering.

Just as you were about to let the thought of Arthur’s whereabouts fade, movement at the edge of camp caught your eye. A familiar silhouette emerged from the shadows—the unmistakable figure of him on horseback, even from a distance. Arthur’s horse came into view first, the large animal plodding wearily as Arthur led it toward the hitching post. His broad shoulders and well-worn hat stood out against the dim light, and you straightened instinctively, your focus narrowing.

He hitched his horse with the practiced ease of someone well-accustomed to the task, his hands moving smoothly. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to the distant hum of the celebration. For a moment, he stood there, resting a hand on the horse’s neck as though gathering himself.

Then he moved, his steps purposeful as he made his way toward Dutch’s tent. The gang’s leader was already waiting, standing just outside the canvas shelter with his arms crossed and a cigar in hand. Dutch’s posture was relaxed, his usual theatrical airs subdued by what seemed to be genuine good spirits.

You couldn’t hear their conversation over the noise of the camp, but the way Dutch clapped Arthur on the shoulder spoke volumes. They were discussing Sean’s return, no doubt. Dutch’s grin was wide, his expression carrying the kind of satisfaction that rarely touched his features so honestly. Arthur, by contrast, appeared more composed, his responses quiet and measured, marked by subtle nods and the occasional gesture.

You found yourself watching them longer than you intended, the rest of the camp’s revelry fading into the background. Arthur held your attention like nothing else once again. Even as Dutch’s voice rose in brief laughter, you couldn’t pull your gaze away from the way Arthur remained steady, grounded.

It wasn’t until someone bumped into you, jostling your drink slightly, that you snapped back to the present. Karen gave you a knowing look, a sly smile playing at her lips.

“Watchin’ 'Mister Morgan', are we?” she teased, her voice low enough that only you could hear. The playful jab at the title you used to call Arthur sent a flicker of heat to your cheeks.

You quickly looked away. “Just... thinkin’,” you replied, though your tone betrayed your attempt at nonchalance.

Karen laughed softly, taking a sip from her own drink. “Sure, sure. Well, don’t let him keep you from enjoyin’ yourself. Arthur’s got a way of makin’ himself scarce when it suits him. Don’t mean you gotta do the same.” She left you with that, disappearing into the swirl of laughter and music near the fire. You glanced back toward Dutch’s tent, but Arthur had already moved on, his figure disappearing into the deeper shadows of the camp.

The night grew livelier as bottles were passed around and the laughter became bolder. Sean, of course, was in his element, soaking up the attention like a sponge. You found yourself leaning against a stack of crates, nursing the whiskey in your hand and watching as the Irishman clambered onto an overturned box near the fire.

“Right, you lot!” Sean hollered, throwing his arms wide to command the crowd. The firelight danced across his face, his grin as wide as ever. “I think it’s about time we had a proper toast, eh? A toast to me, the fearless and ever-handsome Sean MacGuire, back in the bosom of his dear family!”

The camp erupted into a mix of cheers, laughter, and the occasional groan of complaint. Karen hollered loudly from her seat at one of the rounded tables, her whiskey sloshing dangerously in her bottle. Uncle let out a hearty laugh beside her, while Javier leaned back, his guitar resting comfortably on his lap, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Sean raised his bottle high, his voice booming over the crackling fire. “Now, I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’, ‘Sean, what did we ever do to deserve a man like you?’ And to that, I say... not a damn thing!”

More laughter rippled through the camp, and Sean soaked it in, his chest puffed out with exaggerated pride. “But don’t worry, my friends. You don’t need to say it. I know you’re glad to have me back.”

His voice still loud and the grin never left his face. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for some of you.” He paused, before continuing with a hearty laugh. “So, here’s to all of you, my family. The ones who pull you outta the fire when the world wants to see you burn.”

The gang raised their drinks once more, cheering in unison. Sean took a long swig from his bottle, then hopped off the box with a flourish, bowing theatrically as he returned to the table where Karen, Uncle, and Javier sat.

“Well said, Sean,” Karen teased, raising her glass as he plopped down beside her. “Even if half of it was nonsense."

”Half?” Sean repeated, feigning offense. “Karen, love, I’m hurt. Deeply, truly wounded.”

“Don’t worry, Sean,” Uncle chimed in, his voice raspy from age and drink. “We’ll let your ego nurse the wound.”

The group burst into laughter, and Sean leaned back with a broad grin. “Ah, Uncle, you ol’ bastard. You’re lucky I’m feelin’ generous tonight.”

Javier began strumming his guitar, the gentle melody drifting through the camp as the energy shifted slightly. Karen tapped the table rhythmically, her voice breaking into a familiar tune.

“Come all you young maidens, take warnin' from me,” she sang, her voice light and teasing. “Never trust a cowboy an inch above your knee!”

The others joined in, their voices blending into a raucous harmony. Sean’s tenor carried strongly, his Irish lilt giving the song a unique flair.

“And it’s Louisville Maid, I’m a-comin' to see,” they sang together, the camp now alive with laughter and energy. “With my rope and my saddle, I’ll come and set you free!”

Even Uncle joined in, though his voice wavered off-key, drawing playful jeers and laughs from the others. You watched from your spot, caught between the urge to join them and the comfort of observing. 

As the song reached its final verse, Sean threw an arm around Karen’s shoulder, swaying dramatically to the rhythm. “A toast to Louisville Maid and the fine folks of this camp!” he declared, raising his bottle once more.

The laughter and clinking of bottles faded, but another sound began to drift through the camp—softer, smoother. Dutch had set up the gramophone near his tent, the crackling melody of Du Du Liegst Mir Im Herzen filling the night air. The tune, romantic and melancholic, cast a gentle, enchanting spell over the camp, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy that had preceded it.

Dutch stood with a flourish, his usual commanding presence softened by a rare touch of tenderness as he extended his hand to Molly. “May I have this dance, my dear?” he asked, his voice smooth and full of his usual dramatic flair, drawing smiles from those nearby.

Molly, ever the willing recipient of his charm, placed her hand in his with a laugh. “Of course, Dutch.”

The two began to sway gently to the music, Dutch’s movements surprisingly graceful as he guided Molly with practiced ease. The rest of the camp fell still in motion around them, the lively energy from Sean’s antics giving way to the more intimate rhythm of the night.

"Look at me, with the bell of the ball," you could faintly hear Dutch say to Molly from where you had perched yourself.

“Oh, stop it, you,” Molly laughed, her voice light with joyful fluster.

You watched them from your place by the crates, the sight stirring something bittersweet within you. It was a fleeting moment of beauty, made all the more poignant by its rarity.

Across the fire, Mary-Beth sat with a wistful smile on her face, her hands folded in her lap. Her gaze drifted from Dutch and Molly to you, and a playful gleam sparkled in her eyes. She stood gracefully, brushing her skirt, and made her way over to where Arthur sat on a nearby log, leaning back with his hat tipped low.

“Arthur,” Mary-Beth said sweetly, her tone laced with just enough charm to make him lift his head. “You’ve been sittin’ there like a lump all evening. Come dance with me.”

Arthur gave her a sidelong glance, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t reckon I’m much for dancin’, Mary-Beth.”

She didn’t let him off so easily. “Nonsense.”

With a resigned sigh, Arthur rose, the smirk softening into something gentler as he offered her his hand. Mary-Beth beamed and led him to the open space where Dutch and Molly were still swaying.

Their dance was unpolished but earnest, Mary-Beth laughing softly whenever Arthur’s boots scuffed against hers. The sight drew a smile to your face, though you quickly looked away, the warmth in his expression as he indulged Mary-Beth’s request stirring something unexpected in your chest. The sensation was fleeting yet intense, leaving a quiet ache that you hadn’t noticed until now. Your fingers fidgeted against the fabric of your sleeve, a nervous habit that only seemed to grow stronger as the moment lingered.

Before long, Mary-Beth caught sight of you standing off to the side. Her eyes lit up with a sudden spark of mischief, and she whispered something to Arthur. He blinked, glancing your way, and for a brief moment, a flicker of something like apprehension crossed his face. He nodded, though, and before you could make sense of what was happening, Mary-Beth was striding toward you.

“Your turn,” she said brightly, holding out her hand to you.

“What?” you asked, startled.

“You should dance with Arthur,” she said, her grin practically glowing with mischief. “He’s better than he lets on. Besides, you’ve been standing here like a statue all night.”

“Mary-Beth, I don’t—” But before you could finish the protest, she took your hand with surprising determination and gently tugged you forward. The next thing you knew, you were standing in front of Arthur, his tall frame and steady presence making your nerves buzz in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Arthur’s hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his usual calm demeanor just slightly cracked by a hint of uncertainty. “You don’t have to,” he said softly, his voice lower than before, almost hesitant. “If you’d rather not.”

You hesitated, the weight of his gaze holding you in place. Something about the way he looked at you—steady but uncertain, like he was waiting for a cue—made it hard to step away. Finally, you shook your head lightly, offering a small, nervous smile. “I don’t mind,” you murmured, though your voice wavered just enough to betray your own nerves.

He held out his hand, and you took it, his grip firm but careful. As the gramophone’s melody continued, Arthur placed his other hand lightly on your waist, and the two of you began to move. His touch was warm, grounding, but the closeness brought a flutter of self-consciousness that you tried to push aside.

“You don’t seem the type for dancin’,” you said quietly, attempting to inject a bit of levity.

Arthur’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, his confidence returning just enough to match your tone. “And you seem the type to avoid it altogether,” he shot back, his voice low and amused.

You huffed a soft laugh, your smile growing despite yourself. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

The rest of the camp seemed to blur, the background noise of laughter and conversation fading as you focused on the feel of his hand in yours, the quiet strength he carried so naturally. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable; it was steady, like him. But beneath it all, there was a tension, the kind that made every brush of his fingers and every shift in your step feel significant.

“Not so bad, huh?” Arthur murmured after a while, his smirk softening into something gentler.

“No,” you replied, finding a small smile of your own. “Not bad at all.”

Arthur’s smirk deepened just slightly, his blue eyes catching the light of the fire in a way that made your stomach flip. “Y’know,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were enjoyin’ yourself.”

You raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with as much steadiness as you could muster. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were too.”

He let out a soft laugh, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Guess we’re both full of surprises tonight.”

The gramophone’s melody swelled, the romantic tune seeming to echo the unspoken words hanging in the air between you. Arthur’s hand on your waist shifted slightly, his grip steady but almost imperceptibly closer. You couldn’t help but notice the way he looked at you—not in the fleeting, casual way most people did, but like he was studying you, seeing something he hadn’t expected to find.

“Didn’t peg you for someone who’d be any good at this,” you said, breaking the silence with a teasing lilt in your voice. “Figured you’d be all left feet.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, his lips quirking again. “You wound me,” he replied, mock offense coloring his tone. “I ain’t that hopeless.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you shot back, though your grin gave away your playfulness. “I’ve seen you trip over a tree root just walkin’ through camp.” The memory brought a small smile to your lips.

“That root came outta nowhere,” he said defensively, though the laughter in his eyes betrayed him. “And here I was thinkin’ you were enjoyin’ my company. Turns out you’re just here to roast me.”

“Multitasking,” you said, your grin widening.

Arthur chuckled again, shaking his head as if to concede the point. Every step, every slight adjustment of his hand, felt like it carried more meaning than it should have. You were acutely aware of the heat of his palm on your waist, the way his fingers brushed yours as you moved together.

“You’re not bad at this either,” Arthur said after a moment, his tone quieter now, more thoughtful. “Reckon you’ve done this before.”

“Not really,” you admitted, your voice softening. “Never had much reason to.”

Arthur tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “No dancin’ halls in your neck of the woods?”

You shook your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Not unless you count a saloon with busted floorboards and folks too drunk to stay upright. Didn’t seem worth the trouble.”

Arthur chuckled, the deep timbre of his laugh warming the space between you. “Guess that makes two of us.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “You? I figured you’d have at least one wild story about sweepin’ some poor girl off her feet.”

“Maybe once or twice,” he admitted, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But most folks who’ve got sense steer clear of men like me. Can’t say I blame ‘em.”

There was something in the way he said it—quiet and matter-of-fact, but tinged with an edge of self-awareness that made your chest ache. You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing his as you moved. “You’re not as bad as you think,” you said softly, your gaze flicking up to meet his. “Or as bad as you let on.”

Arthur’s smirk faltered, his expression shifting as though your words had caught him off guard. “You don’t know me that well,” he said, his voice dropping lower, tinged with caution.

“Maybe not,” you replied, your tone quiet but steady. “But I’ve seen enough to know there’s more to you than just the bad—y’know, when you’re not busy robbing me.” The last part slipped out as a whisper, a teasing jab you couldn’t quite resist.

His gaze held yours, searching, as if trying to decide whether to be amused or take you seriously. The firelight flickered between you, softening the hard edges of his face and casting dancing shadows across his features.

“Not many people look past the rough edges,” he said at last, his voice barely more than a murmur.

“Maybe not many people bother,” you countered, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. “Guess I’m not like most folks. Seems I don’t mind your company.”

Arthur’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, his thumb brushing against your hand—so subtle it might’ve been accidental. Still, the warmth of it sent an unbidden shiver through you.

“You really ain’t,” he said quietly, almost as though talking to himself.

You glanced down, avoiding the weight of his gaze. A quiet vulnerability crept into your voice. “I’m not usually one for... this kind of thing,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Crowds, noise, all the... social stuff. Never really felt like I belonged.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly, his gaze calm and observant, as if considering what you’d said. “Why’s that?” His tone was soft, careful not to push too much.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening ever so slightly against his before you caught yourself. “I guess I’ve just always felt out of place,” you admitted quietly. “People tend to look at me and... well, it’s easier not to try.”

Arthur didn’t answer right away, but the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. His hand, resting on your waist, gave a faint squeeze—steady, grounding. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with keepin’ to yourself,” he said after a moment, his voice calm. “But you fit in here, whether you realize it or not.”

Your gaze flicked back to his, surprised by the quiet certainty in his expression. “Do I?”

Arthur nodded, his lips curling into a small, faint smile that held a quiet confidence. “Yeah. Might take some time to see it, but you’ve got a place here.”

As the song’s final note faded, the gramophone crackling softly, the sounds of the camp began to seep back in. Arthur’s hand slowly slid away from your waist, deliberate and unhurried, as if neither of you wanted the moment to end too soon.

You stepped back, the absence of his touch leaving a subtle weight behind. He stayed there, watching you with his usual calm, measured gaze, as if he was on the edge of saying something. But instead, he tilted his head slightly, his smirk softening.

“Well,” he said, his voice low, “you didn’t step on my boots once.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, breaking some of the tension. “Could’ve been worse,” you replied, trying to sound lighter despite the quiet buzz in your chest.

Arthur chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced toward the fire. “Could’ve. But it wasn’t.”

It wasn’t. The thought lingered in your mind, heavier than you expected. For all your nerves and hesitation, you’d enjoyed it—more than you’d care to admit, even to yourself.

“Well, thanks,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. “For... dragging me out of my corner, I guess.”

Arthur shrugged lightly, his smirk shifting into something softer, more genuine. “Reckon it was worth it.”

The way he said it made your cheeks flush, though you tried to brush it off with a faint smile. You glanced away, breaking the intensity of his gaze, but found yourself stealing one last look as he stepped back.

Arthur’s low chuckle followed you as you took a step toward the crates where you’d been sitting earlier. But before you could fully retreat, his voice cut through the night, quieter this time.

“Y’know,” he said, stopping you mid-step.

You paused, the sound of his voice lingering in the quiet air. His tone was different now—careful, deliberate, like he was choosing his words carefully. The tension between you felt delicate, fragile, as if the moment was hanging by a thin thread.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked softly, turning slightly to face him again.

Arthur shifted his weight, the smirk still there but less sure now. “Just—never mind,” he murmured, giving a small shake of his head.

You arched an eyebrow, crossing your arms lightly over your chest. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

His gaze flicked down to his boots before rising to meet yours. “Well,” he drawled, dragging the word out with a hint of amusement, “maybe I just like watchin’ how flustered you get when I say things like that.”

You huffed a laugh, your cheeks flushing again. “Flustered? Please, Arthur. You’re not that charming.”

But damn it, he was—charming in that rough-edged way you’d never admit aloud.

Arthur stepped a little closer, narrowing the space between you just slightly. “Oh, so now you’re sayin’ I’m somewhat charming?” he teased, his smirk widening into something undeniably playful.

The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his features and deepening the shadows, making him look even more enigmatic. You glanced away, the warmth in your chest making it harder to maintain your usual cool façade.

“Hmm,” you murmured, pretending to weigh his words with a dramatic roll of your eyes. “Maybe you’re just good at talkin’ nonsense.”

His laugh came low and genuine, the sound rumbling in a way that made you suppress a smile. “Talkin’ nonsense, huh? That what you think?”

You met his gaze with a teasing smirk. “Could be.”

Arthur’s smirk softened, his eyes holding yours a beat longer than usual, filled with something quieter, steadier. The banter still lingered between you, but underneath it, there was a weight neither of you acknowledged.

“Alright,” he said at last, his voice dipping into a softer, more sincere tone, “Nonsense or not... I want you to stick around.”

Your breath hitched briefly, though you quickly masked it with a faint shrug. “Well, don’t go gettin’ all sentimental on me now,” you replied, aiming for lightness, though the usual teasing edge faltered just slightly.

Arthur chuckled softly, stepping back to give you a bit more space, though the warmth in his gaze didn’t waver. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You dropped your eyes to the ground, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite your best effort to suppress it. The moment lingered, the playful banter slipping into something deeper, unspoken yet undeniably present.

The sound of voices raised in laughter broke the spell, drawing your attention toward the campfire. The mood had shifted back to the lively, chaotic energy of the gang. Sean’s unmistakable Irish brogue carried across the clearing, his boisterous laughter cutting through the din.

Arthur sighed quietly, his gaze drifting to the flames as though lost in thought. You studied him for a moment longer, unsure if you should say something more or let the moment pass.

Arthur tilted his head toward the edge of camp, his eyes glancing toward the wooded area where the shadows stretched longer. “C’mon,” he said, his voice low enough not to draw attention. “Could use some quiet.”

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, following as he stepped away from the firelight. The lively chatter of the gang faded with every step, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. He led you toward a cluster of trees just beyond the camp’s edge, where the wooded area offered a sense of privacy without fully disappearing from view.

As you reached the spot, Arthur leaned casually against a tree trunk, the faint light of the campfire barely illuminating his face. He dug into his coat pocket, pulling out a cigarette. His movements were unhurried, as though the quiet moment between you wasn’t something to be rushed.

“Do you smoke?” he asked, breaking the silence that had settled between you.

You tilted your head, considering him for a beat. “I’m not against it,” you replied with a faint smirk. “If you’re offering, that is.”

Arthur chuckled softly, the sound warm and low in the still night. “Figured you might say that.” He struck a match against the sole of his boot, the brief flare of light casting sharp shadows across his face as he lit the cigarette. He took a slow drag before holding it out to you.

Stepping closer, you accepted it, the warm burn of tobacco filling your lungs as you took a measured inhale. As your hands brushed against his when you reached out, a spark of tension passed between you—a physical reminder of the quiet, simmering connection that neither of you could ignore. The air between you grew heavier, charged with something more than just the flicker of the cigarette. You could feel the warmth of his hand against yours, the lingering touch stretching out longer than was necessary, like neither of you wanted to pull away.

Arthur’s eyes followed the cigarette as it moved toward your lips, his gaze tracing the slow inhale, the way your breath softened the night. The silence thickened, and when you exhaled, his eyes lifted, meeting yours with a quiet intensity that mirrored your lingering thoughts.

You handed the cigarette back, your fingers brushing his once more, and for a brief moment, you felt the way his hand tightened around the cigarette, a small but noticeable flicker of tension in his grip. The weight of his presence lingered, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was watching you a little too closely.

Arthur watched you, his smirk softening. “Not bad,” he remarked, his voice easy. “Looks like you’ve done this before.”

You leaned against a tree opposite him, crossing your arms lightly. “Smokin’? I’ve had my share of bad influences.”

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh, taking another drag. “Guess I’d fit right in, then.”

“Maybe,” you replied with a faint grin. “Maybe more trouble than I can handle..”

Arthur didn’t immediately respond, his eyes watching you with a quiet intensity. The ember of the cigarette flickered between you, casting shadows that danced across his face.

For a moment, Arthur didn’t speak, his gaze lingering on you as if weighing his next words carefully. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said, his voice quieter now, as though the words weren’t meant to drift too far.

The way he said it made your chest tighten, though you tried to play it off with a small laugh. ��That your way of sayin’ I’m trouble too?”

Arthur’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. “No, that’s my way of sayin’ you’re somethin’ I can’t quite figure out yet.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. Instead, you reached out, taking the cigarette from him again. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out,” you said lightly, though your heart was beating a little faster now.

Arthur’s gaze lingered on you, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Reckon I just might... That mean you're sticking around?”

You hesitated, the weight of his question settling in your chest. “Maybe,” you murmured, though it felt more like a promise than a reply.

Arthur studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “Maybe isn’t a no,” he said softly, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

You met his gaze, the tension between you thickening once more. “Maybe,” you echoed, your voice a little quieter this time as if the word carried more weight than you intended.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the distant hum of the camp, the low crackle of the dying cigarette, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the night breeze. Arthur shifted slightly, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for the cigarette one last time.

His touch lingered just a moment longer this time, grounding you both in the quiet moment. His thumb brushed lightly against your hand, sending a jolt through you before he pulled back, the brief contact leaving a warmth behind that you couldn’t quite shake.

“Well,” he said, breaking the silence with a soft chuckle, “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

You laughed lightly, though your heart still thudded a little harder in your chest. “You’re assuming a lot, Mister Morgan.”

Arthur frowned playfully, stepping closer to you, the smile on his face now replaced by a look of mock disapproval. “Mister Morgan, huh?” he said, his voice dropping to a lower tone, scolding but not unkind. “What’d I tell you ‘bout callin’ me that?”

You glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, am I not allowed to be formal?”

Arthur crossed his arms and leaned in slightly, his smirk returning but softer, more amused. “You’re not that formal.” His voice was low, teasing, but there was a warmth behind it that made the air between you seem a little more charged.

You laughed softly, a little breathless. “Guess I’ll have to keep workin’ on it then.”

Arthur studied you for another moment, his gaze unwavering. “I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t.”

His words hung in the air, carrying an unspoken promise that neither of you fully acknowledged, but felt all the same.

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin flickering across your face. “Well, you do seem to enjoy tellin’ me what to do.”

Arthur’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “Only when you make it easy.” He reached out again, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear in a tender, almost subconscious movement.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the stillness between you stretching out longer than it should. The unexpected gentleness of his touch startled you both, as neither of you expected it.

Arthur blinked, a soft furrow between his brows. His hand lingered there, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as his fingers gently tucked a stubborn cowlick behind your ear. “That thing’s always sticking out,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else, his voice quieter, almost contemplative.

The unexpected comment—a familiar yet tender one—sent a rush of warmth through you. You watched him, surprised by the quiet intensity in his gaze, his expression more thoughtful now than teasing.

Arthur’s smirk faded into something softer, his thumb lingering longer than necessary. “Couldn’t stand lookin’ at it anymore,” he admitted, though there was no teasing edge to his tone.

The air between you thickened, the weight of the moment settling in. You felt like you were holding your breath, unable to look away from him.

You felt the warmth of his touch lingering, his thumb resting lightly against your skin in a way that made your pulse quicken. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Arthur’s gaze softened further, his smirk entirely gone, leaving behind a quiet vulnerability. His eyes searched yours, as though trying to understand something deeper about you.

“I...” he started, his voice rough yet gentle, almost as if he were choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t mean to make things complicated.”

Your breath caught at his honesty, the weight of his words settling in your chest. You shook your head slightly, offering him a small, understanding smile. “You don’t,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping even lower, becoming intimate and soft. Arthur’s voice wavered as he spoke. “I... I ain’t used to sayin’ things like this.” His words were slow, and deliberate, like he was trying to gather them up from some far-off place in his mind.

You stayed quiet, giving him the space to figure out what he wanted to say.

“I... I’m not real good with words, to be honest.” His gaze shifted, hesitating before meeting yours again. “But—” A small frown tugged at his brow. “Pretty girls make me feel like I don’t know nothin’.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the admission. “Pretty girls?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur’s smirk returned, though now it carried a hint of discomfort. “Yeah,” he muttered, his confidence wavering. “Never could figure out how to talk to ‘em. Always feel like a fool, ‘round ‘em.”

There was something in the way he said it—so unlike the composed Arthur Morgan you had come to know. He, who carried himself with quiet assurance and a steady hand, now faltered in front of you. It left your chest tightening.

You stared at him, struggling to process his sudden confession. His vulnerability, so unexpected, left you speechless. The silence that followed stretched, thick and heavy, each second filled with unspoken tension.

Arthur frowned, running a hand through his hair, his usual calm replaced by something nervous and restless. “Damn it, why’d I go and say somethin’ like that?” His voice sharpened with self-deprecation. “Stupid. Real stupid.”

You opened your mouth, but the right words eluded you. The silence deepened, suffocating and awkward.

Arthur cursed under his breath, the cigarette burning between his fingers. “Guess I ought to keep my mouth shut,” he muttered, his tone colder now. “Whiskey’s talkin’, not me.”

“Arthur—” you began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

“Forget it,” he said, his gaze distant, the warmth that had been there before now gone. “Forget I said any of it. I’ve had too much damn tobacco, too much whiskey. Can’t think straight.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Stupid old fool, blabberin’ about things he doesn’t understand.” He mumbled, placing the cigarette back between your fingers, his touch no longer lingering.

You stood there, flustered, unsure how to respond. The air between you felt heavier, unravelling the quiet moment into something difficult to grasp. A lingering warmth filled your chest, leaving you off-balance, uncertain how to piece it all back together.

You glanced down at the cigarette, now dangerously close to burning out. The ember glowed faintly, its heat brushing against your fingers, causing you to pull back instinctively. The end was nearly spent, much like the fragile moment between you and Arthur.

Your face burned, the heat spreading from your cheeks to your ears, as though the dying cigarette mirrored the rising embarrassment within you. Arthur had walked away, but his words echoed in your mind, lingering heavier than before.

“He thinks I’m pretty,” the thought crashed into your chest like a shockwave. It was foreign, overwhelming. Arthur Morgan had admitted something so vulnerable and disarming—and now you were left standing with it.

Your pulse pounded, a rapid thrum of emotions you couldn’t control. Flustered confusion mixed with something deeper—a longing perhaps, or a realization you were only beginning to understand. Pretty. The word that had never truly applied to you never seemed to fit. In your mind, it was reserved for the women who had grace and composure, who walked with ease through a world that never felt like yours. It wasn’t something you had ever seen in yourself, let alone thought to be seen by someone else.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady the thrum of your pulse, but it only intensified. “Pretty,” you whispered, the word tasting foreign yet oddly sweet on your tongue.

The silence stretched on, but beneath it, a new uncertainty stirred—a quiet, aching sense of something you couldn’t ignore.

You stared down at the cigarette, now nearly consumed by the night. The faint glow flickered, the dying ember the only light in the still darkness. The heat brushed against your fingers again, and this time you let it linger a moment longer before pulling back. The burning wasn’t painful, but it mirrored the fiery warmth spreading across your skin and deep into your chest.

It wasn’t just the admission—it was the way he said it, so unexpected, so genuine, that it left you breathless. Arthur had laid bare a vulnerability that shook you to your core.

The silence around you was heavy, and suffocating, pressing everything else aside, leaving only the storm inside you. The heat in your chest wouldn’t relent, each beat of your heart seeming to rock you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the heat in your cheeks to cool, the rush in your chest to slow. But when you opened them, the world didn’t quiet. You couldn’t ignore the aching realization that Arthur Morgan had seen you in a way no one else had before.

The heat didn’t fade, nor did the flutter in your chest. It clung to you, each beat of your heart a reminder of his words, of that quiet, intimate moment where he had looked at you differently. A word you never thought applied to yourself was now branded into your soul, never to be forgotten.

But despite his vulnerability, he walked away, leaving you there in the stillness of the night, your thoughts a whirlwind. He vanished into the darkness before you could piece your scattered thoughts together. The weight of his absence sank in, and you realized the silence had left him doubting—doubting himself, doubting you.

The quiet wasn’t peace. It was heavy, suffocating. Weighted by the realization that Arthur believed he’d messed up. A breath hitched in your throat, and a bitter sigh escaped your lips.

Still, his words echoed. Pretty —his words lingering, leaving an imprint on your soul, a mark he’d left, whether he meant to or not.

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

Slow burn slow burn slow burn — I not moving in complete order with the missions just yet, but I'll be on track soon. I swear. Maybe.

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 2) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Previous: Chapter 1  Next: Chapter 3

Summary:

“Well, hell,” he muttered, tugging his hat back into place with a sharp yank. His pulse thrummed in his chest, the kind of adrenaline rush that lingered when something fast and dangerous had just brushed past you. Whoever you were, you were quick. He’d give you that. Quick, deadly, and without question, trouble.

Chapter 2: A Day to Remember

Content Warning: Violence, guns  ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

A month before the pain and darkness of that night, you were already knee-deep in trouble, running through the heart of Blackwater.

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

All you had to do was keep your head down. That’s all. Just keep your damn head down and mind your own business.

But even that simple task had proved too hard for you.

Which is exactly why you’re running like your life depends on it—because it does now.

The streets of Blackwater blurred around you as you ran, your boots striking the cobblestones with quick, deliberate steps. The shouts of lawmen echoed behind you, growing louder with every turn you took.

“Stop her!” one of them barked, his voice cutting through the midday bustle.

You didn’t stop. You didn’t even slow down. People shot you baffled glances, their conversations halting mid-sentence as they stepped out of your way, lest you shove them aside. Your hand clamped down on the satchel slung across your shoulder, the weight of it bouncing with each frantic stride. Ahead, the crowd thickened—dockworkers hauling crates, women in wide skirts haggling over wares, and passersby who scattered like leaves on the wind.

A sharp crack of a pistol firing split the air, and you hissed under your breath while the sounds off startled screams and shouts filled the air. Damn deputies were getting bold. The bounty was surely set for you alive, but they didn’t seem too concerned about that. You veered left, narrowly avoiding a man balancing a stack of crates, and made for the alleyways.

You focused on the maze ahead, your mind racing as fast as your feet. Another sharp turn. Another alley. And then—smack.

You collided with something—or someone—solid, the impact knocking the breath out of you and sending you stumbling back.

“Watch it!” you snapped, your hand instinctively dropping to the revolver at your hip as your eyes darted up.

The man you’d run into didn’t budge much. Broad shoulders. A rough-hewn face framed by the shadow of a brimmed hat. Blond hair peeked out from beneath the brim, the sun catching on it just enough to notice. His sharp blue eyes flicked down to meet yours, startled but calm, assessing. There was a roughness to him—stubble darkening his jaw, the kind of wear that came with long days under the sun—but you didn’t get much time to take him in. You were too busy running, and right now, he was just another obstacle in your way.

Before he could get a word in, another gunshot cracked through the air, closer this time.

“Shit,” you muttered, grabbing the front of his coat and yanking him hard into the nearest alley. “Stay out of the way!”

The man stumbled back against the brick wall, more surprised than rattled. His hand twitched toward his own holster, but before he could even think to draw, you were already moving.

You spun into the open, revolver in hand, and made short work of the lawmen bearing down on you.

The first dropped with a clean shot to the chest, collapsing in a heap.

The second managed to level his gun, but your bullet found his shoulder before he could fire, sending him crashing to the ground with a howl of pain.

The third was less lucky—or maybe just too slow. His wild shot went wide, a ricochet off the cobblestones. Yours didn’t.

And just like that, the street fell silent, save for the faint groans of a swinging sign in the breeze and the echo of your last shot. The acrid tang of gunpowder lingered in the air, and three bodies lay crumpled in the dirt, their stillness a grim testament to the speed of your hand. Your revolver still smoked faintly in the late afternoon sun, the barrel hot against your fingers as you lowered it to your side.

For a moment, the town seemed frozen, like a photograph suspended in time. Doors remained shut, curtains quickly drawn, and the only movement came from the dust swirling in the golden light. Somewhere, a horse whinnied, its skittish steps echoing down the narrow street.

Then came the sound of a slammed door, the hurried scuffle of boots on wood, and the faint murmur of voices. The chaos of moments earlier—shouted warnings, the crack of gunfire, the panicked screams of bystanders scattering for cover—gave way to a different kind of tension.

You scanned the street quickly, holstering your weapon with practiced ease. Your heartbeat still thundered in your chest, but your breathing had already steadied. Your gaze flicked briefly to the man in the alley, still pressed against the wall, his eyes locked on you like a startled deer.

It took a while before curiosity began to outweigh fear. A head peeked out from behind a window curtain, followed by another from the edge of a stable door. The whispers started then, hushed but growing, like the rustle of dry leaves before a storm. Slowly, townsfolk began to emerge, their steps cautious as if the ground itself might betray them.

First came the barkeep, his apron still clutched tightly in his hand, his eyes darting nervously between you and the bodies. Then a woman, her bonnet trembling as she stepped hesitantly out of the general store. The murmurs grew louder, whispers turning into questions no one dared to ask aloud.

You ignored them, your attention instead locked on the weight of their stares and the man in the alley. He hadn’t moved, still plastered against the wall, his mouth slightly open like he was about to speak but thought better of it.

“Watch where you’re going next time,” you said flatly, your voice low and biting, the words sharp enough to cut. You didn’t linger, didn’t wait for a response. Instead, you turned on your heel, boots crunching against the dirt as you vanished into the crowd that had begun to cautiously gather.

It wasn’t polite—hell, it was downright rude—but what did it matter? One wrong move from him, one second of hesitation, and the job might’ve gone south. No time for niceties when survival and success hung by such a thin thread.

Tugging your hat lower, you kept moving, the brim casting a shadow over your eyes. The crowd parted before you reluctantly, their gazes a mix of fear and morbid curiosity, but none dared to block your path. You weaved through the onlookers with the fluidity of someone who had done this a dozen times before—because you had. The weight of your revolver on your hip was a reassuring presence, but it wouldn’t do you much good if more lawmen turned up.

You’d been in towns like this before—places where the law wasn’t just a badge, but a reputation to uphold. A sheriff’s pride, bruised by the death of his deputies, was a dangerous thing. You couldn’t afford to stick around for the questions, the accusations, or the shootouts that were sure to follow.

The air felt heavier now, a tension building as if the town itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next. You tightened your grip on the brim of your hat, quickening your pace. Every second spent lingering was another second closer to disaster.

The edges of the crowd thinned, the murmurs fading as you slipped away from the main street, ducking into an alley. You paused just long enough to glance over your shoulder. No one was following yet, but it was only a matter of time. The bodies back there were bound to draw the wrong kind of attention, and the law wouldn’t be far behind.

You adjusted your hat again, pulling it lower, and forced yourself to keep moving. The town wasn’t big, but it was busy enough to give you cover—if you didn’t waste the opportunity. You had to get out, had to find your horse and be gone before the law came knocking.

Looking back wasn’t an option. Not now.

The man stayed rooted to the spot, his hat slightly askew and his mouth still faintly open, replaying the scene in his mind. The street, once alive with shouts and chaos, had fallen into a tense, unnatural quiet.

His gaze shifted, sweeping over the bodies sprawled in the dirt, their stillness a stark contrast to the commotion just moments ago. Then, his eyes flicked to the spot where you had disappeared, swallowed up by the murmuring crowd like a ghost.

“Well, hell,” he muttered, tugging his hat back into place with a sharp yank. His pulse thrummed in his chest, the kind of adrenaline rush that lingered when something fast and dangerous had just brushed past you.

Whoever you were, you were quick. He’d give you that. Quick, deadly, and without question, trouble.

He didn’t linger. Whatever storm you’d kicked up, he wanted no part of it. Trouble had a way of sticking, and he’d learned long ago that even being near it was enough to set your world on fire. He had his own problems to worry about—his own profile to keep low.

There was a job waiting for him, a con to prep, and a friend who wouldn’t take kindly to being kept waiting for too long. He shoved his hands into his pockets, melting into the shifting crowd with practiced ease. Every step took him further from the scene, but no matter how far he walked, the memory of you lingered.

Sharp-eyed. Deadly. Gone before he could even piece it together.

He shook his head, forcing the image of you to the back of his mind. He couldn’t afford to dwell on strangers, not when survival depended on keeping his focus. But something about the way you moved, the precision and purpose behind every action, stayed with him like the fading echo of a gunshot.

For now, he’d let it go.

But trouble had a way of circling back around when you least expected it.

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

The din of Blackwater was behind you now, fading into the distance as you rode. Your horse, a sturdy chestnut mare with a white blaze streaking down her nose, trotted steadily beneath you, her steps unhurried and deliberate. The late afternoon light caught the sheen of her coat, the reddish-brown glimmering faintly, almost glowing against the swirling dust that danced in the air.

Her name was Tater—picked half out of practicality, half from a soft, reluctant affection for her no-nonsense attitude. Like an old potato forgotten in the pantry, Tater wasn’t much to look at, but she was reliable in a way that mattered more than beauty. Stubborn but steady, she kept her head down and her pace even, unfazed by the heat pressing down on the trail.

Tater’s hooves thudded against the dirt trail, the sound a welcome reprieve from the chaos you’d just left behind. You kept your head low, your hat tilted forward to shade your face, even though the road ahead was mercifully empty. The farther you got from town, the looser your grip on the reins became, but the tension in your shoulders stayed.

You let out a breath, glancing at the satchel slung over Tater’s side. The weight of it was reassuring and damning all at once. A few days ago, it had been just another job. Slip in, find the goods, slip out. Easy enough. At least, it should’ve been.

But the law in Blackwater was sharper than most. They hadn’t taken kindly to someone with your particular set of skills sniffing around. You could still hear their boots pounding the cobblestones behind you, their shouts echoing through the streets as you fled.

Your jaw tightened, and you reached up to adjust your hat, fingers brushing against the brim. If your father could see you now, he’d be ashamed.

The thought gnawed at you, and you let it.

He’d always been a good man—a tough one, sure, but fair. A miner who knew the worth of hard work and honest sweat. He’d taught you to shoot, not because he wanted you to follow his path but because he wanted you to have a fighting chance in a world that didn’t hand out many.

He wanted you to be safe when he was no longer around to keep you safe.

“Learn to aim true,” he’d said, his voice gravelly and patient. “And remember, a gun’s just a tool. The real strength is in what you use it for.”

You huffed out a bitter laugh, the memory cutting sharper than it should. He’d meant for you to protect yourself, maybe protect others if the time came. He sure as hell hadn’t meant for you to turn his lessons into a way to make a living skimming the edges of the law.

The satchel swayed with Tater’s gait, its contents a testament to how far you’d strayed. A bounty in another town, another state. That was how it always went—one job leading to the next, a string of decisions tying you tighter to this path.

The worst part? You weren’t even sure if you regretted it.

Ahead, the road forked. One path led west, a quiet stretch cutting through open plains and toward the next nameless town where you could disappear for a while. The other curved north, into denser woods, a riskier route but one that might get you out of sight quicker if the law was still trailing you.

Tater snorted beneath you, her ears flicking back as if sensing your hesitation.

“Yeah, girl,” you muttered, stroking her neck. “I know. Not my finest hour.”

You took the northern trail, the trees closing in around you with every step. The air grew cooler, the shade casting fleeting shadows over the ground. It was quieter here, the kind of quiet that left too much room for thoughts you didn’t want to entertain.

Your father’s voice came to you again, quieter this time. “A person’s gotta live with the choices they make, one way or another.”

And wasn’t that the truth.

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

The silence of the woods wrapped around you, broken only by the steady rhythm of Tater's hooves and the occasional rustle of leaves above. The northern trail was tighter than you remembered, the branches clawing at the edges of your path, but it was mercifully empty. No shouts, no gunfire, no lawmen hot on your trail.

You let yourself relax—just a little. Enough to ease the tension in your grip on the reins, to let out a slow breath that didn’t feel like it was trapped in your chest. Still, your eyes kept darting back over your shoulder, searching for shapes moving in the distance, shadows breaking against the sunlight.

Nothing.

Good.

The smell of pine hung heavy in the air, and you welcomed it, letting it push away the acrid tang of gunpowder and sweat still lingering in your memory. The satchel swayed lightly against Tater’s flank, its weight a constant reminder of what got you into this mess in the first place.

Should’ve left it alone. That voice in your head wasn’t your father’s this time. It was your own.

But no—leaving things alone didn’t pay. And you hadn’t been in a position to turn down work, not with the coin running dry and the roads growing meaner. So here you were, in the woods, on the run, cursing yourself for the choices that seemed so simple just a day ago.

You guided Tater through a clearing, her ears twitching as she sniffed the air. The mare’s steady gait slowed, and you let her, grateful for the chance to think through your next move.

The job had been straightforward enough. Get in, take what was owed, and get out before anyone noticed. Problem was, people always noticed. It was a lesson you should’ve learned by now, but something about the shine of easy money always seemed to cloud your judgment.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves above, carrying with it a faint sense of calm you didn’t trust. You rubbed a hand over your face, feeling the grit and sweat that came with the kind of day you were having.

He’d be ashamed of you.

The thought hit you like a lead weight, settling deep in your chest. Your father’s face floated to the surface of your mind, weathered and kind, but always edged with that quiet, firm disappointment he reserved for when you let him down.

Not like this, girl, you could almost hear him saying. Not like this.

You sighed, patting Tater’s neck absently. “It’s not like I planned it this way,” you muttered under your breath. The mare flicked her tail in response, either agreeing or telling you to stop talking and keep moving.

Another fork in the trail appeared up ahead. You paused, weighing your options. To the left, the trail widened, cutting through the woods and back toward open plains. To the right, it dipped into a dirt trail, narrower but it did lead to another town, Strawberry. Better not, not yet at least.

“Guess we’re taking the hard way,” you murmured, nudging Tater toward the left path.

The mare moved without complaint, her steps moving on as the ground beneath you shifted towards the wooded trail, heading towards the big valley. The best option would be to set up near Hawke eye creek, or at least close by.

Always make sure to be by a source of water, you could hear your father say, you can go a little while without food—but not water.

Tater’s steady pace carried you deeper into the trail, the dense woods swallowing the sounds of the world behind you. The evening light filtered through the canopy in streaks of gold and amber, casting long shadows across the dirt path. You kept your eyes sharp, scanning the edges of the trail for any sign of movement. Even out here, far from Blackwater, it didn’t pay to let your guard down.

As the trail narrowed, you spotted the glint of water ahead—a thin, winding creek cutting through the underbrush. Hawke Eye Creek. Where you would settle for the night.

Dismounting, you gave Tater a pat on the neck before leading her closer to the water’s edge. The mare snorted softly, lowering her head to drink. You crouched nearby, your hands cupped as you splashed the cool water over your face. It chased away some of the grime, but not the weight pressing on your shoulders.

“Better than nothing,” you muttered, standing and stretching out the ache in your back.

The spot you stopped at was decent—hidden enough by the trees and close to the creek for water if you needed it. The ground was uneven, scattered with roots and rocks, but you’d slept in worse places. You looped Tater’s reins around a low-hanging branch, giving her room to graze, and set about unpacking the small bedroll from her saddlebag.

No fire tonight. The thought settled in your mind as you glanced around the clearing. You couldn’t risk drawing attention, even if the chill in the air hinted at a colder night ahead.

With the bedroll spread out near the base of a sturdy oak, you sat down and finally unfastened the satchel that had caused so much trouble. The leather straps were worn, the buckles scuffed from years of use. Setting it down in front of you, you hesitated, your fingers brushing over the flap.

What was so damn important it was worth dying over?

You flipped it open and began pulling out the contents. Papers—lots of them. Stacks of neatly folded notes, some sealed with wax, others loose and creased. A small leather-bound ledger caught your eye, its pages filled with cramped, hurried handwriting. You squinted at the writing, the scrawled names and sums making your stomach tighten. This wasn’t just any ledger—these were records. Deals, debts, trades, all written in a hand that seemed rushed, almost frantic.

Beside it lay a smaller pouch, and when you opened it, a heavy clink of coins greeted you. Not a fortune, but enough to make your pulse quicken. Gold and silver, more than you’d seen in one place in a long time.

“Well, at least something in here makes sense,” you muttered, setting the pouch aside.

The rest was a mix of odds and ends—maps marked with cryptic symbols, a scrap of cloth embroidered with a crude shamrock, and a strange wooden medallion. The medallion caught your attention. It looked familiar, like something you’d seen in passing but never up close. A memory tugged at the back of your mind, but you couldn’t place it.

Your gut twisted. Whoever this bag belonged to; they weren’t someone you wanted to cross. The cloth, the medallion—they felt personal, like the kind of things someone kept close. It wasn’t just business in this bag. There was a hint of something more, something territorial.

You could still picture the lackey who’d handed you the job. He’d been jittery, his eyes darting to every shadow in the room as if expecting someone to materialize out of thin air. Desperate. Anxious. You’d ignored the red flags—hell, you needed the money—and let him talk you into it.

Two thousand dollars. That’s what he’d promised. Said all you had to do was get the satchel out of Blackwater, no questions asked. Once you were somewhere safe, write a letter to an alias he’d scribbled on a scrap of paper, and the payment would follow.

Easy, he’d said. Just a simple delivery job.

Only it wasn’t. Jobs like this never were.

You shook your head, swallowing the rising frustration. The medallion felt heavier than it should have in your palm, its carved surface almost mocking you with whatever meaning it held. Instead of turning it over again, you tossed it back into the satchel and leaned against the tree. Your gaze lingered on the pile of items scattered before you, each one a clue to trouble you didn’t want a part of.

Whatever this all meant, it wasn’t good. Trouble had a way of finding you, and this time, you’d practically opened the door and invited it in.

With a sigh, you closed the satchel and tucked it beneath your bedroll, hiding it from sight. The steady murmur of the creek behind you was a poor comfort. It could’ve been soothing, might’ve even lulled you to sleep on any other night. But your mind wouldn’t stop spinning, replaying the job, the chase, the shots that had missed by inches.

You adjusted your hat, pulling it lower over your face. No fire, no light, no movement. All you could do was sit and wait, hope the lawmen didn’t have the stamina to track you this far.

And if they weren’t the only ones after you?

You exhaled slowly, pushing that thought aside. You’d deal with it when the time came. For now, you just needed to keep breathing—and keep moving.

Sleep didn’t come easy that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, the day’s chaos replayed in vivid flashes—the narrow streets of Blackwater, the sound of boots pounding after you, the deafening crack of gunfire. Your body stayed on edge, ears straining to catch any sound beyond the soft gurgle of the creek and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

You shifted under your bedroll, feeling the hard press of the ground beneath you. Tater stood nearby, her tail flicking lazily, unbothered by the tension that kept your muscles taut. She’d always been steady, your one constant in a world that seemed hell-bent on shaking you loose.

Your father’s voice echoed faintly in the back of your mind. Always make camp away from the trail. Keep your back to cover. Never trust the quiet—it’s when trouble strikes.

You rubbed your hands over your face, trying to banish the memory. What would he say if he could see you now? Probably the same as always—just that quiet, firm disappointment that cut deeper than any reprimand.

It wasn’t like you wanted to be here. You hadn’t planned on running jobs for shady characters or dodging bullets just to make ends meet.

The lackey’s words echoed in your mind. Just deliver it. No one will follow you once you’re out of Blackwater.

A bitter laugh almost escaped your lips. Yeah, right. You’d seen the way he fidgeted, the way his eyes darted around like a cornered rat. This job was trouble from the start, but two thousand dollars had been too tempting to turn down.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of the bedroll. The money might’ve seemed like salvation, but now it felt like a noose tightening around your neck.

You exhaled a shaky breath and stared up at the canopy of trees above, their leaves shifting gently in the moonlight.

Just make it through the night. Then figure out the rest.

Just survive, for now.

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

But little did you know, the law wouldn't spare a thought for you.

Something far worse had unfolded in Blackwater that day.                    ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

I hope you’re enjoying the setup so far !

I’m always open to your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. <3 I would love feedback <3 My AO3 Account

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 3) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Start: Chapter 1 Previous: Chapter 2 Next: Chapter 4

Summary:

You walk to the bar and lean against it, tapping the counter lightly with your fingers. The bartender looks up, a friendly smile tugging at his lips. “What can I get you?” he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Whiskey," you reply, your voice rough from the dry air and long ride.

Chapter 3: A Place to Rest

Content Warning: Descriptions of death and blood. Finally getting a moment to rest before the storm that’s coming your way.   ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The sun rose sluggishly, dragging the pale light of dawn across the sky. The cool air of morning clung to the forest, beading on the blades of grass and the low-hanging leaves. Your bedroll was damp with dew, and the ache in your back from sleeping on the hard ground was an unwelcome reminder of your restless night.

Tater gave a soft whine as you packed up camp, her ears flicking toward the trail in the distance. You paused, listening, but the woods remained still, save for the whisper of wind threading through the trees. Despite the quiet, an uneasy feeling settled deep in your chest.

The lackey’s words haunted you again. No one will follow you.

Yeah, and no one was following the rules anymore either, not in a place like Blackwater.

You secured the saddlebag and ran a hand along Tater’s neck, her warmth grounding you. “Let’s get moving,” you murmured. The sooner you put miles between yourself and that cursed town, the better.

The trail west was narrow and overgrown in places, the kind only someone used to traveling off the beaten path would take. The sound of Tater’s hooves against the dirt was steady and almost enough to distract you from the gnawing worry at the back of your mind. Almost.

It wasn’t until you crested a low ridge that you saw the faint plume of smoke rising in the distance. Your heart sank. Smoke this early? Could’ve been a campfire—or it could’ve been trouble. Either way, it wasn’t something you could ignore.

You guided Tater toward the source, her steps deliberate as you kept your rifle close, eyes scanning the horizon. As the trail wound closer, the smell of wood smoke mingled with something sharper. Acrid. Wrong.

The camp came into view just as the sun broke fully over the horizon. At first glance, it looked deserted. The fire was reduced to embers, but the remnants of a struggle were unmistakable—scattered belongings, overturned crates, and a bloodied hat lying just beyond the edge of the clearing.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t need to check for tracks to know what had happened here. Raiders, most likely. They didn’t leave survivors—not unless they had a reason.

A faint noise caught your attention—a soft, wheezing breath. You swung down from the saddle, your boots crunching against the dirt as you moved toward the sound. Beneath a collapsed tent, a man lay sprawled, his shirt soaked in blood. His eyes fluttered open as you crouched beside him, his gaze unfocused.

“Help’s not coming,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “They—lookin' for—woman—”

He broke off, his breath hitching. You pressed a hand lightly against his shoulder, your voice steady despite the panic threatening to creep in. “Who did this?”

His eyes flickered, his lips parting to speak, but no words came. Instead, he reached toward his belt, his fingers brushing against a crumpled piece of paper tucked into a leather pouch. You took it, the parchment rough under your fingertips. Before you could ask anything else, his body went slack, his head rolling to the side.

The silence that followed was deafening. You didn't think the law would do this. No.

You didn’t unfold the paper right away. Instead, you stood, your eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. Whoever had done this was likely long gone, but you weren’t about to stick around to find out. Tater shifted uneasily behind you, her ears pinned back.

Whoever did this, was either after another woman, or you really have just made trouble for yourself that you may not be able to handle if it finds you.

Sliding the paper into your pocket, you mounted up and spurred her into a brisk trot. Whatever was written there, you’d figure it out later—once you were safely away from the scene.

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

Several days later, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the dirt trail. The rhythmic beat of Tater’s hooves was your only companion in the silence, save for the occasional creak of leather and the whisper of the wind through the trees. You had stayed in the big valley during that time, moving along and heading east ways. You needed to allow time to pass to ensure if the law was looking for you in towns that you gave enough cool off period to avoid any issues. The parchment paper was left unread in the satchel attached to your saddle. Unable to read it just yet, rationalising to yourself that if you needed to be rid of it, you would prefer to be more settled.

The wide-open plains rolled endlessly beneath you, dotted with the occasional stand of pines and patches of dry scrub. The air was thick with the scent of sun-baked earth, familiar and grounding, even as your thoughts drifted elsewhere. The reins rested loose in one hand while the other grazed the frayed edges of the saddle horn, fingers absentmindedly tracing the worn leather.

The miles passed in a blur. Hours melted into one another, the monotonous rhythm of the ride lulling your mind into a rare kind of stillness. Out here, on the road, it was easier to forget the things chasing you—the decisions you’d made, the faces you’d left behind. The solitude didn’t just feel like freedom; it was freedom, fleeting as it might be.

It wasn’t until the landscape began to change that the trance broke. The dusty road, long and unbroken, started to bear the subtle signs of civilization—a rise in the terrain, faint wagon tracks, and the occasional wooden post. Up ahead, a weathered sign leaned precariously to one side, its chipped arrow pointing the way:

Valentine →

You let out a slow breath and adjusted your hat, squinting against the sun as the faint outline of the town came into view on the horizon. The buildings were nothing more than shadows at this distance, but already the air seemed warmer, the stillness giving way to the hum of distant activity.

Tater’s ears flicked forward, her steady gait slowing as though she could sense the shift. The scrub thinned into open fields, dotted with broken fences and the remains of wagon wheels abandoned to time. A thin cloud of dust rose in the distance, likely a passing rider or an approaching wagon.

As you approached, the first real signs of life appeared—a solitary figure leading a mule down the trail, their eyes flicking briefly to you before they moved on without a word. The road widened, the packed dirt turning softer, muddier, and littered with hoofprints and wagon ruts. Somewhere beyond the haze, the chatter of voices and the distant bark of a dog carried faintly on the breeze.

Ahead, the town rose slowly into view, a rough patchwork of wood and stone etched against the pale evening sky. Valentine wasn’t much more than a handful of weathered buildings lining a dirt road, their faces worn by years of sun and rain. Faded signs creaked on rusting hinges, and the outlines of wagons and figures moved sluggishly through the heat haze, giving the place an almost dreamlike quality. It wasn’t the worst place you’d ever seen, and right now, it felt like a welcome change.

Tater’s pace slowed further as you passed a weathered fence lining the edge of a pasture. You tightened your grip on the reins, drawing her to a stop just outside the town’s edge. For a moment, you simply sat there, taking it all in—the sounds, the movement, the promise of something new. Not quite safety, but not the open road either.

You rubbed at the back of your neck, rolling your shoulders against the stiffness of days in the saddle. “Well,” you murmured to Tater, “guess we’d better make ourselves at home. For now, at least.”

As the landscape began to change, the endless scrub and low brush gave way to fields bordered by sagging wooden fences. The faint smell of hay, manure, and sunbaked earth drifted through the dry air. Off in the distance, livestock pens dotted the terrain. The lowing of cattle mingled with the occasional clink of chains and the sharp voices of ranchers calling commands.

The main street stretched out ahead, uneven and churned up from endless traffic—wagon wheels, boot heels, and restless hooves leaving the earth perpetually unsettled.

The church’s spire rose to your left, a pale sentinel against the evening sky, while the hum of life buzzed all around. The shouts of ranchers blended with the rhythmic creak of harnesses and the groan of wagons straining under heavy loads. The occasional bark of a dog or clang of a hammer punctuated the cacophony, each sound layering over the other in a symphony of working-town chaos.

Your gaze flicked to the signs lining the street as you rode in. Smithfield’s Saloon stood boldly ahead, its open doors spilling the clinking of glasses and muted laughter into the street. Through one window, you caught sight of a poker table, cards being shuffled as smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

Just beyond, the square, yellow-painted Law Office loomed, its shutters pulled tight against the fading heat. Across the way, the gunsmith’s shop sat in shadow, its darkened windows glinting faintly with the last rays of daylight. The faint tang of gunpowder and oil carried on the breeze as you passed, a familiar scent that made the muscles in your back stiffen.

Near the saloon, a few tough-looking men lingered, dirt caked on their boots and streaked across their weathered faces. Locals, by the look of them, their eyes scanning the street with idle suspicion as if waiting for something—or someone. A sheriff’s deputy strolled out of the office nearby, his gaze sweeping lazily over the scene before he ducked into an alley behind the bank.

A cluster of horses stood tied outside the hotel, their tails flicking against the persistent buzz of flies. Farther down the street, a man hefted a bundle of lumber over his shoulder, his boots scuffing the dirt as he made his way toward a construction site on the town’s eastern edge.

On the southern outskirts, the livestock pens sprawled wide, bustling with movement as cattle grazed or jostled against wooden gates. The air here was thick with the mingled scents of hay, animal sweat, and the faint, earthy sweetness of fresh grass. Beyond the pens, the train station loomed just out of reach, its iron tracks gleaming faintly in the dimming light. A steam engine idled there, its rhythmic clanging an echo of far-off destinations.

The deeper you moved into Valentine, the louder it became. Voices called out in greeting, haggling, or argument, their tones blending into the clang of metal from boots to tools and the occasional burst of laughter or groans from the saloon. Life pulsed here—not polished or pretty, but constant.

Tater’s hooves pressed into the soft dirt, her pace slowing as the scent of hay and fresh water from the stable tugged at her senses. It wasn’t comfort you felt, exactly, but the faint relief of reaching somewhere that might allow a pause—a moment to collect yourself, to blend in, even if just for a while.

Your eyes swept the street, tracking the flow of the townsfolk—traders haggling over goods, a farmer arguing over a broken wheel, a woman leading a fussy child by the hand. Then something caught your attention: a small commotion at the corner of the street.

A cluster of men stood too close, voices raised just loud enough to cut through the general din. One of them gestured sharply, his hands slicing the air as if to drive home a point. The others stood stiffly, their shoulders hunched, tension crackling in the way they shifted their weight.

Your hand brushed the worn grip of your revolver, simply reminding yourself that it was there.

Trouble wasn’t what you needed—not today.

              ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The first few days in Valentine passed in a blur, the kind of time that slips through your fingers without you noticing. The town was smaller than you’d imagined, alive enough to feel busy but not so bustling that it overwhelmed. You found yourself gravitating to the outskirts, where the hills rolled wide and the land stretched open, untouched by the cramped wood-and-nail confines of the streets.

Your camp sat just beyond the livestock yards, far enough away to avoid prying eyes but close enough that the occasional lowing of cattle or the distant whistle of a train served as a reminder you weren’t entirely alone. It wasn’t much—a bedroll under the stars, a small fire ringed with stones, and the quiet company of Tater.

The nights were cool and still, the kind of quiet that pressed into your skin and reminded you to breathe. Comfortable wasn’t the right word for sleeping under the open sky, but it was familiar. And for now, familiar was enough. You made a mental note to consider finding a winter coat or crafting something warmer from the hides you brought in. The chill wasn’t sharp yet, but it was creeping closer, a promise of harder nights ahead.

Mornings were for the hunt. Valentine was perched on the edge of The Heartlands, a place where the earth seemed to stretch forever, endless plains rolling into dense forests and hills thick with scruffy grass. It was beautiful country—the kind that made you feel small in a way that wasn’t unwelcome.

Tater carried you through it all with her usual calm, her dusty brown coat blending seamlessly into the landscape. She moved steady and sure, her pace a quiet reminder that the world didn’t care to rush for anyone. You couldn’t imagine trading her for another—not without damn good reason.

The first morning out, you spotted a small herd of pronghorn grazing in a clearing, their white-striped sides almost gleaming in the early light. The high ground gave you an edge, and the shot was clean. Two were enough—a few good pelts for selling and meat to keep you fed through the week.

The next day brought deer, their tracks leading you deep into the forest where the air turned still and heavy. The hunt was harder, the dense trees offering them cover, but patience paid off. A single shot took down a stag, its antlers casting jagged shadows across the ground.

By the third day, you’d tracked bison to the far edge of The Heartlands, their hulking forms moving like dark clouds across the plains. You didn’t like taking such creatures unless you had to, but their thick hides and heavy meat could fetch a good price and last for weeks.

You didn’t talk much to anyone, other than the occasional merchant or rancher you passed on the way into Valentine. Most gave you a nod, maybe a polite question—where you were headed or where you’d come from—but your answers were clipped, disinterested. This wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to plant roots. Too much noise, too many people. The plan was simple: save enough, move on. West, maybe south. Anywhere that felt less stifling.

Most evenings, after the hunting was done, you returned to your camp. The fire crackled low as you worked—sharpening your knife, mending gear, or just letting your thoughts wander. The roasted meat’s aroma filled the cool night air, a reminder of the day's hard-earned spoils. Those long nights under the stars brought a sort of clarity. Your mind drifted to the past, the ache of memory. To the future, uncertain and far away. But always, it returned to the road. The road meant freedom, and maybe somewhere along it, you'd find what you were looking for.

Valentine had its rhythm, but it wasn’t yours. It hummed with voices, wheels, and hooves—a life you preferred to observe from the fringes. You sold your pelts to the butcher, who offered a fair price but asked no questions. The general store clerk barely looked up as you gathered your supplies: coffee, beans, bread, cigarettes if you so felt the need. The gunsmith was the most chatty one, talking about not selling to gangs and such. You never payed to much attention, you just wanted ammunition. No small talk, no familiarity. Just the way you liked it.

Except once.

You’d just stepped out of the general store, adjusting the weight of your supplies, when a voice called out.

“Good huntin’?”

The man leaning against the post outside was tall, broad-shouldered, with a heavy brow and a smirk that didn’t sit right. A cigarette hung from his lips, its smoke curling lazily into the evening air. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes carried a sharpness you didn’t care for.

You didn’t bother smiling, just gave a short nod. “Could’ve been better.”

“You’ll find better,” he replied, grinning like he held all the answers. “Could use someone like you. We got work for folks who know their way around a gun. Pays a hell of a lot more than selling pelts.” He let his gaze linger a little too long, like the addition of even for a woman didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’ll stick to what I know,” you said, voice flat.

His grin didn’t falter, though it twisted slightly at the edges. “Suit yourself,” he said, pushing off the post with a casual shrug. “But don’t say I didn’t offer, miss.’

The encounter left a bitter taste in your mouth, but it wasn’t anything new. Men like him were in every town. They always wanted something they couldn’t have—or were looking to pass the time with someone like you. Either way, they were trouble, and trouble was the last thing you needed.

By the end of the week, your work had paid off. You had enough saved to buy a new horse if you wanted—though you didn’t. Tater had carried you this far, and you weren’t about to trade her in for something shinier. Maybe you’d splurge on a couple of extra supplies for the road, but nothing extravagant. Life on the move didn’t allow for excess, and that suited you just fine. Settling down, even temporarily, didn’t sit right. Valentine was just another stop along the way, a place to pass through.

The morning of the seventh day was clear and crisp, the kind of morning that carried a quiet promise. As the first rays of sunlight stretched across the plains, you packed up camp, saddled Tater, and guided her down the familiar path leading away from the town. The mare snorted, eager as ever, her ears flicking forward with each soft nudge of the reins. The bustle of Valentine faded behind you, replaced by the now familiar serene hum of the Heartlands.

Out on the open plains, the pull of the road returned, bringing with it a calm you hadn’t felt all week. The wind swept through the tall grasses, carrying away your thoughts like clouds scattered across the endless sky. It wasn’t much, this wandering existence, but it was yours. You weren’t entirely sure what you were looking for out here that day—routine, maybe, or just something that didn’t feel borrowed. Valentine had offered you the space to breathe, to pause, but not what you needed.

Not yet.

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

The sun is low on the horizon as you ride back into Valentine, Tater’s hooves kicking up dust with every weary step. The light turns the dirt road a muted gold, shadows stretching long and thin against the worn wooden buildings. The town has quieted with the waning day. The midday rush is long gone, replaced by the softer chatter of approaching evening.

A few townsfolk linger on porches or by the saloon’s swinging doors, their voices low and movements slow, worn from the day’s labors. A cool breeze whispers through the street, carrying the mingled scents of drying meat from the butcher’s shop and the earthy tang of livestock from the yards. Somewhere, a dog barks, sharp against the murmur of the town, and then falls silent.

Tater’s ears twitch at the faint sound of music drifting from the saloon—a fiddle, played clumsily but with earnest enthusiasm. You nudge the mare toward the stables, your own body dragging under the weight of a long, fruitless day.

The hunt hadn’t gone as planned. Hours of tracking through brush and across the open plains yielded little more than frustration. It was as if the deer and pronghorn had vanished into the deeper parts of the forest, leaving the land oddly still. By the time you turned back toward Valentine, your haul was pitiful—just a pair of small rabbits. Enough to keep you fed for a day or two, but hardly worth the effort.

Disappointment lingers, but only faintly. You’ve learned long ago not to expect too much from the road. It doesn’t always give what you want, but it never fails to teach. Days like this remind you to appreciate what little you have—a meal in your saddlebag, a sturdy horse beneath you, and the promise of tomorrow to try again.

As you swing down from the saddle outside the butcher’s stall, the familiar weight of your rifle presses against your back, a quiet ache settling in your shoulders and legs. You give Tater a quick pat before tying her to the post, your movements slow, deliberate, worn.

The butcher eyes your modest offering without much enthusiasm. “Not much on the trail today, huh?”

You shrug, your voice even. “Unfortunately.”

He tosses you a handful of dollars without haggling—just enough to buy a bit of coffee and a box of shells. “Rabbits ain’t much these days,” he mutters, inspecting the pelts. “These ones look a little rough, too.”

You don’t argue. There’s no point. Instead, you take the coins, tip your hat, and leave without another word.

The street is quieter now, the last light of day stretching shadows long across the dirt road. You pocket the money and find yourself drifting toward the saloon. Up until now, you’ve avoided the place—not out of disdain, but because solitude suited you better. A campfire’s glow and Tater’s steady grazing had been comfort enough.

But tonight is different. The ache in your bones runs deeper, your throat is dry, and the weight of the past week sits heavy on your shoulders. You want something to take the edge off—a drink, maybe, or just the hum of voices to drown out your own thoughts.

As the warm glow of the saloon’s lanterns comes into view, you inhale deeply, catching the mingled scents of whiskey and woodsmoke. Your pace slows, hesitation flickering in your chest like the faint strains of that clumsy fiddle.

This isn’t your kind of place, but for one night, you’ll let it be.

The Smithfield Saloon stands just ahead, the warm glow of light spilling out through the cracks in the wooden door, the faint sound of piano music drifting into the street. You can hear the chatter of voices inside, the clinking of glass, the occasional burst of laughter. It’s as if the town itself has a pulse—a life that continues long after the work is done, and that pulse is here, in this dimly lit building where the townsfolk gather to wash the dust from their throats and forget the hours.

You hesitate at the door for a moment, unsure if you’re ready to let yourself be swallowed up by the noise, the heat, the faces. You’ve avoided crowds like this for too long. But something in you shifts, a hunger for human interaction, a need to break the monotony, even if it’s just to people-watch.

With a final, steadying breath, you push open the butterfly doors, stepping into the saloon.

The warmth hits you first, followed by the familiar smell of liquor and tobacco. A few men sit at the poker table near the window, while others lean against the bar, nursing drinks and talking in low voices. A couple of women are perched on stools at the far end, their laughter light and flirtatious. The bartender, a thinner-set man with dark hair, nods at you as you enter, his hands moving deftly as he cleans a glass.

You stand just inside for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the dim, flickering light of the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. Your gaze skims the room—nothing unfamiliar, nothing particularly threatening. It’s just a saloon, and you’ve been in enough of them over the years to know what to expect.

You walk to the bar and lean against it, tapping the counter lightly with your fingers. The bartender looks up, a friendly smile tugging at his lips.

“What can I get you?” he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind.

"Whiskey," you reply, your voice rough from the dry air and long ride. 

He nods and pours a generous amount into a glass, sliding it toward you. You reach into your pocket, feeling around for the cold metal of the money you got for the pelts, placing it on the counter. You pick up the drink, the weight of the glass cool in your hand, and take a long, steady drink, feeling the warmth spread through your chest.

For a moment, you just stand there, letting the whiskey settle in your stomach and the noise of the saloon wash over you. You don’t speak to anyone, don’t make eye contact with any of the patrons. You’re just another face in the crowd.

As the drink burns its way down, you feel the tension in your shoulders begin to loosen, the edge of exhaustion dulling just enough to let your thoughts wander. Valentine had been a pause in that motion, but it’s starting to feel like just another stop, another place to pass through on your way to somewhere else.

You take another sip, savoring the warmth that blooms in your chest. There’s no hurry to leave, not tonight. The road will still be waiting for you tomorrow, but for now, you can afford to rest—just for a little while.

After, watching the two men at the other end of the bar flirt with the saloon girls would be entertainment enough for the evening.

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

If only you know about the kind of trouble they would be accompanied by that evening. 

                ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

Time to meet the trouble ;) I’m always open to your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. <3 I would love feedback <3 My AO3 Account

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 10) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Start: Chapter 1  Previous: Chapter 9  Next: Chapter 11

Summary:

You both stopped, startled for a moment, before a soft snicker escaped your lips. Arthur let out a quiet chuckle of his own, the sound rough and warm, easing the tension in the small space. “Go ahead,” you offered, gesturing lightly with your hand. Arthur shook his head, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No, you first.”

Chapter 10: Tangled Words

       ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

You woke slowly, the haze of sleep clinging to your senses like a thick fog. Pain lanced through your side when you tried to shift, and your eyes flew open, your breath hitching in your chest. The first thing you saw wasn’t what you expected.

The woman leaning over you wasn’t who you expected. Instead of Arthur, a young woman with a soft, kind face and blonde hair pulled into loose curls was carefully adjusting the bandages around your abdomen. Her focus was so intent on her work that she didn’t notice your eyes open right away.

"Who are you?" you blurted, your voice hoarse and cracking. Panic surged through your veins as you tried to sit up, only to be met with a sharp stab of pain that forced you back down.

“Whoa, hey, take it easy!” The woman startled but quickly placed a hand on your shoulder to keep you from moving. Her voice was light and soothing, like the kind of tone you’d use to calm a spooked horse. “It’s alright, you’re safe.”

You blinked at her, the edges of her face still blurring in and out of focus. “Where... where’s the man who brought me here?” you asked, barely managing the words.

She smiled gently, pausing her work to meet your gaze. “Arthur's not here right now, but don’t worry. He made sure you were taken care of before heading out. You’re in good hands.”

“Where am I?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your mind racing as you tried to piece together what had happened. “What camp is this? What’s going on?”

The woman hesitated, her expression flickering with sympathy. “You’re at Horseshoe Overlook, miss. Our camp. Arthur carried you here after... well, after what happened out there. You’ve been through a lot, miss. You’re lucky he found you when he did.”

Her words only added to your confusion, but before you could ask anything else, she continued, her voice soft but insistent. “My name’s Mary-Beth Gaskill, by the way. And you’re—”

You interrupted, giving her your name, though your voice was weak.

Mary-Beth’s smile returned, brighter this time. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Miss. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

You tried to push past the grogginess, your thoughts circling back to Arthur. You were a little disorientated still. “Where is...” you trailed off, your brow furrowing. “Why would he do all this? I’m just... .” I’m just a stranger, you wanted to say. He could have left you at a doctors door, wiped his hands clean of any of this.

Mary-Beth’s gaze softened, and she busied herself smoothing the blanket over your legs. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve never seen Arthur so shaken. Poor man was really worried about you, miss. Wouldn’t leave your side until he knew you were patched up.”

You blinked, trying to make sense of that. “Where is Mister Morgan?” you asked after a moment, your voice low, uncertain.

Mary-Beth paused, then glanced at you with a knowing twinkle in her eye. “Oh, Mister Morgan, huh?” she teased, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "I was sure I heard you called him Arthur, now it's Mister Morgan?"

Your cheeks flushed with heat, and you quickly looked away. “That’s not what I—”

Mary-Beth giggled, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m just teasing. Arthur’s out, probably taking care of some business in Valentine. But don’t worry. He’ll be back soon enough. He always comes back.”

Her words carried a gentle reassurance, but they didn’t ease the strange knot forming in your chest. You couldn’t quite figure out why his absence felt so unsettling—or why Mary-Beth’s teasing made your heart race.

You let out a slow breath, trying to quell the uneasy feeling Mary-Beth's words stirred in you. Shifting slightly on the cot, you winced as a sharp pain reminded you of your injury.

Mary-Beth’s expression softened instantly, her teasing demeanour replaced by concern. “You should rest, miss. Arthur was very clear about making sure you don’t push yourself too hard.”

A dry chuckle escaped your lips before you could stop it. “He seems awfully good at giving orders.”

Mary-Beth laughed, a warm sound that filled the small space. “Oh, you have no idea. Arthur can be... let’s just say he’s got his own way of doing things. But he’s got a good heart, even if he doesn’t show it much.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. The image you had of the rugged gunslinger—the man who had snapped orders, helped you out of harm’s way, and refused to leave you behind—didn’t exactly line up with the picture Mary-Beth was painting.

Instead, you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the steady rhythm of the camp outside wash over you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint laughter of men around a fire, the clatter of pots, and the occasional neigh of a horse.

“Why am I here?” you asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Mary-Beth tilted her head, as though considering how to answer. “You mean at Horseshoe Overlook?”

You nodded. “He could’ve taken me to a doctor. Walked away.”

She sighed, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “I suppose he could have. But that’s not the kind of man Arthur is. He might act like he doesn’t care, but when it comes down to it, he’s not one to leave someone in trouble. You’re here because he chose to help. And because...” She trailed off, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

“Because what?” you pressed, though you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer.

Mary-Beth leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering as though she were sharing a secret. “You don't seem to be just a stranger to him, miss.”

Your heart skipped a beat at her words. The knot in your chest tightened, but you quickly pushed the thought aside.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said quickly, though the flush on your cheeks probably gave you away.

Mary-Beth didn’t push further, instead rising gracefully from her seat and smoothing her skirt. “You don’t have to know right now,” she said kindly. “Just focus on getting better. Everything else can wait.”

You watched her retreat to a nearby crate, gathering a pitcher and cup to pour you some water. Despite her soft tone, her words lingered, circling your mind like vultures over carrion.

The idea that someone as guarded and pragmatic as Mister Morgan—Arthur—might think of you as more than just a stranger felt ridiculous. You barely knew each other. And yet, the way he’d looked at you when you were bleeding in his arms, the urgency in his voice as he promised you’d be fine—it hadn’t felt like something born out of obligation.

“Here.” Mary-Beth’s voice pulled you from your thoughts as she handed you the cup of water. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

You accepted it gratefully, though your hands trembled slightly as you raised it to your lips. The cool liquid soothed your parched throat.

As Mary-Beth returned to her seat, you couldn’t help but ask one last question. “Do you think he’ll be back soon?”

She smiled softly, her expression almost motherly. “I think he’ll be back before you even notice he’s gone. He’s like that.”

You nodded, unsure why her answer brought a small measure of comfort. Settling back against the cot, you let out a slow breath, closing your eyes once more.

Despite the pain in your side and the uncertainty swirling in your mind, the sound of the camp outside and Mary-Beth’s quiet presence made you feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

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

Mary-Beth lingered, her presence warm and calming, as though she could sense you needed the company. The conversation drifted easily, her gentle voice filling the space between you. She shared bits about herself—how she’d come to the gang, the adventures she’d had along the way, and her love for romance stories and books.

It was easy to lose yourself in her words, letting the rhythm of her storytelling soothe the ache in your side and the anxiety still gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. When she mentioned her favourite novels, her eyes lit up with a spark of enthusiasm that reminded you of simpler, kinder moments in life.

You found yourself opening up in return, sharing your own fleeting moments of peace buried in pages of books you’d once cherished. There was no need for judgment or pretence; it was as if Mary-Beth’s kind heart could take the weight of any burden without faltering.

The camp’s noise seemed to fade, leaving the two of you in a bubble of calm. Time passed without notice until the heavy crunch of approaching footsteps shattered the quiet. They were purposeful and familiar, each step growing louder as they approached the wagon.

Mary-Beth paused mid-sentence, her gaze flicking toward the sound as Arthur appeared, his broad shoulders and weathered face framed in the opening. For a moment, he hesitated, his sharp blue eyes scanning the small space.

When his gaze landed on you, awake and sitting up slightly, something softened. Relief swept over his face, the tension in his features melting away as his shoulders relaxed. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of relief and something deeper.

Mary-Beth gave you a knowing smile and rose gracefully from her seat. “I think that’s my cue, I can faintly hear Miss Grimshaw calling me,” she murmured, smoothing her skirt as she stepped aside. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

With that, she slipped past Arthur, her presence a brief warmth against the cooler morning air as she left.

Arthur remained where he was for a moment, his eyes still fixed on you as if he needed to confirm you were truly all right. Then, after a beat, he stepped further into the space, his boots scuffing softly against the dirt floor.

“How’re you feelin’?” he asked, his voice low and steady, though there was a hint of vulnerability in the question. He leaned against one of the tent poles, leaning with his arms crossed as his gaze flickered over you, assessing your condition like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

You took a slow breath, wincing faintly at the pull of the bandages. “I’m okay,” you replied, your voice steady but quiet. It wasn’t entirely true—your side still ached, and the exhaustion was deep in your bones—but it felt like the right answer.

Arthur studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding slightly.

The silence stretched between you, both of you clearly thinking of what to say next. You opened your mouth to speak at the same time he did, his words overlapping yours in an awkward tangle.

You both stopped, startled for a moment, before a soft snicker escaped your lips. Arthur let out a quiet chuckle of his own, the sound rough and warm, easing the tension in the small space.

“Go ahead,” you offered, gesturing lightly with your hand.

Arthur shook his head, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No, you first.”

You hesitated, the small moment of humor giving you enough courage to meet his gaze. Whatever you’d been about to say was forgotten, replaced by the realization of how closely he was watching you. Not with pity, or worry exactly, but something else you couldn’t quite place.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice softer than you intended. “For helping me.”

Arthur’s expression shifted, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down briefly before looking back at you. “Weren’t gonna leave you out there,” he replied simply, his voice carrying a weight that felt far too heavy for such a straightforward answer. "Afterall, think we're a little past the point of that."

Arthur’s words hung in the air, simple yet heavy with meaning. You weren’t quite sure what to make of them, but there was a sincerity in his tone that made it impossible to brush off. He wasn’t saying it for effect or looking for gratitude—it was just the truth, plain and unvarnished.

You shifted slightly, careful of your bandages, unsure of how to respond. “I guess so,” you murmured, your gaze flickering away before landing back on him. "Still... it means a lot. To me. Saved my life, y'know.."

He studied you for a moment, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. Then he gave a slight nod, as if to say he’d heard you, even if he didn’t quite know what to do with your thanks.

Arthur leaned back slightly, resting his weight on one foot as he glanced around the small space of his tent. His other hand moved idly to scratch at the stubble on his jaw, a habit you were beginning to recognize.

“Well, you’ve been through the wringer,” he said after a beat, his tone lighter but still careful. "Guess that’s puttin’ it mildly, huh?”

A small huff of laughter escaped you, though it pulled at the wound in your side, making you wince. “You could say that.”

Arthur’s eyes darted to your bandaged side, his brow furrowing. “You sure you’re alright? You don’t need somethin’—water, food, somethin’ stronger for the pain?”

You shook your head, though his concern was oddly comforting. “I’m alright. Just... tired, I guess.”

He nodded again, his gaze drifting for a moment, before snapping back to yours. “Well, you take it easy. This camp’s got its quirks, but it’s safe enough.” There was a pause, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you before he added, “Reckon you’ll fit in fine, for however long you’re stayin’.”

The mention of staying caught you off guard, though you weren’t sure why. You hadn’t exactly been in a position to think about what came next, and now that the question was hanging in the air, it felt impossibly large.

“Guess we’ll see,” you said carefully, testing the words as you spoke them.

Arthur’s mouth twitched in a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Guess we will.”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, the quiet sounds of the camp filtering in from outside—the soft murmur of voices, the distant clatter of pots, the rhythmic scrape of a whetstone. It was oddly peaceful, in its way, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that the weight of your presence here was more complicated than either of you was letting on.

Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Get some rest,” he said, rising to his feet with an ease that belied the tension in his shoulders. He hesitated for a moment, his hand resting on the tent pole he had been leaning on, before glancing back at you. “If you need somethin’, you just holler. Alright?”

You nodded, offering him a faint smile. “Alright.”

With that, he stepped out of the tent, heading off for now. You watched him go, your thoughts swirling as the camp noises grew louder in his absence. Rest, he’d said, but you weren’t sure how you could, not with the questions buzzing in your mind—or the strange, unfamiliar sense of safety you felt, tucked away in this corner of the wilderness.

'Reckon you’ll fit in fine, for however long you’re stayin’.'

The question lingered in your mind, unanswered and heavy, as you lay there in the quiet of the tent. Could you stay? Should you? You didn’t know what it meant to stay anywhere anymore, not after everything. But there was something here, something strange and... possibly safer than you'd known in a long time. A part of you wanted to stay—to rest, to heal, and to not feel the ever-present weight of running. But the other part, the part that had survived all this time, resisted. Trust was a fragile thing, and you had learned long ago to be wary of anything that seemed too good to be true.

Your thoughts circled like vultures, picking apart every word Arthur had said, every look, every gesture. Had he meant what he said about fitting in? Or was it just a way to get you to stop asking questions, to calm you down? You weren’t sure.

The camp noises, the laughter of the others, the crackling of the fire, it all felt so... normal. For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it might be like to just... be a part of it. To not have to constantly watch your back, to not be looking over your shoulder every second of every day.

But then the weight of it all hit you again. You were still an outsider here, and you weren’t sure how long that would last.

With a sigh, you let your body relax back into the cot, the pain in your side more of a dull throb than the sharp agony it had been earlier. The warmth of the camp seemed to seep into your bones, and despite the swirl of thoughts in your head, your eyelids grew heavy.

The sounds of the camp faded into the background, muffled by the cocoon of exhaustion wrapping around you. You didn’t know how long it would take to fall asleep, but it didn’t matter. For now, you let go of the questions, the uncertainties, the doubts, and surrendered to the quiet pull of slumber.

Maybe tomorrow would bring answers. Or maybe it would bring more questions. But for now, you allowed yourself the rare luxury of rest.

               ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The next few days passed in a blur, the line between sleep and wakefulness thinning until you could barely tell one from the other. You drifted in and out of slumber, your body still fighting off the exhaustion and pain of the injury, but slowly, it was becoming easier to sleep. The fever had broken, and the bandages stayed clean, which was a good sign, though you were still unsure how much of your strength had returned. The silence of the tent, broken only by the occasional creak of the wagon or the distant laughter of the others, became a strange comfort.

Every now and then, someone would come by—Karen, Miss Grimshaw, and Tilly mostly—each checking on your bandages, adjusting them, or offering you something to eat or drink. They were kind, in their own ways, and their presence felt almost soothing. You learned Karen had a quick wit and a tendency to laugh at the smallest things, while Miss Grimshaw’s sharp eyes missed nothing, her motherly demeanor softening the edge of her authority. Tilly had a softness to her, a warmth in her voice that reminded you of simpler things, of kindness from before you’d started living in the dirt.

But even with their kindness, there were moments when you felt the weight of the others' gazes. Some would glance at you as they passed, their expressions curious, wary, or simply distant. The other members of camp seem they wasn’t used to strangers, and they weren’t exactly quick to trust anyone outside their circle, from what you gathered. You couldn’t blame them for that, though it did make you feel like an intruder, even though you had no place else to go.

Arthur would come by every day too, checking in, bringing you food and water when he could, never asking for anything in return. His presence was a constant, something grounding you in the haze of recovery. He never stayed long, always moving with a sense of purpose, but he would linger for a few moments at the tent, his blue eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something in your expression. You would have preferred it if he did linger for longer, finding yourself missing him after each interaction.

You tried to thank him each time, but the words never felt like enough. So instead, you focused on getting better, determined not to be a burden. Still, his visits brought a sense of comfort to the long days, even if he didn’t say much—just quiet words of encouragement before he left. Somehow, you found yourself looking forward to those moments, the warmth they left behind lingering in your chest.

The days seemed to stretch on forever, the rhythm of the camp continuing around you while you slowly regained your strength. But eventually, you could feel the difference—your body was healing, slowly but surely. And when the pain in your side finally dulled to a manageable ache, you found the strength to sit up, propping yourself against the side of the cot with a sigh of relief.

It was early in the afternoon, the sun shining down from above, when you heard the familiar sound of boots approaching. You glanced over, glad to see Arthur standing just outside the tent. He paused there, his figure half-hidden in the shade of the wagon, before stepping in.

“Up for talkin’ to someone?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of uncertainty in his words, like he wasn’t sure how you’d feel about his interruption.

You glanced around the tent, noting how still the air felt, how the quiet seemed almost unnatural. “Yeah,” you replied, your voice rough from disuse, but you didn’t feel the weight of it as much anymore. “I could do with some company.”

Arthur gave a short nod, his lips curling into a subtle grin. He leaned against the tent pole, his arms crossing casually, but you could see the slight tension in his stance. As though he was still waiting for something, just as he had been waiting before—maybe for you to open up, to feel like you were a part of the gang, or maybe just for the weight of the silence to finally lift.

Arthur glanced at you, his expression softening, as if sensing the quiet weight of the moment. “How’re you feelin’ today?” he asked, the concern still there beneath the surface of his words.

You gave him a small, tired smile. The concern in his voice making your chest feel slightly tigher. “Better. I think... I’m ready to get out of here soon.”

He pauses, a subtle tense of his shoulders. “Don’t rush it. You don't need to be leavin', y'know….”

“I’m not trying to rush,” you said, your voice a little quieter now, your eyes tracing the worn edges of the cot. You had been trying to ignore the fact that this cot unmistakably must smell like him. “I just... don’t like feeling useless. Don’t want to be stuck in here forever.”

Arthur’s eyes softened, and he stepped closer, his boots shuffling on the ground as if unsure whether to come closer or remain at a distance. “Ain’t no harm in restin’,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “You’ve been through a lot. You need to heal, not just your body, but...” His words trailed off for a second, and you couldn’t help but notice the faintest pause, as if he was thinking something he didn’t want to say. He moves more into the tent now, leaning against the table as he glances down at you. “Well, I reckon you’ll know when it’s time. But, I would like it if you, y'know, stuck around..”

You couldn’t quite bring yourself to respond, the weight of his words settling heavily between you. Instead, you gave a small nod, letting the moment linger in the quiet. The warmth creeping into your cheeks was impossible to ignore, leaving you feeling unsteady under the soft intensity of his gaze.

Arthur shifted on his feet, his gaze drifting briefly toward the entrance of the tent, as if waiting for something—or someone. As he opens his mouth again, he's cut off by another voice.

"Arthur! My boy— "

You looked up just as the voice rang out from the corner of the camp before there, framed in between the tent poles with Arthur, stood an older man. His presence was commanding, even as he leaned casually against the frame, a small grin tugging at his lips. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his face etched with age but still carrying that unmistakable charisma that had always made him the center of attention. His dark hair was slicked back, and there was a certain gleam in his eyes, a mixture of confidence and something else—a keen awareness of every little thing around him.

For a split second, your mind flickered back to the chaotic scene in Valentine, where you had seen this man in the aftermath of that messy bar fight on the street, talking to Arthur and a few other men. His voice then, firm and unyielding, had echoed in the dusty air. But here, in the quiet of the camp, there was a softer edge to him. It was almost disarming, how he could shift between those two sides of himself with such ease.

“Dutch,” Arthur said with a nod of his head.

Arthur didn’t seem surprised by Dutch’s sudden appearance, but you could sense a slight tension in his posture as he turned toward him. There was something in the air between the two of them, something unspoken, but Dutch’s smile was warm, though it had a mischievous undertone.

“Well, look at that,” Dutch said, his eyes scanning over you briefly before focusing on Arthur. “She’s a tough one, isn’t she?” His tone was light, but there was a layer of seriousness beneath it. He then turned his gaze back to you, his smile widening. “Glad to see you’re up, miss. We were all startin’ to get a little worried. Arthur here, though—he's been somethin' else. Haven't seen him quite like this before, to be honest.”

The words hung in the air, the hint of teasing lingering, and you couldn’t help but feel a wave of discomfort. It wasn’t anything malicious, but the way Dutch spoke about Arthur, with that knowing glint in his eyes, made you wonder what exactly had been going on while you’d been unconscious.

You shifted on the cot, not quite sure what to say, but Dutch didn’t seem to need any response. His eyes softened for a brief moment, and he stepped fully into the tent, his boots sounding firm against the floor.

He offered you another grin, this one a little more genuine as he gave a small bow of his head. “I suppose I should’ve introduced myself properly. Dutch van der Linde.” His voice was smooth, easy as he introduced himself.

He glanced over at Arthur, a slight twinkle in his eye, before returning his focus to you. “I'll say Miss, I'm more then happy to have you here. I reckon you’ll fit in just fine.” He paused, letting that hang in the air for a moment, before his smile shifted into something more calculating. “Arthur here said you can shoot rather well, Miss. If you're planning to stick around, I’m short on people who are good at that at the moment—we could all really use the extra help around here.”

There was a moment of silence, and you could feel Arthur tense beside you, his jaw tightening. His gaze flickered to Dutch, and there was something in the look he gave him—something you couldn’t quite place, but it was sharp, an unspoken warning.

You could feel the weight of Dutch’s words in the air, the implication that you might be expected to contribute in more ways than one. Still, he was smiling, his tone light, and you could tell he was gauging your reaction, as though trying to read whether you’d accept what he was offering—or if you were even willing to stay for that long.

Arthur shifted slightly, his posture more rigid now, his hand resting on the edge of the table he was leaning on, but he didn’t speak just yet. You caught his eye for a moment, and his expression was unreadable, but there was something there. A protectiveness? Concern? Maybe a little bit of both.

Dutch, unfazed by the tension between the two of you, continued, his voice smooth. “Well, just think about it, Miss. Ain’t no pressure on the matter. We take care of our own here, and I reckon you’ve got skills that could be valuable. Around here, we all contribute to keep this camp running.”

Your thoughts swirled. The offer was tempting, and you knew there was truth in what he said. You could shoot, and the prospect of staying with people who could offer you some sense of stability, however fleeting, wasn’t entirely unappealing. But you also felt the weight of the decision pressing on you, especially with Arthur standing there, as if waiting for your response.

After a moment of tense silence, you finally spoke, your voice steady but cautious. “I’ll think about it,” you said, looking Dutch squarely in the eye. “But...” You paused, considering your words carefully, “I ain't above working to pay you all back, for helping me, that is.”

Dutch’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flash of something in his gaze—amusement, perhaps. “Fair enough,” he said with a nod. “I don’t expect anything you’re not willing to give. Just know, Miss, that we’re a family here. There ain’t no better place to be.”

He glanced back at Arthur, who was still watching him carefully, the weight of the unspoken conversation hanging in the air between them. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” Dutch added. “I’ve got business to take care of, but remember—if you’re lookin’ to make yourself useful, we’d be more than happy to have you here. All we ask is that you pull your weight.”

Dutch gave a final nod, his grin widening as he stepped toward the entrance of the tent. “Until later, Miss,” he called over his shoulder before stepping outside, his voice fading as the sounds of camp life returned, leaving you alone with Arthur once again.

The silence that followed was thick, hanging in the air between you both. Neither of you spoke for a long while. You felt his eyes on you, his presence steady, but there was a subtle tension there—unspoken words passing between you. Finally, Arthur sighed, leaning back slightly against the table.

“Dutch... he’s got a way of makin’ everything sound like somethin’ more than it is,” Arthur muttered, the hint of what sounds like annoyance creeping into his voice. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just tryin’ to size you up. Read ya', read folk, y'know.”

You nodded slowly, your mind still swirling with Dutch’s words. There was something about his offer, about his whole demeanor, that didn’t sit right with you—but you couldn’t deny the pull of the life he was offering.

Arthur’s eyes softened slightly as he watched you, his posture relaxing just a little. He shifted on his feet, tapping the edge of the table with his fingers before speaking again, his voice quieter, more reassuring.

“You don’t gotta do anything to pay us back, you know,” he said, his words deliberate, almost as if he was trying to make sure you understood. “We take care of each other here. You’re here now, that’s enough.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze steady on you, then added, “There’s plenty of other work around camp that don’t have nothin’ to do with guns, if that’s what you’re worried about. We all pitch in. No pressure to get your hands dirty with that stuff unless you want to...”

You felt the weight of his words sink in, a small sense of relief mingling with the confusion still buzzing in your mind. Arthur’s tone was soft but firm, like he wasn’t just trying to ease your worries about working here—he was trying to remind you that you didn’t owe anyone anything, not in the way you were thinking.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, looking up at him with a small but genuine smile. “That means a lot.”

Arthur nodded, his lips pulling into a faint smile as he leaned back against the table again, his arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t mention it. Just focus on gettin’ back on your feet for now.” He paused, his eyes flicking toward the camp entrance before returning to you. “When you’re ready, there’s no rush. And when you feel like helpin’, there’ll be plenty of ways you can contribute. No need to dive into anything too fast.”

You nodded again, absorbing the weight of his words, feeling a little more at ease.

Arthur’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his eyes softening. Then, as if something had caught his attention, a small scoff passed his lips, and he shook his head lightly with amusement. Without thinking, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out, his rough fingers brushing the top of your head as if he were assessing something he hadn't noticed before.

“You got a cow lick there, spitfire” he mumbled, his voice low, almost teasing, his lips curling into a smirk. His hand lingered there for just a second longer than necessary, the touch a little too familiar, a little too soft for it to feel entirely innocent.

He pulled his hand back quickly, as if realizing a moment too late that he'd crossed some invisible line, his eyes flicking to the side for a brief moment before he met your gaze again. There was something in his expression now—an odd mixture of warmth and the faintest hint of affection. Maybe, there was a lingering tension between you two, or maybe it was the way his smile softened, like he was trying to keep the moment light while something unspoken simmered just beneath the surface.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice a little rougher now, but there was an underlying softness to it that made it feel less like an apology and more like an admission of something... more personal. “Guess I got used to seein’ you with their hair all neat and tidy. Haven't noticed that before. With ya' hat and all.”

His gaze never fully left yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving the two of you suspended in that space between friendly banter and something else—a tension that neither of you quite knew how to name, yet.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the proximity of his presence doing something funny to your pulse. But you couldn’t bring yourself to look away, even as the air around you thickened.

He shifted slightly, his posture still relaxed but now charged with something else. There was a faint twitch of his lips, like he was trying to decide whether to smile or say something else entirely.

You felt his gaze, steady and unyielding, but it was tempered by something else now—something gentler. His shoulders seemed to drop a fraction, and the space between you didn’t feel quite as distant as before.

It was almost as if, without saying a word, he was letting you know that whatever this was—this slow-burning moment, this unspoken connection that you were both feeling—it didn’t need to be explained. Not yet.

“Don’t worry about it,” you finally said, your voice quieter, your smile soft but genuine. You couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but there was something comforting in the silence that followed. The way he didn’t rush to fill it, the way you didn’t feel the need to either.

Arthur’s gaze flickered to the ground, almost as if he were trying to find the right words but didn’t quite know how to put them into the space between you. Then, after a long moment, he spoke again, this time quieter, more vulnerable than before. “You know, you ain’t gotta rush into anything. I mean... everything around here... well, it’s a lot. It can get to you, but we look out for each other.”

You nodded, something in his words resonating deeply. “I can see that. I don’t... I don’t plan on rushing into anything.” Your voice was steady now, firmer as you allowed yourself to sink into the idea of what he was offering, that maybe your words had a double meaning for him. “But it feels good, to have some place to breathe for a while.”

Arthur’s shoulders seemed to ease at your response, his lips curving into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes—enough to let you know he understood exactly what you meant.

"Good," he murmured. "Good."

And in that moment, standing there with him, it didn’t feel like you were just a stranger anymore. It felt like you were... well, like you were starting to belong.

The air between you shifted again—no longer heavy with awkwardness, but filled with an unspoken understanding. You could feel the connection building, layer by layer, neither of you rushing to define it, but letting it unfold in its own time.

Just as the moment between you and Arthur began to settle, the sound of someone calling out broke the stillness. “Arthur!” The voice came from outside the tent, sharp and clear. Arthur hesitated, glancing over his shoulder toward the source of the call.

“Guess I’d better see what’s up,” he muttered, giving you a small, almost apologetic look. He straightened up, the lightness in his posture returning as he pushed himself off the table. “I’ll check on you later, alright?”

You nodded, watching as he made his way toward the entrance of the tent. His boots made a soft thudding sound against the ground as he disappeared out into the camp. The moment he disappears from your sight, you let out a small breath, as if you’d been holding it without even realizing.

With Arthur gone, the tension in the air eased, but a strange warmth still lingered in your chest. You shifted on the cot, suddenly more aware of the quiet—the soft hum of camp life carrying on outside the tent. Taking a steadying breath, you tried to shake the feeling that had settled over you, though it clung stubbornly, refusing to fade entirely.

Then, almost by instinct, your gaze lifted to the entrance of the tent. It was then that your eyes locked with two familiar faces—Mary-Beth and Karen, standing not too far off, their expressions unreadable at first. But as you looked at them, a small, knowing smile tugged at both their lips.

It was subtle, but it was there—something in the way they were looking at you made your heart race. It didn’t take long for you to realize that they’d seen the exchange, the little moment between you and Arthur, and their smiles made it clear that they were both very aware of what had just transpired.

A warm flush spread across your cheeks, and for a moment, you couldn’t decide whether to laugh or hide under the covers. You quickly looked away, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing how flustered you were. But they would anyway. 

You glanced up to see Mary-Beth and Karen walking toward the tent, both of them glancing at each other and then back at you, their expressions filled with something you couldn’t quite place. As they drew closer, their knowing glances made you shift on the cot.

Mary-Beth was the first to speak, her voice light and teasing, but there was a soft amusement in her tone. “Well, well, look who’s been getting all the attention,” she said, a small grin tugging at her lips.

Karen, her eyes wide with a hint of mischief, let out a low chuckle. “Looks like someone’s makin’ themselves comfortable around here.”

You felt the flush heat up more on your cheeks, your heart skipping a beat again. Their playful teasing only made it worse, and you could feel your face heat with a mix of embarrassment and something else, something that made you feel suddenly self-conscious.

Before you could muster a response, both of them were already moving off, their laughter light in the air as they exchanged more whispered words you couldn’t quite hear. But the look they shared lingered, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to their teasing than simple curiosity.

You sighed, leaning back against the cot, your thoughts racing. But as you let your head fall back, a small, amused chuckle slipped from your lips. The teasing from Mary-Beth and Karen had caught you off guard, sure, but now that the initial flush had faded, you couldn’t help but find it a little funny.

It was clear that the camp had its own way of keeping an eye on things, and right now, you were the subject of their playful interest. You half-smiled to yourself, wondering if that’s how it always went around here—everyone keeping tabs on each other, no matter how small the moment seemed.

You ran your fingers through your hair, still feeling that funny little flutter from Arthur’s teasing touch. "Cow lick," you muttered to yourself, rolling your eyes. Was he really so distracted by that? You couldn’t help but laugh, imagining what it must’ve looked like from their perspective.

Of course, you thought, just what I need—a whole camp watching my every move.

You could feel your cheeks heat again, but this time, you leaned into the ridiculousness of it all. Life in a camp with other people wasn’t exactly simple, but at least it was never dull. As much as it made you flustered, you couldn’t deny the odd comfort in knowing that you weren’t alone here—that these people, for better or worse, were paying attention.

And as much as you might not be ready for it, maybe that was the first real step in figuring out what exactly you were getting yourself into.

With one last laugh at the absurdity of it all, you pushed the teasing thoughts aside. For now, all you could do was take things one moment at a time—cow lick and all.

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Thank you to everyone who has been reading! I really appreciate you all!

[sheriffaxolotl]

Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 8) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Start: Chapter 1 Previous: Chapter 7 Next: Chapter 9

Summary:

She didn’t know him, and from what he could tell, she didn’t much care for him either. She’d almost been cool as ice in that moment—daring, maybe even foolish, but she hadn’t flinched when he’d glared at her like she were some damn threat. Or not that he had noticed, not with his blood pumping and mind racing. No, she held eye contact with him until that other fella spoke up, causing him to look away. She had pretty eyes.

Chapter 8: Through His Eyes

Content warning: Some violence and being held at gun point - nothing too graphic

     ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻ The first time they crossed paths in Blackwater had been quick, barely a second before the chaos hit. She collided with him, all fire and fury, and in the blink of an eye, three lawmen were down, their blood staining the street before he'd even drawn his own gun.

He’d remembered her then—sharp-eyed, with a sharp tongue to match. She vanished into the crowd like a damn shadow slipping through the cracks. Trouble. The kind nobody could ignore, even if they tried.

In the days after, the memory kept popping up in his head, unbidden. The way she handled herself—like she'd been born in gunfire and didn't care who knew it. How her gaze didn’t waver, even when the bullets were flying. And the way she'd left with sharp words thrown his way, leaving behind only the smell of smoke and the weight of her presence. Arthur had seen plenty of folks like her—sure—but that moment had struck him, almost haunting in a way.

Maybe it was because she was damn pretty. Not often you see a pretty thing wearing the clothes of a man, making it look good—without a care in the world. She wore it like it was second nature, the dust and grit of the road coating it. Hell, she made that rough, worn gear look like it belonged on her, like it was tailored to her.

And then there was her mouth. She had a way of speaking to him, sharp and dismissive, like he was just another obstacle in her path, even though she was the one who’d run into him. Rude, sure—but it wasn’t just that. It was the way she held herself, like she didn’t give a damn who he was or what he thought. That kind of attitude was rare—especially in a woman. But damn if it didn’t get his attention.

She was just an oddity.

Even in the goddamn Grizzlies, as he shivered through cold nights and dug his boots deep into the snow, her face would drift into his thoughts. He couldn’t figure it out. Why he thought about her so much, especially when there was more pressing shit on his plate. Escaping Blackwater, making sure the gang stayed alive, keeping his own head above water. But there it was—her image, sharp as a bullet, cutting through the fog of exhaustion and worry.

He figured it was just curiosity. A passing thought, a brief collision with someone he’d never see again. That’s all it was, right?

But even as he stood there in the bitter cold, staring at the star-filled sky, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling.

He tried not to think about it. But every damn time he closed his eyes, there she was—sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and just out of reach.

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Arthur took a drag from his cigarette by the campfire. The walk back to camp from Valentine had been long. A damn pain and a waste of time. All it left for him to do was think, and thinking was the last thing he wanted to do.

Arthur had seen a lot of things in his time. More than most folks could stomach. Fights, brawls, and the kind of chaos that never seemed to end. And yet, something about that night in Valentine stuck with him.

Of course, someone had to cause trouble, and of course, it was damn Williamson. The last thing they needed was another damn fight, but here he was, driving his fist into some fella’s stomach before his eyes wandered over the scene.

The familiar sight of long hair and a pitched-front cowboy hat caught his eye.

He’d seen her before the fight broke out, hadn’t he? A glance from the corner of his eye. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if it was her, not sure if he was just seeing things through the haze of whiskey and cigarette smoke. But then—then, as his eyes finally settled on her, it clicked.

Her. It had been her. The woman in the same bar as him, throwing punches like she was born to it, the way she ducked and dodged like a wildcat. He’d felt the jolt of recognition when she swung a punch and knocked some fool flat.

Arthur leaned back against the log, eyes on the fire crackling softly in front of him, the warmth of it a welcome contrast to the chill that still clung to his bones. He let the smoke from his cigarette curl upward in lazy spirals, his thoughts drifting again to her. Funny how his mind always wandered back to that woman, even now, with all the shit going on in his life. Maybe it was because of the way she kept turning up, how she seemed to show up only when trouble was about. Or maybe it was just the way she made him feel—like he was standing on the edge of something, just out of reach but so damn close he could taste it.

She didn’t even hesitate—just stepped into the fray after some fool ended up colliding with her.

Arthur chuckled under his breath; the memory still vivid. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a fight break out in a bar, but it was the first time he’d seen a woman jump in with such reckless abandon. The way she dodged, her fists flying, every move reckless as the last. It was a damn thing of beauty, even if it was chaos incarnate.

Hell, she didn’t care who was watching, didn’t care who was betting on her to lose. Even when the odds were stacked against her. It was oddly attractive to see something like that. It was clear she was no stranger to the kind of violence that could crack a man’s skull wide open or send him crawling for mercy. She handled herself like she had nothing to prove or lose, like she'd been in a hundred brawls, and she knew just how they played out.

Arthur shook his head and took another drag from his cigarette. Damn, he wasn’t even sure what he was thinking anymore. He’d seen a lot of women in his day—some kind, some cold, some rough, some sweet—but none of them made him feel like this. None of them got under his skin the way she did. Maybe Mary, but even with her, it had been something sweet, proper. This lady was definitely neither of those things.

He didn’t like being drawn into things he couldn’t control, things that left him questioning himself. And damn sure didn’t like being left with questions without answers.

Arthur’s mind drifted back to the sound of her footsteps fading into the steady hum of the rain, after she had returned his hat. He didn’t turn to look back, not right away. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the dim stretch of road, eyes narrowed against the wet chill that had crept into his bones. His fingers tightened around the brim of his hat, still cold and damp from the storm, and he felt the weight of it—heavy, familiar, like the weight of his own skin.

He didn’t expect her to come out here. Hell, he didn’t expect anyone to get involved, especially not her. The way she’d stepped into that mess, like she hadn’t thought of what might happen. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just... reckless. A damn reckless woman.

He wondered why she’d done it. Why she’d stepped in when everyone else was just watching, or just throwing cheers or asking him to stop. It wasn’t like she had any reason to stop him, not really. She didn’t know him, and from what he could tell, she didn’t much care for him either. She’d almost been cool as ice in that moment—daring, maybe even foolish, but she hadn’t flinched when he’d glared at her like she were some damn threat. Or not that he had noticed, not with his blood pumping and mind racing. No, she held eye contact with him until that other fella spoke up, causing him to look away.

She had pretty eyes.

Arthur remembered his eyes flickering to the street, then back to the soggy mess in front of him, and he caught himself wiping the rain off his face for the second time. There was something about the way the water slid down his skin that made it feel like it was all washing away. Like he’d been standing in the rain long enough for it to take the edge off the heat in his chest, the thing that always felt ready to snap, to boil over. It felt a little better, but not enough. It had eased up when she came back out. Spoken to him, nice enough to bring his hat, save him the hassle. Small talk. He had been an ass, sneering at her like that.

He couldn’t decide if it was a relief or an annoyance that she’d stepped into the fight. Part of him hated it—the idea that someone, a stranger no less, could just waltz into his business and stop him cold. He didn’t take kindly to being interrupted. Especially not when he was that deep in a fight. But another part of him... couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there had been something almost necessary about it. Maybe not for Tommy’s sake, but for his. For the way it had felt, the way his rage had nearly taken over.

He’d been so close. So close to losing it all over a stupid fight. Now it wouldn’t have been Williamson making a mess, it would have been him. It wasn’t the first time. Won’t be the last. But something about that moment—something about the way she’d held him back—had given him a second to think. A second to remember that maybe there were lines you didn’t want to cross, even when the world felt like it was pulling him in every direction.

And that was what stuck with him. That damn pause. That damn hesitation.

Arthur scowled into the rain, shoving the thought away. He wasn’t the type to let anyone dictate his actions—not then, not now. But her—she had given him that pause.

“Damn fool,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his hat with a rough motion. He wasn’t about to give it any more thought. Not now, anyway. But the more he tried to shake it off, the more her face stuck with him.

He turned his back to the general store, his shoulders heavy, and began to walk back in the direction of camp. His boots squelched in the mud, the noise loud in his ears, but his mind was elsewhere.

He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve let her fade into the distance with the rest of the noise. But that damn curiosity? It kept creeping back in, gnawing at him. What was it about this woman? What did she want? What made her stick out from the other folks who crossed his path?

And why the hell did it matter so damn much?

Arthur couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to see her again. To get to know her, what made her tick, even if he didn’t quite want to admit that. And hell, maybe that was what scared him most. The fact that he didn’t know if he wanted to find out—or if he was already in too deep.

He took a final drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the fire, groaning as he got up from his seated position on the floor. He needed to sleep.

And he damn well needed to let this go. It’s not like he would be running into her again anytime soon.

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

Meeting her again like that, in the Heartlands, was by chance. But damn, it should have been a slim one.

Arthur had seen her briefly, from the trail as he was riding. She had been crouching, rifle poked towards a herd of deer. Focused, that’s how she had looked. Hell, he should have kept going, left it be. But he didn’t. No, instead, he decided to make a fool of himself. But that had seemed to work in his favor. The invitation to hunt—that was the least he expected, but he took it, hoping to ease this curiosity that was boiling within him.

He glanced sideways at her, her silhouette cutting through the misty morning air, her movements confident. The way she handled that rifle, the way she kept her space—he appreciated it. She wasn’t the type to let small talk get in the way of business. But it wasn’t just the hunting, or her sharp tongue, that had his attention. It had been the way she’d teased him back, how her words were sharp but never too harsh. There was an honesty to her—whether she knew it or not—and it caught him off guard.

It hadn’t been like this before.

He’d never been one to stick around and make small talk, but here he was—walking the same trail, taking the same risks, all because he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something unfinished between them. The look she’d given him when he mentioned Blackwater had stuck with him more than he cared to admit. It was a reminder of a time he’d just as soon forget—because that would mean he would be over whatever this was.

He pulled his hat lower, casting his gaze downward, his mind drifting back to the woman walking next to him. She’d given him space, given him a choice—something no one ever really did.

He was a man who’d spent a lot of time fighting—fighting for survival, fighting for control—but she hadn’t asked for that. Hell, she didn’t even seem all that impressed by him.

Maybe that was what bothered him most.

The silence stretched on between them, and as much as Arthur tried to push the thoughts away, he couldn't help but find himself glancing over at her again, studying the easy way she walked, the way she held her rifle like it was an extension of herself.

She wasn’t looking for trouble. But she sure as hell seemed comfortable with it.

Maybe she wanted to show him up. Fine. But something told him that wasn’t the only thing she was after. Maybe she was testing him, too.

Arthur didn’t mind that, though. Not one bit.

So, he followed. Let the trail lead them both deeper into the woods, to wherever it was that they were heading—whether it was the elk, or something else entirely. Because, damn it, maybe there was more to this than he’d thought. And whatever it was, he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers.

He thought back to the way she’d fixed his shot—casual, yet so damn sure of herself. The way her fingers brushed his hand, neither warm nor cold, just a fleeting touch, but enough to make him wonder if there was more to her than the rough edges. The way she had guided him without a word of judgment. And that look she’d given him—soft, like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. He didn’t think he did it on purpose, but he had thought about it during the walk.

He wanted to see if she really was good enough with a rifle to pick up someone else’s form. And damn, it was worth it, just to get her close.

He’d been surprised at how easy it was to work together, to share space and silence without it feeling forced or awkward. He’d never been good at this—reading people, trying to figure them out.

Damn fool, he had muttered under his breath, but the words didn’t feel right. They didn’t fit anymore, not after that day.

Arthur shifted, feeling the weight of his rifle against his back as he adjusted his saddle, then glanced back down the path that led away from the clearing. For a moment, his gaze lingered, but then he turned away. He had business to take care of. And besides, who was he kidding? She’d made it clear enough—she didn’t seem to want him around, not for long anyway.

She only offered for him to come hunting with her out of convenience, or pity.

The idea of sticking around, letting himself become part of someone’s life… It was absurd. He’d been around long enough to know better. Maybe Mary had settled that for him. He wasn’t good enough, anyhow. Not for Mary, and not for this woman. He was sure of it.

But even as he muttered the words to himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he was fooling himself, that maybe there was something more there—something he wasn’t quite ready to confront.

He scoffed, even as a small part of him regretted the way he’d dismissed her without thinking, the teasing about not missing too many shots. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way she had kept her distance like she was trying to keep the world from getting too close.

It was a dance, both of them stepping around the things they were too afraid to touch.

Maybe he could ease his mind once he’s back at camp; maybe writing it all down will make it easier to understand.

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

It wasn’t just by chance anymore; he was sure of it. Not when the chime of the bell in the gunsmith had him looking over his shoulder, just to see her.

His mind lingered on the conversation they'd just had in the store. It wasn’t often he found himself in a back-and-forth like that—something so... easy. But every time they spoke, it was Just like that. Easy. Even if it wasn’t always comfortable, the way she spoke—sharp, sure, with just a hint of challenge—had a way of making everything else feel a little lighter. A lot lighter, actually.

And that moment outside the gunsmith, with the sun beating down and the hustle of the town around them... It was just a brief exchange, wasn’t it? But somehow, it felt different from the usual fleeting interactions he was used to. Least, he wanted it to be more than just that, for the both of them.

He hadn’t meant for those words—“if she were my wife”—to slip out. It had been a joke, light-hearted teasing, but the moment they left his mouth, he saw it. That flicker in her eyes. A pause before she shot back with one of her usual biting retorts. Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of it, but it unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.

His fingers tapping absently against his satchel as he drew in another drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled around him, thick and heavy. Maybe he was reading too much into it, like he had been all this time. Maybe. But there was something about her that had him second-guessing his usual way of thinking. Had him hoping.

He wasn’t a man who got easily attached. Hell, he barely let anyone get close anymore, only keeping the gang close. But the thing with her? That was different. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t want to think about it too much.

Arthur flicked his thumb against the cigarette, watching the ash fall to the ground, his eyes still on the road ahead. She hadn’t stuck around long enough for him to figure it out. The way she laughed at his comment, the way she carried herself—it lingered, even after he’d walked away. He didn’t intend to chase after her, didn’t have time for that. But as he turned the corner and walked back toward his horse, a strange thought crept into his mind: Maybe, just maybe, he’d see her before she really left town. Maybe he’d ask her to stick around or go for another day of hunting.

He stopped just past the corner, looking over his shoulder. Half-expecting her still to be outside the gunsmith’s, standing on the porch, her eyes following him, but he was met only with an empty space where she had last been. For a moment, a strange disappointment bloomed in his chest, but he pushed it aside. He was getting soft—too soft.

But damn if that smile of hers, the way she carried herself, didn’t make him feel different. Good, even. Maybe it was just the heat.

Arthur shook his head, adjusting his hat as he set off again, moving deeper into the street. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. It had been a long time since he’d let himself think on things like this.

He glanced back one last time, before focusing ahead again, his hand instinctively reaching for the cigarette pack at his side.

“Hell,” he muttered, shaking his head, “Come on, Arthur. Focus.” But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop wondering if, just maybe, there was something worth looking into.

              ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

He had been riding back from following a lead Javier had brought up. It was late now, the sun long dipped behind the mountains, the sky now an inky black littered with stars. He felt like the The day had been a waste. The lead was a dud, the place Javier had told him about having been cleared out. He had been hoping to bring back more money. The camp was running low on medical supplies, and if anything goes wrong, they won’t be prepared.

As his horse rode down the dirt trail, a flicker of a fire between the cover of dense trees caught his attention.

Maybe his luck was about to improve.

It didn’t take much effort to get close enough after dismounting his horse. Whoever this was, wrapped up and clearly distracted, had some money on them. They had a nice tent, small, but the canvas was tough, looked well made.

He didn’t give it a second thought when he pulled the bandana over the bottom half of his face. Anyone stupid enough to be so distracted out here deserved to be robbed.

It had been so easy, sneaking up on whoever this was, pressing the revolver barrel to the back of their head. He watched as they tensed up, heard the way their breath hitched or sped up. They had mumbled something, so quietly he didn’t catch it.

That had annoyed him. He told them not to make a sound. He was tempted to just shoot them at that, but when they spoke louder, his heart dropped into his stomach.

That damn voice.

She was the last person he'd expected to see here, now, sitting alone in the dark with nothing but the firelight to break the spell of night. A flicker of guilt twisted in his gut, the weight of it heavy as he realized what he'd done. How close he'd come to hurting her—really hurting her. The realization settled into his bones, the reality of it leaving him feeling shaken and unsteady.

He cursed, stepped away from her like being close to her might burn him.

His breath came out in sharp bursts as he stood there, the gun still in his hand, lowered but not completely absent. The weight of the situation, of the moment, pressed down on him like the heavy iron of a trap, pinning him in place. This wasn’t just a robbery of a fool or a lowlife in need of a bullet to the gut. This was her.

Her words still rang in his ears, sharp with shock, edged with disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The question felt like a slap, stinging in the silence that followed. Arthur found himself unable to answer, his own words stuck in his throat like stones. His gaze dropped to the ground, to the dirt between them, like looking at her might make the whole thing worse somehow.

He wanted to apologize, to say something to fix the mistake he had almost made, but nothing seemed to make sense. The only thing he could feel was the weight of the gun in his hand, the way it hung at his side, useless. His mouth felt dry, the air too thick to breathe properly.

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, but the image of her sitting by the fire was burned into his mind.

This wasn't something he wanted her to see, not of him. Not this side. Not now, not ever. But the damage was done, and there was no going back.

Finally, he found the words. They came out slowly, hesitant, like pulling teeth.

"I wasn't tryin' to scare you," Arthur said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice sounded raw, hoarse, like he hadn't used it in weeks. He cleared his throat, trying to push past the weight that had settled in his chest.

He glanced down at the gun, a bitter taste rising in his throat. He didn't want to think about how close he'd come to hurting her, how much damage he could've done. The thought made his stomach turn, and for a brief, horrifying moment, he wondered what might have happened if she hadn't recognized his voice.

No. He couldn't go there. Couldn't let his mind linger on the darkest possibilities, on what might have been. It didn't matter. Not anymore. Right now, he had to think of some way out of this mess he had made.

"What were you doin'?" she demanded, the edge in her voice sending a chill down his spine. "Creeping around in the dark like some thief?"

"I didn't mean to," he replied, the words feeling weak, even to his own ears. "I didn't expect to run into you, damnit."

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes glinting in the firelight. She looked like a cornered animal, ready to lash out at any moment.

"Why are you here, Mister Morgan?"

Arthur swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. He didn't know how to answer that. Didn't know what to say.

"I was just..."

He trailed off, the words hanging in the air between them.

He didn't know what he was doing. Didn't know how to explain the mix of confusion and uncertainty that had led him here. He was hoping to rob some stranger, but now, he was faced with someone that had become a new constant in his day.

The silence stretched on, neither of them speaking, neither of them moving. The world around them seemed to shrink, the distance between them growing smaller with each passing moment.

The truth was, he hadn't known what to expect, hadn't had a plan beyond getting away with a little bit of coin. He hadn't expected to find her, hadn't planned on seeing her of all people.

And yet, here she was.

Arthur took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. He didn't have a good answer, didn't have any excuse that would satisfy her. He wasn't even sure it would satisfy himself. But he couldn't just walk away, couldn't pretend like this didn't happen.

He had to say something.

"I saw your campfire from the trail. Figured there might be somethin' worth stealin'," Arthur admitted, his voice low. "Saw someone sittin' there. Just thought..."

"Just thought you'd point a gun at their head and demand their valuables," she finished for him, the sharpness in her tone making his stomach twist. "That's real bold of you, Mister Morgan."

Arthur shook his head, a bitter taste rising in his throat. "I ain't—damnit, woman," he said, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. "And I don't kill folks for their money. Not unless they try to kill me first."

"So you're sayin' you're only dangerous if provoked?"

Her words struck him like a punch to the gut, the implication behind them sending a jolt through his system.

"That's not—I wasn't—"

"You could have shot me, you know. I wouldn't have had a chance."

The thought made him sick. It made his skin crawl.

"I didn't know it was you," he repeated, his voice cracking slightly.

"And that makes it any better?" she said, her eyes trailing from the gun in his hand back to his eyes. "Didn't realize you had such bad habits..." she mumbled.

The words stung, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to deny them. He knew the truth of her accusation, knew the risks he'd taken tonight. The risks he'd been taking.

He glanced down at the gun in his hand, his fingers tightening around the grip. It felt heavy, unfamiliar, like it didn't belong there.

"Look, if I had known it was you, I wouldn't have—" he said, the words coming out softer than he'd intended.

"What, tried to rob me?" she asked, her words biting. "Ain't that a good excuse, Mister Morgan."

The weight of the moment hung heavy between them, neither of them moving. Arthur wanted to apologize, wanted to explain, but he knew it would fall on deaf ears. He'd crossed a line tonight, and there was no going back.

The silence stretched on, the seconds ticking by like hours. The tension in the air was palpable, the space between them filled with unspoken thoughts and feelings.

Arthur hesitated for a moment, then tucked the revolver back into his satchel.

"Sorry."

The word hung between them, awkward and almost too small to make a dent in the thick silence. Arthur stood there for a moment, feeling a little stupid, his chest tight with frustration and regret.

She didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched him with those sharp eyes that seemed to pierce right through him. But something in her posture softened slightly. Her shoulders, once coiled tight like a spring, lowered just a fraction. Arthur couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of relief and unease.

“You do that often? Rob folk?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably at the question, his eyes flickering toward the ground for a moment. He didn’t want to lie, didn’t want to sound like he was excusing himself, but he wasn’t sure how to answer either. The truth was, he had robbed people, and he’d done it more times than he cared to admit. But not like this—not in a way that felt personal, not in a way that felt so damn wrong. Not like this.

“Not often,” he muttered, voice low. “I ain’t proud of it. Not the way you’re thinkin’.”

She didn’t look convinced. "That don’t exactly sound like an apology," she said, a bitter edge creeping into her voice again. Her arms were crossed, posture still tense but not as defensive as it had been moments before.

Arthur could feel the weight of her gaze. It felt heavier now, sharper, as if she were weighing him up, taking his measure—and he didn’t like it. Didn’t like how it made him feel. Like she could see all the pieces of him, the ones he’d hidden for so long. The bad decisions, the selfish choices, the times he’d crossed lines that shouldn’t have been crossed.

“I ain't proud of a lot of things, but robbin' people? Ain’t something I make a habit of. Most of the time,” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. He hated saying it out loud, hated admitting how low he'd let himself sink just to scrape by.

She seemed to study him, like she wasn’t buying it entirely, but there was a flicker in her eyes—something like understanding. Maybe even a little bit of pity. But she didn’t say it. Instead, she just sighed, shaking her head. "So you only do it when you’ve got no other choice?"

Arthur hesitated, his mind battling with the question. Could he honestly say that? Could he say it and feel good about it? No. The truth was more complicated, more twisted. Some of the times, sure, it had been out of necessity. But there were other times, darker times, when it was just easier—when it was just... what he knew.

"I ain’t sayin’ it’s always out of necessity,” he admitted, voice rough. “Sometimes, it’s just... well, easier than starvin’ or... havin’ nothin’ to show for all the hard work."

Her gaze softened, but it wasn’t pity anymore. It was something else, something more understanding. “That ain’t an excuse, Mister Morgan.”

He didn’t try to defend himself, didn’t try to make her understand. He knew better than that. She wasn’t wrong, and he knew it. There was no easy way to explain the weight of the things he’d done, the choices he’d made. He wasn’t proud of them, but he couldn’t change them.

“Guess not,” he muttered, shifting his weight, looking anywhere but at her for a moment. The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t as heavy now. It was just... quieter. The kind of silence that happened when two people were trying to make sense of something bigger than them.

She shuffled a little closer to the fire, the crackling of the wood filling the space between them. He could feel her presence, still strong, but softer somehow. "Well, just so you know, I ain't exactly an angel myself," she said, glancing at him with a hint of a smirk, like she was trying to lighten the mood. "Not like I’ve never bent the rules a little."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, looking at her, surprised by the shift. “Yeah? What, you a lawman’s worst nightmare?”

She laughed, the sound rough but genuine, like she hadn’t used it in a while. “Something like that. I’ve done things I’m not proud of either, Mister Morgan. So don’t think I’m sittin’ here judging you... I’m mostly upset over the gun to my head. That ain’t exactly polite.”

He exhaled sharply, feeling the tension in his chest ease just a little. She was tougher than most, that much was clear, but there was a certain honesty in her that made him feel... stupid over the whole thing.

“You sure got a way of lookin’ at people,” Arthur said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle at her words, a small flicker of amusement breaking through the tension. She had a way of making him feel like an idiot, but in the best way. It wasn’t like she was letting him off easy, but there was something in the way she said things that kept him from feeling too damn sorry for himself.

She paused for a moment, her eyes flicking to the fire, as if she were weighing the next words carefully. The crackling flames danced between them, their warmth starting to settle on Arthur’s skin in a way that made him feel almost human again.

“Well,” she said, her voice softening just a little. “If you wanna stick around...” She motioned toward the campfire, her gaze flickering back to him. “Could always go hunting tomorrow, get a few pelts if we’re lucky. Can’t exactly give you my valuables, ya damn thief.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in something that might’ve been the closest to a real smile he’d had in days. He didn’t quite know what to make of it. One minute, they were standing on the edge of a knife, the next she was offering him a seat at her fire like it was nothing, like she had weighed up her options.

“Hunting, huh?” he muttered, the idea taking root in his mind. “Figured you’d want me outta here by now.”

She tilted her head slightly, like she was considering it. "Could. But I’ve never met a thief with a conscience before. Thought you might be worth a second chance.” She gave him a teasing smile, the kind that made him feel like he was being sized up, but in a way that didn’t feel quite so... hostile.

Arthur smirked, the words almost slipping out before he thought better of it. “A second chance, huh? You sure you trust me that much?”

She didn’t answer right away, her gaze going distant for just a moment as she stared into the fire, the flickering light casting shadows over her face. Then, as if the thought had been dismissed just as quickly as it came, she shrugged and added, “I’m no saint myself, Mister Morgan. Can’t be too picky about the company I keep.”

There was something about the way she said it—casual, like it wasn’t a big deal—that made Arthur feel a little less like an outright fool. Less like someone who was always trying to get by on his own. It was tempting too, her offer.

“Well, you’re a tough one to figure out,” he said, shaking his head in mock frustration. “Can’t tell if you like me or just think I’m good for a laugh.”

She grinned, her eyes gleaming with something like amusement. “I don’t mind you, Mister Morgan. I’m willing to see if you’ve got more value than a few stolen coins.”

Arthur let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “That’s a hell of a way to put it.”

She didn’t seem to mind the sarcasm in his voice, instead turning back to her campfire, adding another log to the flames. The fire crackled louder, sending sparks flying into the air. Arthur stayed where he was for a moment, considering her offer.

Hunting tomorrow. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d done, and if he stuck around, maybe he could find out if there was more to this damn situation.

“Well,” he said after a long pause, leaning back on his heels. “I ain't in any rush to head off, and I could use a change of scenery. Ain’t like I got better plans.”

Her smile softened, just a little, and she nodded toward the fire again. "Good. Stick around then. Just don’t go making a habit of tryin' to rob me in the middle of the night again."

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "Ain’t likely I’ll forget that anytime soon. Imagine you’re gonna hold that over my head."

For a while, neither of them said anything else. The quiet of the night surrounded them, the only sounds coming from the crackling fire and the occasional stir of the wind in the trees.

As he settled down by the fire, letting the warmth spread through him, Arthur realized he wasn’t thinking about his next robbery, or his next move. He was just... there. And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.

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

I’m always open to your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. <3 I would love feedback <3 My AO3 Account

[sheriffaxolotl]

Fallen: A Path to Redemption - Chapter List - Alastor x Reader

Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |

✿ Friends to Lovers ✿ Slow Burn ✿ Eventual Romance ✿

[sheriffaxolotl]

Fallen: A Path to Redemption (Chapter 5) Alastor x Reader

"Solace, you say? Well, my dear fallen friend, in Hell, solace comes with a price."

“What kind?”

“How about... your soul, my dear.” Word count: 10,645 ✿ Friends to Lovers ✿ Slow Burn ✿ Eventual Romance ✿ Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |

♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡

The sight of Charlie pacing back and forth, her anxiety palpable in the air, had left you feeling drained. You wanted nothing more than to ease her worries but watching her spiral into a state of panic only added to your own stress.

With a heavy sigh, you decided to retreat to the solace of your office. There were tasks that demanded your attention, and the looming deadline for the next extermination only added to the urgency. As you navigated the corridors of the hotel, lost in your thoughts, the sound of Alastor's voice calling out to you drew your attention.

You turned to see him sitting on the balcony, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he greeted you. "Well, well, if it isn't my elusive assistant," he remarked, taking a casual sip from his 'Oh deer' mug. "And here I thought you would have been attempting to soothe our excitable princess.”

You couldn't help but chuckle at his teasing tone. "I couldn't bear to witness Charlie's pacing any longer," you confessed, stepping out onto the balcony to join him. "It was giving me a headache. Besides, I have my own deadlines to contend with…. And Vaggie seems to have it under control, I think."

Alastor raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Ah, the joys of responsibility," he mused, setting down his mug. "But fear not, my dear. I'm sure you'll manage to meet your deadlines with your usual efficiency."

You offered him a grateful smile, appreciative of his option of you. After all the time separated when he disappeared, you had almost forgotten how fond he seemed of you at times. Despite his enigmatic demeanor, there was a sense of mutual respect between the two of you. And as you settled into the chair across from him you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief at having Alastor by your side once again.

"I still can’t believe there is just so much... paperwork. I could have never assumed such a small hotel with... one guest would create this much," you lamented, leaning back in your chair with a sigh of defeat escaping your lips.

His chuckle was soft, almost melodic, as he responded, "Well, did you expect the princess of hell to have a budget, my dear?" His amusement seemed to fill the air around you, momentarily lifting the heaviness of the moment and infusing it with a sense of levity.

Your lips quirked into a small smile at his words, the warmth of his amusement infectious. "Ugh, that’s true… I’m pretty sure I saw paperwork for a jacuzzi in one of the rooms…" you muttered, a hint of incredulity in your voice as you recalled the absurdity of some of the tasks.

As you settle into the chair out on the balcony beside Alastor, a sense of ease washed over you. Despite the chaos swirling around the hotel, there was a strange tranquillity in the air as the two of you engaged in conversation – you momentarily forgot about the doom looming from the heavens.

With a snap of his fingers, Alastor conjured a steaming cup of tea, its fragrant aroma wafting through the air. He offered it to you with what could have been seen as a polite smile.

"Thank you," you said graciously, accepting the cup with a nod of appreciation. The warmth of the tea was a welcome comfort, soothing your frayed nerves even more as you took a sip.

This was nice. It reminded you of times when you would sit with Rosie, having a gossip, or times when you would stay up to listen to Alastor’s broadcast – whisked away in music you missed and puns that made you snort at times.

Alastor settled back into his chair, regarding you with a curious glint in his eyes. "So, my dear, what brings you to my humble abode this fine morning?" he inquired, his voice laced with a theatrical flair.

You couldn't help but smile at his playful tone. "Just seeking a bit of peace and quiet," you admitted, taking another sip of tea as you matched his playful tone. "And perhaps a friendly face to share it with."

Alastor chuckled softly, the sound carrying on the gentle breeze that blew past you both. "Ah, well, you've certainly come to the right place," he remarked, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "And as luck would have it, I happen to be an excellent listener - if that is what you seek."

You found yourself relaxing in his presence again, the tension of Charlie’s panic melting away into the back of your mind with each passing moment.

Yet. A thought was bugging you.

You couldn't help but be intrigued by Alastor's involvement with Charlie's endeavors, and you found yourself compelled to ask about his motivations.

"Well, in that case,” you began, the gentle clink of your spoon against the porcelain cup punctuating your words. “Why exactly are you helping Charlie?" Your tone was tinged with genuine curiosity, a subtle hint of skepticism lacing your inquiry. You had known Alastor long enough to understand that his assistance often came with strings attached, yet you couldn't discern any ulterior motives in his recent actions. It puzzled you, leaving a lingering sense of unease in the pit of your stomach.

Alastor's grin remained enigmatic as he leaned back in his chair, swirling his tea thoughtfully. "Ah, my dear, a gentleman never reveals all his secrets," he replied cryptically, his words laden with a hint of mystery.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his cryptic response, a faint smirk playing at the corners of your lips. "Of course, a gentleman always keeps a few cards up his sleeve," you quipped, matching his playful tone with one of your own.

Alastor chuckled softly, his scarlet gaze twinkling with amusement as he regarded you with a knowing glint. "Precisely," he agreed, his tone tinged with a subtle sense of satisfaction. "But rest assured, my dear, my intentions are always in the interest of... entertainment, shall we say?"

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his response, sensing that there was more to his involvement than met the eye. "But surely you could give me more than that," you pressed, unable to shake the feeling that there was a deeper purpose behind Alastor's actions.

The radio demon's grin widened ever so slightly. "Let's just say I have a vested interest in seeing how this little venture plays out," he replied, his tone tinged with a sense of intrigue.

You couldn't help but wonder what hidden agenda lay behind Alastor's cryptic words, but for now, you decided to let that matter rest. You took a moment to gather your thoughts before broaching a more personal topic, one that had lingered in the back of your mind for years.

"I've always wondered," you began, your voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty, "why did you leave for seven years without so much as a goodbye?"

Alastor's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he regained his composure, his expression inscrutable as he regarded you with those piercing crimson eyes.

"Now, my dear, what fun would it be if I simply revealed all my secrets?" he replied with a playful lilt to his voice, evading your question with practiced ease.

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration at his response, a lingering sense of hurt simmering beneath the surface. After all, you had grown to consider Alastor to be a friend over the centuries, and his sudden departure had left you feeling abandoned and confused.

But as you looked into his eyes, you realized that prying further would likely yield no answers. Alastor was a creature of mystery, his motives and intentions shrouded in shadow, and you doubted that he would ever truly reveal the reasons behind his actions.

With a resigned sigh, you decided to let this matter drop as well, defeated. You shifted uncomfortably, trying to brush off the weight of your question with a casual demeanor.

"Well, I suppose it's all water under the bridge now," you said, forcing a small smile. "It's just... I missed having you around, you know? Working with you, exchanging banter... it wasn't the same without you."

Alastor's expression softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before he masked it with his usual charm.

"Ah, my dear, I assure you, the feeling is mutual," he replied, his tone light but tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "But alas, life is full of unexpected twists and turns, is it not? And sometimes, one must simply follow the path laid out before them."

You couldn't help but sense a hint of deflection in his words, a subtle evasion of the true depth of your sentiment. It was clear that Alastor was not one to dwell on matters of the heart, preferring instead to navigate the complexities of life with a detached sense of detachment.

With a resigned nod, you let the matter drop, knowing that pressing further would only lead to more unanswered questions. Despite the lingering sense of longing that gnawed at your heart, you knew that some things were better left unsaid.

"Well, my dear," Alastor finally replied, his voice laced with a hint of uncertainty, his scarlet eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. "I suppose absence does have a way of stirring up certain... sentiments."

A brief silence followed, filled with unspoken words and lingering emotions that hung heavy in the air. The atmosphere crackled with tension, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you like a heavy fog. You could feel the intensity of Alastor's gaze, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

But before the weight of the moment could fully settle, a sudden crash shattered the tranquillity of your conversation. The sound was deafening, reverberating through the air like a thunderclap, causing you to jump in surprise.

Instinctively, you gripped your teacup tighter, the hot liquid sloshing dangerously close to the brim as you tried to steady your shaking hands. Alastor's expression remained unreadable, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips as he observed your reaction.

The abrupt intrusion of chaos cast a shadow over the serene atmosphere, leaving you wide-eyed and on edge. Your senses were heightened, every sound amplified, every movement scrutinized as you tried to make sense of the unexpected disruption.

As Sir Pentious's zeppelin loomed ominously overhead, armed for battle, your heart quickened its pace in anticipation of the impending confrontation. The air crackled with tension, thick with the scent of impending conflict as you braced yourself for what was to come.

"Show yourself, Alastor! Come and face—" Sir Pentious's voice thundered from the airship, his words reverberating through the expanse with an air of menace. However, his bravado faltered as he caught sight of the radio demon's absence amidst the chaos, his gaze sweeping over the balcony of the second floor where Alastor sat calmly, seemingly unfazed by the intrusion – with you sitting across from him, the only one out of the two of you surprised.

"There you are! Face my wrath!" Sir Pentious's voice echoed across the expanse, his frustration palpable as he directed his ire towards Alastor, the intensity of his words punctuated by the sound of his zeppelin's engines roaring overhead.

‘Wow, this guy is persistent,’ you thought, shooting a sidelong glance at Alastor with a raised brow, silently observing his composure in the face of danger – well, not real danger for him. Despite the looming threat, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes, a hint of mischief that suggested a deeper understanding of the situation than he let on. It was as if he were merely a spectator in this chaotic theatre, enjoying the show from his balcony perch, unfazed by the drama unfolding around him.

Alastor's response was nonchalant, his demeanor unaffected by the imminent threat as he leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Who are you?" he inquired, his tone laced with amusement as he addressed the snake demon's proclamation, his crimson eyes glittering with mischief. Beside him, you placed your cup down with careful precision, mindful of the possibility of dropping it amidst the chaos that you knew was about to unfold.

"Who am I? Who am I?! I am the great Sir Pentious!" the snake demon proclaimed, his voice laced with indignation as he braced himself for the impending confrontation.

Alastor dissolved into an eerie fog, and you followed suit, feeling your form shift and swirl as you descended to the ground before materializing beside Angel, Vaggie, and Charlie, who were already present, watching the unfolding scene with rapt attention.

"Inventor, architect of destruction, villain extraordinaire!" Sir Pentious's voice echoed from his menacing zeppelin, the declaration punctuated by the faint murmurs of approval from his loyal little egg followers.

Niffty appeared on Alastor's right shoulder, her eyes wide with admiration as she gazed at the spectacle before her. You couldn't help but feel a sense of disorientation as you adjusted to your sudden transportation yet again, the surreal nature of your surroundings sinking in.

‘Oh, he knows I hate it when he does that without warning,’ you thought, bringing a hand to your temple to steady yourself amidst the dizzying shift.

"Oh, he's a bad boy~" Niffty cooed, her voice filled with awe, before Alastor gently scooped her up and deposited her back on the ground with a playful grin.

"Well, if all that's true, you'd think I'd have heard of you," Alastor remarked, a hint of smugness dancing in his eyes as he addressed the formidable snake demon.

"I attacked you literally last week," Sir Pentious retorted with a wave of his hands, his frustration palpable. "We've done battle, like... 20 times," he added, his voice trailing off as he begrudgingly acknowledged their tumultuous history.

"Well, you must have been really bad at this," Alastor taunted, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“You did overdo it last time,” you interjected, your voice laced with playful banter as you joined in the exchange. Alastor's smirk grew more pronounced at your comment.

"Silence! Now cower! For when I've slain you, the almighty Vees will finally acknowledge me as their equal," Sir Pentious declared, his voice filled with venom as he pointed an accusing finger at Alastor.

The mention of the "Vees" sent a ripple of unease through you, the weight of Sir Pentious's words hanging heavy in the air. You found yourself scanning the surroundings, your eyes darting around in search of any signs of surveillance – a telltale camera lens or a hidden microphone.

Your heart quickened its pace as you spotted what appeared to be a camera nestled among the rafters, its presence confirming your suspicions. Panic surged within you, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. ‘Does he know already…?’.

Niffty reappeared on Alastor's shoulder, her eyes wide with curiosity as she looked between the two demons. You couldn't help but raise a brow at her question, inwardly cringing at the mention of the mysterious "Vees."

"Ooh! Wait, who are the Vees?" Niffty's innocent curiosity rang out, her excitement palpable as she leaned in closer.

Your gaze instinctively flickered to Alastor, anticipating his response with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. After all, it was a topic shrouded in mystery and complexity for the others right now. But only one that filled you with dread and anxiety.

"Oh, nobody important," Alastor replied casually, his grin widening as he observed Sir Pentious with a mischievous glint in his eyes. His nonchalant demeanor belied the underlying layers of intrigue surrounding the enigmatic "Vees."

As Alastor raised his hand, crackling with dark energy, poised to unleash chaos upon the zeppelin, the air crackled with anticipation as Alastor prepared to unleash his formidable powers.

For what felt like an eternity, you watched in awe and trepidation as Alastor toyed with the zeppelin, taunting Sir Pentious with a mixture of amusement and malice. The display of raw power was both mesmerizing and terrifying, each devastating blow delivered to Sir Pentious accompanied by a cacophony of destruction.

With each devastating blow delivered to Sir Pentious, you winced involuntarily, the sight and sound of the snake demon's suffering causing a pang of discomfort to ripple through you. Despite your discomfort, you mustered the courage to speak up, attempting to intercede on Sir Pentious's behalf. "Alastor, perhaps... ease up a bit?" you ventured, your voice laced with concern.

However, your plea fell on deaf ears as Alastor continued his relentless assault, his focus unwavering amidst the chaos he wrought.

As Alastor unleashed his powers, a cacophony of screams and crashing echoed through the air, intermingled with the sinister laughter of the radio demon. Sir Pentious' cries of distress filled the scene, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears.

"Arrgh! Oh! Please! Stop!" Sir Pentious begged, his voice trembling with fear as he struggled to maintain control of his faltering zeppelin.

"Um...Alastor! I think he's had enough," Charlie interjected hesitantly, her concern evident in her voice as she watched the chaos unfold.

But Angel Dust, ever the instigator, chuckled darkly. "Nah. He's got a few more hits in him," he remarked with a wicked grin, egging Alastor on with gleeful anticipation.

Sir Pentious plummeted from the zeppelin, crashing face-first onto the unforgiving ground below with a resounding thud. As he struggled to rise, Alastor twirled his staff with a flourish, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Thanks for another forgettable experience," Alastor quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he watched Sir Pentious struggle to regain his composure. You couldn't help but notice the self-assured smirk that danced across Alastor's lips as he turned his gaze towards you, almost as if he was relishing the moment and seeking your… approval? If you were impressed? You couldn’t tell at that moment.

Meanwhile, chaos ensued as an Egg Bois fell and shattered into pieces before everyone’s eyes. Sir Pentious seized the opportunity, hissing triumphantly as he lunged forward, using his tail to grab hold of a piece of Alastor's suit.

"Thank you...for letting your guard down!" Sir Pentious jeered, his grin quickly fading into a look of horror as he realized his mistake.

‘Oh no.’ Was all you could manage to think as you realized you might not be seeing this demon anytime soon after all the little mistake he just made.

With a sudden transformation, Alastor's shadow loomed ominously over Sir Pentious, casting a chilling aura over the scene. And then, with a haunting sound, Alastor unleashed his power, sending a massive green explosion rippling through the air.

Sir Pentious was sent hurtling through the sky, his screams echoing into the distance as he vanished from sight, leaving behind only the remnants of his failed attack.

Alastor's chuckle filled the air, his tone as light as ever despite the chaos that had just unfolded.

"Well, it looks as though I need a visit to the tailor! Best of luck, chums," he declared with a dramatic flair, twirling his cane as he prepared to depart.

But before he could make his exit, Vaggie's urgent voice halted him in his tracks.

"Wait, you're LEAVING?! Alastor! We need your help! We need you to do your job," she said clearly annoyed as she gestured towards the hole in the wall, a stark reminder of the havoc wreaked by Sir Pentious. Unbeknownst to her, a glimmer of her irritation was directed your way, a silent accusation that made you raise your hands in a small, helpless shrug, caught in the crossfire of her annoyance.

Angel Dust chimed in, his nonchalant demeanor belying the seriousness of the situation. "We need a wall," he quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Alastor paused, considering their words for a moment before a sly grin crossed his face.

"Of course! Can't let my new project fall into disrepair already. What would the papers say?!" he exclaimed with mock concern, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he prepared to lend his assistance once more.

“They would probably say ‘predictable behavior’?” You mumbled under your breath.

Alastor shot you a sidelong glance, his grin widening at your comment. "Ah, my dear, always quick with the quips," he remarked, his voice laced with amusement. "But you know what they say about predictability... it's reliable." With a wink, he turned back to the task at hand, his playful banter adding a touch of levity to the tense situation.

With a flourish of his hand, Alastor summoned forth a legion of black ink demons, their forms swirling into existence with eerie fluidity. Each demon wielded construction tools with a sense of purpose, ready to carry out their master's bidding.

As Alastor strolled away, leaving the chaotic scene behind, Angel Dust couldn't help but take an interest in one of the larger, more muscular demons among the crowd. With a casual shove that sent Vaggie stumbling back, he sauntered up to the ink demon, his gaze lingering appreciatively on the creature's imposing form.

Quickly disengaging yourself from the flirtatious exchange unfolding between Angel and the poor ink demon, you hastened your steps to catch up with Alastor, determined to divert the conversation to more practical matters.

"Alastor," you interjected, falling into step beside him, "do you need me to call the tailor? Make sure he has space?"

Alastor's grin widened at the suggestion, his eyes alight with amusement as he pivoted to face you with a playful twirl. "Ah! Now that's an idea!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying a note of excitement – or what you thought would sound like it from him. "Why don't you walk some of the way with me? I'm sure the hotel could do with you not there to sort its paperwork!"

"Absolutely," you replied, nodding eagerly as you dialed the tailor's number, confirming a spot for Alastor. The pleasant conversation flowed effortlessly as you strolled alongside him, the weight of responsibility momentarily lifted as you walked and talked like old times.

As you walked alongside Alastor, the tension that had loomed between you both before the surprise attack by Sir Pentious seemed to evaporate into thin air, dissipating like mist in the morning sun. It was as if the chaos and turmoil of the moment had washed away any lingering animosity or unease, leaving behind only the familiar banter between you both.

“It seems things don’t change much over time.” You said as you slid your phone into your pocket, you noticed the demons and sinners moving out of the way for Alastor or straight up just hiding.

Alastor chuckled softly at your observation, his grin never faltering as he effortlessly navigated through the bustling streets of Hell. "Indeed, my dear," he agreed, his voice carrying a playful tone. "Seems some things are as constant as the stars in the sky."

As you continued your stroll, you couldn't help but notice the reactions of the demons and sinners around you. Some hurriedly moved aside to clear a path for Alastor, while others simply disappeared into the shadows at the mere sight of him. It was a familiar sight, one that spoke volumes about his reputation in Hell.

"Ah, it appears my presence still commands quite the attention," Alastor remarked casually, his tone tinged with amusement.

You couldn't suppress a chuckle at his nonchalant demeanor, finding solace in the lighthearted banter once again. Walking alongside Alastor, you couldn't help but feel like you could simply take a stroll without worrying about anything.

Upon reaching the tailor's doors, Alastor turned to face you, his expression still graced with his ever-present grin. "Well, I appreciate the company," he remarked, his voice tinged with amusement. "I should be quite alright from here. As you should be returning to the hotel alone. No one should bother you, at all,” Alastor said with a sinister glimmer in his eye.

“I think you might be quite right.” You said as you observed a few sinners scamper past you both in a hurry, shooting you both terrified glances. You offered a friendly smile to Alastor, bidding him farewell before turning to head back to the hotel, a sense of contentment settling over you as you reflected on the unexpected encounter.

As Alastor attended to his tailored needs, you found yourself immersed once again in the mundanity of managing paperwork within the confines of your office. The chaos of the earlier encounter with Sir Pentious now seemed like a distant memory, replaced by the familiar routine of running the hotel and attending to its various demands.

However, amidst the stacks of paperwork, your mind kept wandering back to the conversation on the balcony with Alastor. Despite the peaceful facade, there was an underlying current of tension that lingered in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken emotions that had passed between you both… or maybe that was just your imagination messing with you.

You couldn't shake the feeling of Alastor's behavior over the way you connected with Angel, the intensity of his gaze, and the cryptic nature of his words. It left you feeling unsettled, unsure of where you stood with the enigmatic Radio Demon and what implications his subtle gestures might hold.

Lost in thought, you absentmindedly sifted through the documents, your mind replaying snippets of the conversation over and over again. You couldn't help but wonder what lay beneath Alastor's charming facade, what secrets he kept hidden behind that charismatic smile.

"Another stack of expense reports. Lovely," you muttered disdainfully, your fingers flipping through the papers with a sense of resignation. The words and numbers blurred together, a never-ending cycle of financial tedium that seemed to stretch on indefinitely.

After what felt like an eternity of mind-numbing calculations and analysis, you rose from your chair with a weary sigh, the weight of the paperwork still clinging to your thoughts like a persistent shadow. Seeking a brief respite from the monotony, you ambled over to your newly acquired radio, a glimmer of hope igniting within you at the prospect of a momentary distraction.

Flicking the switch on, you were greeted by the crackling static of the airwaves, the sound permeating the silence of the room like a whisper from another realm. But it was the voices that followed that truly captured your attention, familiar and unmistakable in their resonance.

"Salutations!" Alastor's melodic voice rang out through the speakers, its vintage charm imbuing the airwaves with a sense of nostalgia.

"Good to be back on the air," he continued, his words laced with an air of confidence and authority that demanded attention.

A pause followed, filled with the crackling static of the radio transmission, before Alastor's voice returned, dripping with charisma and flair. "Yes, I know it's been a while since someone with style treated Hell to a broadcast," he declared, his words punctuated by the subtle crackle of the radio. "Sinners rejoice!"

But Alastor's monologue was soon interrupted by Vox, his voice cutting through the static with effortless grace. "What a dated voice," Vox remarked, his words laced with a hint of mockery as he addressed the radio demon. You brought a hand up to your mouth in shock, not expecting them to have conflict together so soon. But maybe that was just your wishful thinking.

Alastor responded in kind, his voice oozing with charm and wit as he engaged in the banter with Vox. "Instead of a clout-chasing mediocre video podcast," he retorted, his words carrying a playful edge that hinted at a deeper rivalry between the two.

The exchange continued, each word and barb adding to the tension-filled banter between Alastor and Vox, their voices dancing through the airwaves like a symphony of sound and wit. And as you listened, a faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips, grateful for the momentary distraction from the burdens of paperwork and responsibility. ‘Well, this is going to put Alastor in a good mood.’ You thought as you sat back down, listening to the end of them insulting each other and Alastor’s underlying threat.

You didn’t notice your phone on the drawers sitting in the corner of your office lighting up every few seconds as notifications filled the screen.

After a prolonged stint of laboring over paperwork in your office, you finally decided to take a much-needed respite and made your way downstairs to the kitchen. The promise of a steaming cup of coffee beckoned, offering a brief reprieve from the ceaseless monotony of administrative tasks that had consumed your day thus far.

However, your plans were swiftly derailed when the sound of commotion reached your ears, emanating from the vicinity of the hotel's front door. Intrigued, you abandoned your quest for caffeine and followed the source of the disturbance, curiosity piqued by the unexpected disturbance.

As you approached the scene, you found Charlie in the midst of a lively exchange with none other than Sir Pentious, the notorious snake-like demon who had previously been a thorn in the side of the hotel's inhabitants. His presence was unexpected, to say the least, and you couldn't help but watch with a mixture of apprehension and uncertainty as the conversation unfolded before you.

"I didn't come looking for a fight. I, uh... I heard that you're helping people, people who want to be better?" Sir Pentious's words were hesitant, his tone betraying a hint of uncertainty as he addressed Charlie, his demeanor markedly different from his usual aggressive stance.

Charlie's eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected arrival, a gasp escaping her lips as she rushed forward to greet the newcomer guest. "Oh! Hello again!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine warmth as she took Sir Pentious's hand and led him towards the entrance of the hotel.

But before Charlie could launch into her customary spiel about the hotel's mission of redemption and rehabilitation, she was interrupted by the abrupt arrival of Angel Dust, whose colorful language and blunt demeanor served as a stark contrast to Charlie's optimism.

"Are you fucking nuts?" Angel Dust's voice rang out, his disbelief palpable as he addressed Charlie with incredulity. "This chump was trying to kill us, like, literally six hours ago! And now you wanna bring him in here to live with us?"

"Absolutely!" Charlie exclaimed, her enthusiasm infectious as she rallied behind the notion of offering Sir Pentious a fresh start. "This place is about second chances, and who deserves one more than this slithery… slippery… special little man!"

“Are you sure that really wise?” You say as you walk down the staircase into view now, your eyes glancing from Charlie to Vaggie. “I’m all in for second chances… But it is quite soon.” You said as you looked over at the snake demon but your words hid what you were really scared of.. the possibility of someone sending him here..

Angel Dust, butting in with you to be the ever voice of reason—or perhaps skepticism—was quick to voice his concerns, casting a doubtful glance in Vaggie's direction. "Aren't you supposed to protect this place?" he questioned, his words laced with a hint of disbelief as he sought reassurance from his fellow demon.

Despite Angel Dust's and your own skepticism, Charlie refused to be deterred, her eyes widening as she turned to Vaggie, employing the classic tactic of puppy-dog eyes in a bid to sway her opinion. It was a silent plea for understanding, a heartfelt appeal to Vaggie's sense of compassion and empathy.

Caught between Charlie's earnest optimism and Angel Dust's and your pragmatic caution, Vaggie found herself torn. With a resigned sigh, she relented, her voice carrying a note of reluctant acceptance as she conceded to Charlie's fervent request.

"I guess he's not much of a threat without the war machine," Vaggie conceded, her words accompanied by a weary sigh as she acknowledged the reality of the situation. "Or even with the war machine," she added, her tone tinged with a hint of resignation as she contemplated the futility of resisting Charlie's relentless optimism.

Charlie's joy was palpable as she enveloped Vaggie in a tight embrace, lifting her off the ground in a spontaneous display of gratitude. "Oh! Thank you thank you thank you thank you!" she exclaimed, her voice bubbling over with excitement as she twirled Vaggie around in a joyous dance.

With Vaggie's reluctant approval secured, Charlie wasted no time in extending a warm welcome to Sir Pentious, her infectious enthusiasm radiating as she ushered him toward the entrance of the Hazbin Hotel.

"Sir Pentious! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!" Charlie declared, her voice filled with genuine warmth and sincerity as she extended a hand of friendship to the apprehensive demon.

Sir Pentious, visibly touched by the gesture, offered a gracious response, his cobra head lifting with anticipation as he expressed his gratitude. "Oh no, darling! Thank you!" he replied, his voice tinged with what sounded like genuine appreciation. "You won't regret this." As the words came from his mouth, you would feel your nerves shake a little. You felt like he was lying.. no you know he was. But Charlie had made her decision and now you just had to trust that she could deal with the consequences later if there were any that came from having the snake demon here.

As Angel sauntered in after with you falling into pace next to him, his nonchalant demeanor couldn't hide the playful twinkle in his eyes.

"Eh, I give you a week, tops," he quipped with a smirk as he gestured at Sir Pencious, his voice dripping with a mixture of sarcasm and amusement as he gently elbows your arm to emphasize his point.

Charlie led Sir Pentious on a tour of the hotel, her enthusiasm palpable as she introduced him to the various sights and inhabitants. Husk, perched at the bar, raised a skeptical eyebrow as the eccentric snake demon passed by, a subtle reminder of their previous encounter involving a rather explosive wall.

"So, this is the bar and the bartender. This is the curtain, and this is the new wall after you broke the last one, heh," Charlie explained with a nervous chuckle, her eagerness causing her words to tumble out in a rush. "And this is (Y/N)! She works here too! And oh! Oh! This is the—"

But before she could continue, Vaggie stepped in, gently pulling Charlie back to rein in her excitement.

"Babe, you don't have to show him every detail," Vaggie interjected, her tone soft yet firm as she attempted to calm her partner's exuberance.

Charlie's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she apologized, her enthusiasm dampened by Vaggie's gentle reminder. "Sorry, I'm just so excited to have our first real guest!"

Angel, ever the provocateur, couldn't resist chiming in. "Uh, what the hell am I then?"

Charlie paused, searching for the right words to convey her appreciation for Angel's presence without diminishing his significance. "Well, you're an important part of our family here, Angel, but you uhm, uh…" Her voice trailed off, unsure how to navigate the delicate balance between gratitude and diplomacy. You couldn’t help but raise a brow – seeing her struggle made you feel oddly frustrated, yet you couldn’t place why. It was as if there was an invisible weight pressing down on the conversation, stifling the words before they could take flight.

Vaggie's words sliced through the air like a sharp blade, her frustration evident as she addressed the source of her discontent.

"Constantly make us look bad, sexually harass the staff, and have literally never once tried to improve?" she accused, her voice laced with a potent mixture of exasperation and resentment. ‘Oh, ouch,’ you thought, feeling a pang of sympathy for Angel Dust as you cast a side glance at him, watching his every expression.

Angel's demeanor shifted, his usual nonchalance giving way to a brief flicker of vulnerability. It was clear that Vaggie's words struck a nerve, leaving him momentarily speechless as he struggled to find a response.

Charlie, ever the mediator, attempted to diffuse the tension with a more diplomatic response. "What she means is, it's just nice to have someone interested for once," she offered, her tone gentle yet firm as she sought to redirect the conversation onto a more positive trajectory.

As Charlie turned her attention back to Sir Pentious, you could see Angel Dust had a flash of doubt on his face. You could tell the weight of Vaggie's accusations hung heavily on his shoulders, casting a shadow over his typically carefree demeanor. “Hey..” You whispered as you gently nudged his side. “I agree… not even a week.” You said, giving him a reassuring him, which he returned slightly strained. You couldn’t help but want to try and cheer him up. You were used to the idea of Angel Dust being someone confident and unfazed… but now you're starting to see that maybe you should have been more empathetic.

While you had been standing by Angel, engrossed in the tension-filled conversation, you hadn't noticed the interaction between Niffty and Sir Pentious until it was too late. The sight of Niffty practically jumping on Sir Pentious in excitement caught you off guard, her words about never leaving him again ringing in your ears. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the snake demon, albeit a fleeting one.

“We're about 80% sure she's harmless, and over here we have-“ Charlie is interrupted as she nearly bumps into the towering form of Alastor. “Oh! Uh, Alastor! Our gracious facility manager! You've met our newest guest Sir Pentious…hehe..” You could practically see the nerves sweating out from Charlie.

"Ah yes! You're the one who ruined my coat!" he accused, his eyes glowing with a menacing crimson hue in the dimly lit room. Alastor's voice cut through the tension like a sharp knife, his words dripping with a mixture of disdain and a hint of simmering anger – but the smile on his face made it worse.

As Alastor's accusing words filled the room, a palpable tension settled over the atmosphere, thickening the air with an almost suffocating intensity. His eyes blazed with a menacing crimson hue in the dimly lit room, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. You could see the temptation to unleash his wrath upon Sir Pentious pulsing through him like a violent undercurrent, threatening to consume everything in its path. The sheer power emanating from him caused a shiver to run down your spine, sending a chill that seemed to seep into your very bones.

You found yourself involuntarily straightening up, your senses on high alert as the intensity of the moment washed over you. Even the tips of your ears felt a little warm, a physical manifestation of the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

As Alastor continued, his voice took on a sinisterly chilling edge, each word dripping with menace and malice. "I definitely remember you now," he declared, his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You watched Sir Pentious swallow nervously, the weight of Alastor's gaze bearing down on him like a suffocating blanket. But amidst the tension and apprehension that filled the room, a peculiar thought crossed your mind. For some reason, you found yourself wishing that it was you in Sir Pentious's place, facing Alastor's piercing gaze and chilling words. Maybe it was the idea that someone else had caught Alastor's attention, stirring a strange sense of jealousy within you. Or perhaps it was the way Alastor's commanding presence seemed to demand respect and admiration, leaving you grappling with conflicting emotions. Whatever the reason, you couldn't help but feel a pang of discomfort at the realization, prompting you to question your own morals and motives about him and yourself.

But before the tension and your train of thought could escalate any further, Charlie interjected with her characteristic optimism.

"Well, I guess this is a great time for your first lesson!" she exclaimed, her tone bright and cheery despite the palpable tension in the air. "How to apologize!"

Now that caused you to perk up as you got to watch Charlie explain how to be a better person. Sir Pentious fumbled nervously, his voice trembling as he addressed the formidable Radio Demon before him.

"Yes... uhm... Mr. Radio Demon, sir, please forgive me for attacking you and ruining your very lovely coat... uhm... here," he stammered, extending a trembling hand to offer back the small scrap of fabric he had torn from Alastor's coat during their altercation.

Alastor accepted the token of apology with a theatrical flourish, his crimson eyes gleaming as he inspected the damage. You couldn't help but notice the mischievous glint in his gaze, as if he were already planning his next move, his mind working in mysterious ways.

You found yourself holding your breath, anticipation hanging in the air like a heavy fog as Alastor considered his response. There was a palpable tension in the room, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Alastor continued to examine the torn piece of his coat.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity to you, Alastor's lips curled into a devious grin once again, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he turned to face Sir Pentious once more.

"Ah-Ho!" he exclaimed with a chuckle, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Not many people have been able to take even this much off me. It must have meant quite a lot to you." Alastor said with mock apparent generosity as he looked over towards you, giving a wink before he wasted no time in demonstrating the true extent of his power. With a flick of his wrist, he engulfed the torn fabric in eerie green flames, reducing it to ashes before everyone's eyes.

You really did try your best to hide the small snicker-like giggle behind your fist as you looked away, not wanting to witness any more theatres from Alastor that might really make you act up in front of the others – or witness Sir Pentious look of defeat.

But now you were starting to think maybe you should have acted up and you won’t be in your current position.

You, somehow, found yourself roped into a group gathering, where Charlie took the opportunity to introduce Sir Pentious to the rest inhabitants of the hotel. You had been sitting on the floor by the couch, a little uncomfortable as you had wanted to slide away back to your office… or maybe to a cup of tea… or maybe even find Alastor to-

"And when we get to know each other, it's the greatest thing!" As Charlie's upbeat rhythm filled the room, you found yourself reluctantly drawn into the impromptu sharing session. With a hesitant clap, you joined in the chorus of applause before the spotlight turned to you after Sir Pentious's contribution.

Taking a deep breath, you mustered up the courage to speak, albeit with a hint of self-consciousness. "Um, hi... I'm (Y/N)," you began, your words stumbling slightly over your nerves. "I, uh, enjoy... tea," you continued, the admission drawing a few small smiles from the group. "And, uh, spending time in my office is... well, it's kind of my thing," you added, a self-deprecating smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you glanced around nervously.

Despite your initial discomfort, there was a sense of relief in sharing a glimpse of yourself with your newfound friends, even if it was just a small piece of the puzzle. And as the spotlight shifted away from you, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride for stepping outside of your comfort zone, if only for a moment.

But when it came time for Angel Dust to join in, his disinterest was palpable as he glanced up from his phone.

"This is stupid," he muttered, his voice dripping with boredom and disdain.

Charlie, undeterred by Angel's lack of enthusiasm, quickly intervened with a gentle reprimand. "This is not stupid!" she countered, clapping twice to emphasize her point. "It's just a game!" Another pair of claps punctuated her words. "Sir Pentious and (Y/N) did it well, so now please try to do the same!"

You felt even more flustered at being called out and glanced over at Angel with a small smile. Angel Dust let out an exasperated sigh, his frustration evident as he mumbled, "I am too sober for this."

Vaggie's no-nonsense tone cut through the air like a knife, her words carrying a sense of authority as she urged Angel Dust to join in the game.

"Well, get used to it and learn how to play," she admonished, her claps punctuating her statement. "This is gonna be your whole day!"

The scene shifted to a role-playing scenario, with Angel Dust taking on the role of a trenchcoat-clad rogue while Sir Pentious portrayed an innocent child in a sailor suit, complete with a lollipop. It was… odd to say the least, you didn’t really understand this whole group thing. You sit and watch the scene unfold and notice how Angel Dust really didn’t want to be a part of this and you couldn’t really blame him. You didn’t agree with the script.. it wasn’t the best but it was nice to see Charlie doing her best.

By the end of the performance, Charlie couldn't contain her enthusiasm as she rose to her feet, applauding Sir Pentious's performance with genuine delight. "Yes! Oh bravo! Bravo!" she exclaimed, her laughter bubbling forth as she marveled at his unexpected talent. "Wow, Pentious! At this rate, you'll be redeemed in no time."

You could see Angel Dust practically deflate at that as he spoke up. "I... I'm going to bed," he muttered, his voice tinged with a hint of exhaustion as he retreated to his room.

As Angel headed back upstairs, you couldn't help but feel the need to go after him. "Angel," you said as you reached the bottom of the stairs. He turned around to look down at you, unable to avoid overhearing Charlie congratulating Sir Pentious on his performance.

"I am so proud of you, Sir Pentious! That was amazing!" Charlie exclaimed, her words filled with genuine admiration.

Angel's reaction was swift, his shoulders tensing as a look of resignation crossed his features. Without a word, he turned around to look down at you, his expression unreadable, you couldn't shake the feeling of concern gnawing at the edges of your mind. Despite his nonchalant demeanor, there was a palpable sense of hurt lingering beneath the surface, his exhaustion evident in the weary slump of his shoulders.

"Angel..." you began, your voice soft with empathy as you reached out a hand towards him, a silent gesture of support.

"It's fine, (Y/N). I'm just... tired," Was all Angel said before he turned away to leave you at the bottom of the stairs, with worry biting at you.

You stood there, feeling a surge of frustration and helplessness wash over you, torn between the desire to comfort Angel and the knowledge that he needed space to process his emotions in his own way.

“Wait- Wait Angel-,” As you get to the top of the stairs you go to turn the corner but instead collide with a tough surface. “Ouch,” You grumble as your eyes closed tight in reflex before you feel something wrapped around you.

“Goodness, my dear! In a hurry?” You hear the voice of Alastor as your eyes fly open to meet his staring down at you. The thing wrapped around you was his arm looped around your waist, preventing you from tumbling back down the stairs when you collided.

“My bad! I’m sorry, Alastor-,” You were quick to stumble out an apology as you tried to take a step back but found he didn’t remove his arm, so, you were stuck in place.

“Nothing to be sorry about – but why in such a hurry, hmm?” He repeated the question, grin perking up at the corners. But as you remember why you were in such a hurry you remember what happened last time and take a moment to think of your next words carefully.

“I noticed that Angel seemed rather deflated from there being another guest, and I didn’t want him to overreact and I-,” You could feel yourself overexplaining already.

Alastor's grin widened at your explanation, amusement dancing in his eyes as he listened intently. His arm remained securely around your waist, anchoring you in place as he leaned in slightly, his voice low and teasing.

"Ah, so you were playing the role of the peacemaker, were you?" he mused, a playful lilt in his tone. "Quite the noble endeavor, my dear. Though I must say, I'm rather impressed by your concern for our dear Angel Dust."

You couldn't help but blush under his scrutiny, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you at his close proximity. But beneath his charming facade, there was a subtle hint of something in Alastor's gaze, a flicker of what you think was possessiveness that you failed to notice.

As you searched for the right words to respond, you found yourself drawn to his captivating gaze, unable to tear your eyes away from his piercing stare. There was something mesmerizing about the way he looked at you as if you were the only person in the world who mattered in that moment.

"I just... didn't want things to escalate," you finally managed to stammer out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know that maybe Angel can be a little dramatic, and I didn't want him to... do something he might regret."

Alastor's expression softened slightly as he gently squeezed your waist in reassurance. But beneath his gentle exterior, a sense of possessiveness lingered, a silent claim on your attention that you failed to notice.

"A commendable sentiment, my dear," he replied, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But remember, sometimes it's better to let others face their own demons. It's the only way they'll ever learn to conquer them."

As Alastor's hand lingered on your waist, you couldn't shake the feeling of his touch, warm yet possessive. There was an underlying intensity to his presence, a subtle reminder of his influence over you.

You nodded in agreement, though a small voice in the back of your mind whispered a warning, urging you to tread carefully. But in that moment, you couldn't deny the allure of Alastor's charm, the magnetic pull drawing you closer to him – but also reminding you to keep him at arm’s length.

"Thank you, Alastor," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, a grateful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Yet, behind the facade of gratitude, a sliver of uncertainty lingered in your expression, a shadow of doubt that danced in your eyes. "I guess I would have been overstepping, I’m just overthinking.. maybe…”

Alastor's grin widened, his scarlet gaze alight with a glint of satisfaction that sent a shiver down your spine. It was as if he relished in the subtle power play that had just unfolded between you, his victory silently declared in the depths of his gaze. His arm remained wrapped around your waist, a possessive hold that subtly asserted his dominance.

"Anytime, my dear," he replied, his voice smooth as silk, yet tinged with an undertone of something you couldn't quite decipher. "Remember, I'm always here to lend an ear... or a hand." As he spoke, he withdrew his arm from around you, severing the physical connection between you. Despite your efforts to mask it, a pang of disappointment tugged at your heart at the loss of his touch.

The air crackled with tension as you stood there, locked in a silent exchange of unspoken and hidden intentions. As the tension lingered between you and Alastor, you found yourself searching for something to break the silence, to dispel the palpable unease that hung in the air like a heavy fog.

You found yourself caught in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, your mind swirling with thoughts of uncertainty and curiosity about the enigmatic Radio Demon.

Alastor's scarlet gaze bore into yours, his expression unreadable as he studied you with a keen intensity. It was as if he was searching for something in the depths of your soul, probing the depths of your being with a silent, inscrutable gaze.

Finally breaking the silence, Alastor cleared his throat, his voice smooth as velvet yet tinged with a subtle tension. "Well then, my dear," he began, his words flowing with measured deliberation. "I suppose it's time for us to bid adieu, at least for now. But fret not, for I'll be keeping a watchful eye on you," he added, punctuating his statement with a playful twirl of his hand. The glint in his eyes danced with mischief, leaving you uncertain whether his words were laden with genuine concern or playful jest.

A shiver coursed down your spine at his cryptic declaration, a sense of unease enveloping you like a shadow. What did he mean by keeping a close eye on you? The uncertainty gnawed at the edges of your thoughts, leaving you grappling with the implications of his words.

"Do you have something pressing to attend to?" you inquired, your curiosity piqued as you wondered what could prompt him to abruptly end your encounter.

As you posed your question, Alastor's grin widened slightly, his scarlet eyes glinting with amusement at your curiosity. His posture relaxed, yet he exuded an aura of enigma that tingled with intrigue.

"Well, my dear," he replied, his voice dripping with theatricality. "A gentleman never reveals all his secrets, now does he?" His words floated through the air like a veil of mystery, leaving you with more questions than answers, as if tantalizing you with the allure of the unknown.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of frustration at his evasiveness. His enigmatic smirk only fueled your curiosity, leaving you with a desire to unravel the mysteries that surrounded him.

But before you could press him further, he flashed you another smirk, his gaze holding a hint of mischief, before turning to leave, twirling his cane with a flourish. It was as if he reveled in the intrigue he left in his wake, leaving you to ponder his cryptic words long after he had vanished into the shadows.

You considered going after Angel, the urge to offer comfort and support strong within you. However, a voice in the back of your mind reminded you of Alastor's words, urging you to let Angel confront his own demons, to navigate his emotions without your intervention.

With a resigned sigh, you acquiesced to this wisdom, accepting that sometimes the greatest support you could offer was to give others the space they needed. Turning away from the direction Angel had gone, you retraced your steps back to your office, seeking solace in the familiar routine of work to occupy your mind until the late hours of the night.

The soft hum of music greeted you as you entered your office, its gentle melody serving as a soothing balm to your somewhat frayed nerves after the day's events. As you settled into your chair, your eyes were drawn to a steaming cup of tea resting on your desk – reminiscent of the one Alastor had manifested for you earlier in the day.

You reached out and picked up the cup, the warmth seeping into your fingertips as you brought it to your lips. The aroma of the tea enveloped you, its familiar scent instantly calming your mind and body. Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself to fully relax, the rhythmic beat of the music washing over you like gentle waves lapping at the shore.

You savored the quiet moment for the next hour or so, engrossed in your work and the comforting ambiance of your office.

But peace was short-lived as the sound of raised voices echoed down the hallway, jolting you from your reverie. With a sense of trepidation, you set aside your tea and hurried towards the commotion, curiosity gnawing at your insides.

As you stepped into the room, you were met with a tense standoff between Angel Dust and Sir Pentious, their confrontation crackling with animosity.

Angel's eyes blazed with fury as he leveled a damning accusation at the snake demon, his voice dripping with venom. "This little bitch is a traitor!" he declared, his words cutting through the air like a knife.

Sir Pentious, caught off guard by the sudden accusation, recoiled in disbelief, his protestations falling on deaf ears. "Preposterous! I would never betray you. You... are my best friends!" he protested, his desperation evident as he sought to salvage the situation with a display of false affection towards Charlie and Vaggie – whom you hadn’t even noticed had entered the room at this point.

Charlie, still groggy from sleep, blinked in confusion as she tried to make sense of the unfolding drama. "What's going on?" she asked, her voice laced with sleepiness.

But Angel was relentless in his pursuit of the truth. With a swift motion, he revealed damning evidence of Sir Pentious's treachery—a hidden camera concealed within the room. Charlie gasped in shock as the truth was laid bare before her, while Sir Pentious, realizing that his cover had been blown, made a hasty retreat.

Wow. You had expected this to happen… well, later on, but this was rather soon. Not even a whole day had gone by.

In a last-ditch effort to salvage his plan, Sir Pentious reached for his wristwatch, intent on making contact with someone and salvaging what remained of his scheme.

Sir Pentious's panicked cries echoed through the air, his voice filled with desperation as he pleaded for assistance. You watched as he pulled on his wrist, at a watch. You watch as the screen lights up and you slowly connect the dots over what is really happening here.

"Ah! Ah! Abort! Abort! S.O.S! Agent Pentious in need of immediate evacuation!" he frantically shouted into his communicator.

A voice you had expected now answered his plead.

Without missing a beat, Vox's voice crackled through the device, tinged with a mixture of surprise and disappointment. "Pentious? Wait... you were caught?! It hasn't even been a day!" he exclaimed incredulously.

‘That’s what I was thinking..’ You thought as you kept watching this event unfold right before your eyes.

Sir Pentious's voice trembled with fear as he begged for salvation. "Please! You've got to get me out of here!" he pleaded, his desperation palpable.

But Vox's response was cold and unforgiving, his disappointment evident in every word. "I can't believe we thought you could handle even something this simple. Do us a favor, if they don't kill you, go ahead and do it yourself! You miserable failure!" he spat, his voice dripping with contempt before the screen flashed black.

Sir Pentious's resolve crumbled as he broke down in tears, his spirit shattered by Vox's harsh words. "I... I... just make it quick, I guess... not that I deserve it," he choked out, resigned to his fate.

As Sir Pentious lay on the ground, defeated and broken, Vaggie approached with a spear in hand, her expression grim as she prepared to deliver the final blow. The weight of his failures hung heavy in the air, a haunting reminder of the consequences of his betrayal.

Vaggie's determination to end Sir Pentious's suffering was palpable, but just as she prepared to deliver the final blow, Charlie intervened with a heartfelt plea.

"Wait! Pentious?" Charlie's voice cut through the tension, her tone filled with both uncertainty and hope.

As the melody of Charlie's voice filled the air, she began to sing, her words carrying a message of forgiveness and redemption.

You watch as you stand by Vaggie and Angel, taking in the scene before you. As Angel rolled his eyes in exasperation, you couldn't help but chuckle softly, appreciating his reaction to the absurdity of the situation. When he flashed you a small smile, a sense of relief washed over you, glad to see him in better spirits.

As the song concluded, Niffty's disappointment was palpable. Her expectations shattered, and she expressed her dissatisfaction with a blunt declaration.

"I hated that song! Why are you so lame?!" Niffty exclaimed, her disappointment evident as she delivered a swift kick to Sir Pentious's body before turning and walking away. "Not a bad boy."

Charlie, undeterred by Niffty's outburst, sighed happily, a sense of accomplishment washing over her.

"Good first day! Let's get some rest!" she declared, her voice filled with satisfaction as she ushered the others out of the room.

You watch as the others walk by you out the door, bidding you good night. You look down at the watch on the floor before you continue out the door. Before you turn the corner down the corridor you catch a glimpse of red from the corner of your eye.

Alastor.

You were quick to hurry back as quietly as possible as you peek around the corner to watch him. He had emerged from the shadows of the dark hallway, a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips as he approached the abandoned wristwatch communicator. With a deft motion, he retrieved the device before activating it to make contact with Vox.

Vox's reaction was immediate and filled with disbelief. "WHAT?!?" he exclaimed, his voice crackling with urgency as he processed the unexpected communication.

But Vox's shock turned to terror as he realized the identity of the caller. Fear flashed across his screen face as Alastor's sinister laughter echoed through the connection.

"You'll have to try harder than that next time, ol' pal!" Alastor taunted, his laughter tinged with malice as he reveled in Vox's fear.

With a chilling finality, Alastor brought the communication to an abrupt end by crushing the wristwatch communicator with his bare hands. The device crumbled under his strength, leaving Vox's screen frozen in a silent scream of rage and terror.

You press your back up against the wall when he turns to leave the room, muscles tensing up as you hear his footsteps get closer and closer to you.

Your heart pounded in your chest as Alastor's footsteps drew nearer, the tension in the air thickening with each passing moment. With your back pressed against the wall, you held your breath, trying to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. The sound of his approaching footsteps seemed to echo in the silence, sending a chill down your spine.

As Alastor passed by, you couldn't help but feel a wave of relief wash over you. With a quiet exhale, you watched him leave the room, his presence lingering in the air like an ominous shadow. Once he was gone, you let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you tried to calm your racing heart.

You watch as he walks down the hallway, disappearing from your view, and finally take the time to let out a sigh, tilting your head back against the wall. Exhaustion weighs heavily on you as you make your way back to your office, the events of the day replaying in your mind like a relentless loop.

Once inside, you reach for your phone, intending to check the time before heading to bed. However, as you pick it up, your eyes widen at the sight of a flurry of missed calls, texts, and social media notifications that cover the screen like a chaotic mosaic. It's an unexpected onslaught that leaves you feeling a mix of confusion and apprehension.

All from one person.

Vox.

‘Couldn’t hide forever, could you?’

♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿

My AO3 account! Hey there! Thank you so much for sticking around for another chapter! I wanted to express my gratitude for your continued support and encouragement. Starting my master's last week has been quite the whirlwind with all the new information to absorb, but your kind words and kudos have truly brightened my days. Thank you once again, and I can't wait to share more with you soon! - Ivory

[sheriffaxolotl]

Fallen: A Path to Redemption (Chapter 6) Alastor x Reader

"Solace, you say? Well, my dear fallen friend, in Hell, solace comes with a price."

“What kind?”

“How about... your soul, my dear.” Word count: 9508 ✿ Friends to Lovers ✿ Slow Burn ✿ Eventual Romance ✿ Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 |

♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡ ✿ ♡

Angel Dust had been observing you for about ten minutes now as you paced back and forth in the kitchen, muttering to yourself and occasionally pausing to take a sip from the coffee cup in your hand. He noted how tightly you clutched your phone, the screen lighting up with notifications every few minutes, causing your brows to furrow with increasing anxiety.

"Hey there, tots," Angel finally spoke up, taking a casual sip from his own coffee cup as he leaned against the kitchen counter, watching your restless movements. He saw you slam down your coffee cup and phone with a loud 'bam!'.

"Everything alright?" he inquired, a hint of concern laced in his tone.

"Of course! Why wouldn't it be?" You replied, attempting to sound composed but failing to hide the edge of panic in your voice. Angel observed as you grabbed a cloth and began to vigorously clean the coffee machine, your eyes scanning every surface with intense focus.

As you scrub away at the machine, Angel can't help but notice the tension radiating from you, the air thick with an unspoken sense of unease. He shifted slightly, crossing his arms as he contemplated whether to push further or leave you to your thoughts. After a moment of silence, he decided to speak up again.

"You seem a bit... on edge, tots," Angel remarked, his voice gentle but probing. "Anything you wanna talk about?" he offered, hoping to provide some comfort or distraction from whatever was clearly bothering you.

You paused in your frenzied cleaning, the cloth clutched tightly in your hand as you considered Angel's offer. Part of you wanted to confide in him, to release the burden weighing heavily on your shoulders, but another part hesitated, fearing judgment or misunderstanding.

"I..." you began, your voice faltering slightly as you searched for the right words. "It's just... someone from my past has been messaging me, and it's... it's been bringing up a lot of old memories and emotions," you admitted, your tone laced with vulnerability.

Angel's expression softened, a sympathetic understanding in his eyes as he listened intently to your words. "Ah, sweetheart, I get it," he replied, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Sometimes the past has a nasty way of catching up with us, huh?"

You nodded, appreciating his understanding, though the turmoil within you still churned relentlessly. "Yeah, it's just... I thought I'd moved past all of that, but now it feels like I'm right back where I started," you admitted, a sigh of frustration escaping your lips.

Angel's hand landed gently on your shoulder, a silent reassurance that spoke volumes. "You're not going through this alone," he said, his voice a comforting presence amidst the storm. "I've been in similar shoes, you know. If you ever need to talk, I'm here for you…”.

You let his words sink in, feeling a glimmer of relief wash over you at the reminder that you weren't alone. "Thank you, Angel," you said softly. It was a relief to know that someone was willing to listen and offer support without judgment.

"... I'll have you know, I'm technically a lot older than you," you teased with a gentle nudge of your elbow into his side, a genuine smile gracing your lips, albeit slightly strained.

As Angel's comforting presence enveloped you, you found yourself drawn to the warmth of his support, grateful for his unwavering understanding. The weight of your turmoil felt a little lighter in his company as if his mere presence had the power to ease the burden on your shoulders.

"Yeah, I bet you've got a few centuries on me, huh?" Angel quipped, a playful twinkle in his eye as he teased you, his attempt at levity a welcome distraction from the gravity of the situation.

You chuckled softly at his remark, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly. "Maybe just a couple," you replied, allowing yourself to be swept up in the momentary reprieve from the intensity of your emotions. “But you’re the one giving off the vibe of old man wisdom,” you teased back.

Angel chuckled at your playful jab, rolling his eyes in mock indignation. "Oh, please, darlin'. Old man wisdom? More like timeless charm," he retorted with a playful wink, a mischievous glint in his eye.

You couldn't help but laugh at his cheeky response, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease as his playful banter lifted your spirits. "Well, I suppose that charm must be what's keeping you young at heart," you quipped back, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips.

He grinned in response, leaning casually against the counter with an air of confidence. "You know it," he replied with a wink, his tone dripping with playful sass.

The two of you stood in companionable silence for a moment, the gentle hum of the kitchen filling the air as you leaned against the counter, finding solace in each other's presence. It was moments like these that reminded you of the importance of friendship, of having someone to lean on during life's more challenging moments.

"Thanks, Angel," you said again, this time with a touch of sincerity that conveyed the depth of your gratitude. "I really appreciate it."

Angel offered you a warm smile in return, his expression filled with genuine warmth and understanding. "Anytime, darlin’," he replied, his voice soft but unwavering. "You know where to find me if you ever need anything."

You offer him a weak smile before a familiar buzz in your pocket interrupts the moment. With a resigned sigh, you retrieve your phone and begin reading the messages flooding your screen:

"Y/N, just answer the question already."

"You're just as pathetic as him! Hiding away! YOU PATHETIC BI-"

"You think you could hide all this time and not expect-"

Your heart sinks as you read through the relentless onslaught of messages. Each one feels like a dagger to your heart, fueling the flames of anxiety and fear that already consume you. With a heavy sigh, you set your phone down on the counter, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of hateful messages that have accumulated, now reaching over 200. The weight of it all threatens to crush you as you contemplate the relentless barrage of harassment you've endured, wondering when it will all finally come to an end.

Angel noticed the sudden shift in your demeanor and leaned closer, peeking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the barrage of messages flooding your screen. His expression shifted from concern to outright indignation as he read through the messages, his jaw clenching with anger.

"What the hell is this?" he exclaimed, his voice laced with disbelief and anger as he reached out to gently take your phone from your hand. Without waiting for your response, he scrolled through the messages, his brows furrowing deeper with each passing second.

You watched as his expression morphed from shock to anger, a fierce determination burning in his eyes. "This is unacceptable," he declared, his voice firm as he handed you back the phone. "You don't have to deal with this."

Angel paused as he saw the name of the sender was 'ignore,' and he raised a brow. 'Who the fuck is this? Who would send you this kind of stuff?'"

The anxiety peaked in your stomach at the idea of Angel finding out who was messaging you. He might tell someone, or you feared that he would tell Alastor. “It doesn’t matter who it is… I should just change my number... it’s worked before…” You mumbled, defeated.

Angel’s gaze softened as he observed your distress, his usual playful demeanor giving way to genuine concern. "Hey, don't let this jerk get to you," he said, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "You shouldn't have to hide or change your number because of some cowardly fucker hiding behind a screen."

Oh, if only he knew what kind of screen you were dealing with.

“I know, but it would work out for the better… Plus, I should try and see if I can change it to having it to a work phone anyway,” you said with a sigh.

Angel's brows furrowed in concern as he listened to you, his expression reflecting a mix of sympathy and determination. "I get where you're coming from, but changing your number shouldn't be your only option," he replied, his voice gentle but firm. "And a work phone? Come on, you don't need to resort to that just to escape this mess."

He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before continuing, "We'll figure this out together, alright? You don't have to deal with this alone." His words carried a comforting weight, offering you a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos of the situation.

You brought your hand up to your face, trying to steady your trembling breaths. ‘Don't cry, don't cry,’ you thought to yourself, willing the tears to stay at bay. After a few deep breaths, you managed to compose yourself and looked back at Angel.

"God, I feel like such a mess right now," you admitted, your voice wavering with emotion.

Angel's expression softened even further at your vulnerable admission. "Hey, it's okay," he murmured soothingly, his voice gentle as he reached out to comfort you. "We all have moments like this. You're not alone."

He offered you a warm smile, his eyes reflecting genuine understanding and empathy. "We're here for each other, remember?" he said reassuringly. "No matter what happens, I've got your back. You can lean on me." His words conveyed a sense of unwavering support, assuring you that you had a friend by your side to weather the storm.

But then, his playful side emerged as he continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Besides, I could use someone as modest as you to keep me in check,” he teased, nudging you playfully with his elbow. “Heaven knows I need it.” His light-hearted tone was a welcome relief, offering a moment of levity amidst the turmoil.

As Angel's mischievous grin widened, his playful banter danced in the air like a gentle breeze, momentarily lifting the heavy weight of the situation. “Oh, trust me, heaven indeed knows,” you replied with a chuckle, leaning back against the counter as you exchanged teasing glances with him.

But then, his tone shifted, a hint of genuine concern creeping into his voice as he suggested, “Why don't you ask Charlie for a day off or something? Might be worthwhile to get some air that, well, isn't in here.” His gesture encompassed the entirety of the hotel, subtly hinting at the need for a change of scenery and a break from the chaos that seemed to permeate the air within its walls.

You hesitated at the suggestion, your mind swirling with conflicting thoughts like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. On one hand, the allure of a day off was undeniable—a precious opportunity to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the hotel and find solace in the outside world. The thought of strolling through the bustling streets, feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin, and breathing in the crisp, hot hell air filled you with a sense of longing you couldn't quite shake.

But on the other hand, you couldn't shake off the guilt of burdening Charlie with unnecessary requests, especially when she was already juggling a myriad of responsibilities and challenges. The last thing you wanted was to add to her stress or cause any undue worry. Besides, you prided yourself on being a reliable and dependable member of the team, always willing to lend a hand whenever needed.

"I don't know, Angel," you replied, your voice tinged with uncertainty as you cast a wary glance around the kitchen. The familiar space suddenly felt claustrophobic and stifling. "I don't want to trouble Charlie with unnecessary requests, especially when things are already so chaotic around here." Despite your reservations, a small ember of longing flickered within you, yearning for the freedom and tranquility that awaited beyond the confines of the hotel's walls.

Angel leaned against the countertop, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of understanding and sympathy. "I get where you're coming from, but you gotta take care of yourself too, you know?" he said, his tone gentle yet firm. "Charlie's not gonna mind, trust me. Besides, a little break might do you some good. Clear your head, recharge your batteries, all that jazz."

His words resonated with you, stirring a sense of longing for the respite that only a day off could provide. Yet, the nagging sense of guilt still gnawed at your conscience, a constant reminder of your responsibilities and obligations to your friends and colleagues.

"But what if something happens while I'm gone?" you countered, your voice tinged with worry. "What if they need me here, and I'm not around to help?" The thought of abandoning your post, even temporarily, filled you with unease, as if you were neglecting your duty and leaving your friends vulnerable to whatever challenges may arise.

Angel flashed you a reassuring smile, his eyes warm and comforting. "Hey, we're a team, remember?" he said, his tone laced with confidence. "We've got each other's backs. If anything comes up, we'll handle it together. But right now, what you need is some time for yourself. Trust me, Charlie would want you to take care of yourself."

You mulled over his words, the internal struggle between duty and self-care waging war within your mind. In the end, however, the allure of a much-needed break proved too tempting to resist, and with a hesitant yet determined nod, you made up your mind.

"Alright, you're right," you conceded, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I'll talk to Charlie and see if I can take the day off. Thanks, Angel. I really appreciate it."

Angel leaned back, his expression casual yet confident. "Don't sweat it," he replied, a playful smirk gracing his lips. "I'll cover for you if anything comes up. Just go out there and enjoy yourself. You deserve it."

His sassy tone brought a chuckle to your lips, the tension of the moment dissipating as you found yourself unable to resist his infectious charm. "I owe you one," you said, genuine warmth infusing your words.

With a wink and a grin, Angel waved you off. "Don'y worry bout it," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "Just promise me you'll have some fun out there, alright? And remember, if anyone gives you trouble, you can always call on the one and only Angel Dust for backup."

You couldn't help but laugh at his bold declaration, feeling a newfound sense of lightness and optimism wash over you. With a final nod of determination, you made your way to find Charlie, ready to ask for that much-needed day off since you started a few days ago. The whole interaction with Angel had managed to distract you from the troubling messages on your phone, if only for a fleeting moment.

You approached Charlie's office door with a gentle knock, the sound echoing softly in the hallway. However, instead of the usual bustling activity, you were met with the sudden crash of something hitting the floor and hushed whispers from within. Concern gnawed at the edges of your mind, but you held back, waiting patiently for Charlie's response.

"One moment!" Charlie's voice called out from behind the closed door, prompting you to resist the urge to barge in and check on her. Instead, you waited, your curiosity piqued by the unexpected commotion.

As you observed the scene before you, a mischievous grin tugged at the corners of your lips. The reason behind Charlie and Vaggie's flustered demeanor wasn't merely work-related; it seemed like something more personal was at play. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, and you couldn't help but find it amusing to think that they might have been stealing kisses or sharing secret glances during work hours.

"Oh..." you murmured softly, a faint blush creeping onto your cheeks as you connected the dots. The secretive whispers and the nervous glances exchanged between them suddenly made perfect sense in that moment.

Realizing that you might have unintentionally stumbled upon a private moment, you quickly cleared your throat, trying to ease the tension. "Um, sorry if I interrupted anything important," you offered, a sheepish smile playing on your lips as you took a step back, giving them space.

“Oh! Oh! No, of course not! We were-!”

“Just discussing some ideas for the hotel!” Vaggie cut in before Charlie could say anything further. You raised a brow, your expression conveying disbelief, before deciding to steer the conversation back to what you needed right now.

The sunlight streaming through the office window cast a warm glow over the scene, highlighting the faint blush on Charlie's cheeks and the nervous fidgeting of Vaggie's hands. Their attempts to mask their flustered state were evident, but you couldn't help but notice the subtle glances they exchanged, laden with unspoken meaning.

“Charlie, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I took the day off?” you asked, feeling a nervous smile tug at your lips and a bit of shame creeping up your back. You didn’t want her to think you were lazy, but you also needed to figure out a way to deal with this Vox situation before it got out of hand.

Charlie's initial surprise at your request quickly morphed into understanding, her expression softening with empathy. "Of course, (Y/N)," she replied, her voice gentle. "Everyone needs a break now and then. Take all the time you need."

You breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for her understanding. "Thank you, Charlie," you murmured, offering her a small, appreciative smile. "I'll make sure to catch up on any missed work when I get back."<

As you turned to leave the office, you couldn't ignore the subtle exchange of glances between Charlie and Vaggie, their silent communication hinting at a shared understanding. Though their embarrassment was evident, you sensed it was more about being almost caught off guard than anything more serious.

Leaving their office behind, a newfound determination fueled your steps as you contemplated the impending confrontation with Vox. With a clear goal in mind, you exited the room, your mind buzzing with plans to address the situation head-on.

Entering your bedroom, you headed straight for your dresser, determined to find what you were looking for. After a brief search through the drawers, you exclaimed in triumph, holding up the small half-face mask you had been seeking. Perched atop the mask were two adorable rounded horns, adding a whimsical touch to the accessory.

This mask held a deeper significance for you. You had crafted it in a panic when Alastor first went missing, desperate to conceal your identity. It had served its purpose well over the years, allowing you to hide in plain sight without fear of discovery. With practiced ease, you secured the mask to your face, framing it with loose strands of hair before a sudden realization struck you.

"He knows how I wear my hair," you mused, staring at your reflection in the mirror. With a resigned sigh, you reached up and began to carefully undo your braid, allowing your hair to cascade over your shoulders and down your back. After a couple of gentle shakes, your hair fell naturally around your face, some strands draping over the horns of the mask, effectively concealing them within your locks.

Running your fingers along the edges of the mask, you marveled at how well it blended with your skin. You remembered the time spent adjusting it until it sat perfectly against your skin, mimicking the natural curves of your face. It had to look natural, seamless, as if it were a natural extension of yourself. Recollections flooded your mind, reminding you of the past two years when you had the luxury of avoiding the mask. It became a rare comfort, reserved for days when anxiety and doubt gnawed at your resolve, threatening to overwhelm you.

You vividly recalled the relief of shedding its weight, feeling the burden of secrecy lifted, if only temporarily. But today was different. Today, you wore it not out of habit, but out of necessity, as a shield against the relentless onslaught of messages from Vox.

With a heavy heart, you acknowledged the mask's return, a tangible reminder of the battles you fought and the secrets you harbored. As you prepared for the day ahead, you carefully selected a different outfit, ensuring that your suit, vest, and dress pants were returned to their hangers with precision to prevent any creases.

Opting for a pencil skirt paired with a silk forest green cape top, you took a moment to appreciate the elegance of your choice. It was a subtle yet stylish ensemble, exuding confidence and poise. And, true to your style, you completed the look with a pair of tasteful stockings, adding a touch of sophistication to the ensemble.

Having prepared your outfit to your liking, you drew in a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the tasks ahead. Your primary objective for the day was to slip out of the hotel without drawing any unwanted attention, a feat that seemed achievable given the sparse population of guests and staff.

Satisfied with your appearance after a final check in the mirror, you gathered your belongings and made your way out of your bedroom, determined to execute your plan smoothly and efficiently.

As you descended the stairs, a sense of relief washed over you at the sight of the deserted hallways. "Well, this is going swimmingly well—" Your optimistic thought was abruptly interrupted when you locked eyes with Husk, who had halted in his task of clearing a glass behind the bar, his gaze fixed on you.

As you opened your mouth to explain, you watched as Husk raised a hand, or rather a paw, signaling for you to stop before you could speak. "I'm not even going to ask, missy," he said with a nonchalant tone, his expression indicating he wasn't particularly interested in hearing your explanation.

You nodded in understanding, appreciating Husk's laissez-faire attitude. "Thanks, Husk," you replied with a grateful smile, relieved that you didn't have to come up with an excuse or explanation for your unexpected appearance.

Husk offered you a half-hearted shrug before returning his attention to the glass he was cleaning, evidently unfazed by the interruption. With a small sigh of relief, you continued on your way, grateful that your impromptu exit from the hotel had gone unnoticed by most.

Walking the streets of hell with a sense of freedom was undeniably liberating, but you couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort at the occasional vague comments thrown your way as you made your way toward your destination. It seemed that even in the underworld, gossip and curiosity were unavoidable, leaving you to navigate through the maze of streets with a cautious eye and a wary mind.

But all caution and wariness melted away as you finally reached your destination: Cannibal Town. Hastening your pace, you navigated through the bustling streets, your focus solely on finding a certain someone amidst the chaos. As you approached the familiar doorway, a wave of nostalgia washed over you, tugging at your heartstrings.

"(Y/N)?" The unmistakable sound of a familiar voice startled you, causing your hand to freeze mid-air, just before you could knock on the door. Whirling around, you were met with the welcoming sight of Rosie. Her bright smile and warm gaze instantly eased the tension coiling in your chest.

"Rosie!" you exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you stepped closer to her. It had been far too long since you'd last seen each other, and her presence brought a sense of comfort and familiarity amidst the chaos of Hell.

Rosie's smile widened as she enveloped you in a tight hug, her arms wrapping around you in a gesture of warmth and affection. "I can't believe it's really you," she said, pulling back slightly to look at you, her eyes filled with genuine joy. "It's been so long! What brings you to this side of the Pentagram?"

Before you could even reply, Rosie continued, her excitement palpable. "Oh my! Look at how your hair has grown! And is that some color in your cheeks? Oh my dear, you're getting a bit on the thin side." Her words flowed like a river, filled with concern and genuine affection, as she took in every detail of your appearance.

As Rosie continued to fuss over your appearance, you couldn't help but feel a wave of nostalgia wash over you. Her motherly concern was both endearing and comforting, reminding you of simpler times when the two of you would sit for hours, sharing stories and laughter.

"I've missed you too, Rosie," you replied, returning her hug warmly. "It's been too long since I've visited. I'm just here to catch up with old friends and maybe... deal with a few things," you added with a slight hesitation, not wanting to burden her with the details of your troubles.

Rosie nodded understandingly, her expression softening as she took in your words. "Well, you're always welcome here, dear. You know that," she reassured you, her voice filled with warmth. "Now, come inside. I'll make you some tea and we can catch up properly." With a gentle hand on your back, she led you inside, the familiar warmth of her home enveloping you like a comforting embrace.

As you stepped inside Rosie's home, a sense of nostalgia washed over you, accompanied by the comforting scent of herbal tea and baked goods. The cozy interior was adorned with colorful tapestries and knick-knacks, each telling a story of its own.

You followed Rosie into the kitchen, taking a seat at the wooden table as she busied herself with preparing the tea. The sound of boiling water and clinking teacups filled the air, a soothing melody that calmed your racing thoughts.

As Rosie poured the steaming tea into delicate porcelain cups, she turned to you with a warm smile. "So, tell me everything that's been going on with you," she said, her eyes sparkling with genuine interest. "I want to hear all about your adventures since we last saw each other."

As Rosie gracefully moved about the kitchen, her vintage attire and elegant demeanor added to the charm of her surroundings. Her apron, adorned with intricate lace trimmings, seemed like a relic from another era, a testament to her appreciation for the finer things in life.

With a gentle flourish, Rosie set the tea tray on the table, the porcelain cups clinking softly against the saucers. The aroma of the freshly brewed tea filled the room, transporting you back to simpler times, where conversations flowed freely over cups of steaming beverages.

Taking a seat across from you, Rosie's eyes sparkled with genuine curiosity as she awaited your tales. Her demeanor exuded warmth and sophistication, making you feel right at home in her cozy abode.

As you sipped the fragrant tea with a heavy heart, you recounted the tale of how you had sought refuge in the radio station after Alastor's disappearance, finding solace in the familiar routines of broadcasting. You spoke of the uncertainty that lingered during his absence, the fear of the unknown weighing heavily on your shoulders. "It was a tumultuous time," you admitted, your voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "But being at the station gave me a sense of normalcy amidst the chaos."

Rosie nodded sympathetically, her vintage attire adding to the atmosphere of comfort and familiarity. "I can only imagine what you must have been through," she said softly, her eyes filled with understanding.

But fate had a way of intervening, and when Alastor returned, everything changed. His presence brought an air of excitement and chaos, and before you knew it, you found yourself caught up in his grand plans for the Hazbin Hotel.

“But his return brought its own set of challenges," you added, a note of apprehension creeping into your tone. "Suddenly, I found myself swept up in his plans for the Hazbin Hotel."

Rosie listened intently, her expression a mix of sympathy and concern as you detailed your experiences. She nodded in understanding as you spoke of the challenges you faced working at the hotel, the constant balancing act between appeasing Alastor's demands and maintaining your own sense of self.

"It sounds like quite the ordeal," she remarked, her voice laced with empathy.

Despite the hardships, you couldn't deny the sense of purpose you found within the walls of the Hazbin Hotel. It was a place of redemption and second chances, a beacon of hope in the chaos of Hell itself.

"It's a place of redemption and second chances," you explained, a spark of determination igniting within you. "And I'm grateful to be a part of it, despite the challenges. Plus, Charlie really wants it to work out and she is so energetic and it's just infectious."

"Ah, yes," Rosie interjected, a knowing glint in her eye as she observed your reaction to the topic of redemption. "You've always had a fascination with that, haven't you, dear?"

You nodded eagerly, the passion evident in your voice as you spoke. "Absolutely. There's something truly remarkable about the concept of redemption, the idea that even the most lost souls can find a path to salvation."

Rosie's curiosity piqued as she turned her attention to Alastor, her expression expectant. "And what does Alastor think about it?"

You hesitated, a hint of uncertainty flickering in your eyes. "Um... well, it's not something we agree on," you admitted reluctantly, the tension in the air palpable as you broached the topic of differing opinions with your enigmatic colleague.

The question hung in the air, lingering between you and Rosie like an unspoken challenge. You could feel her gaze probing, searching for answers in the depths of your eyes, and for a moment, you found yourself at a loss for words.

"What about your soul?" Rosie pressed on, her voice gentle but insistent as she waited for your response.

You shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, the weight of her question settling heavily upon you. "I... I haven't really thought about it," you admitted hesitantly, feeling a pang of guilt gnawing at your conscience. "When I first sold my soul, it crossed my mind a few times in the early years... but as time went on, and I grew closer to Alastor, I guess I just stopped thinking about it."

The admission hung in the air, the weight of your unspoken desires and doubts casting a shadow over the conversation. You couldn't help but wonder if reclaiming your soul was even possible at this point, or if you were destined to remain tethered to Alastor's whims for eternity.

"You should ask! You'd make a frightfully cute overlord!" Rosie exclaimed, her toothy grin conveying a mischievous enthusiasm for the notion.

The unexpected suggestion caught you off guard, and you couldn't help but blink in surprise at Rosie's lighthearted remark. Her toothy grin only added to the surrealness of the moment, and you found yourself momentarily speechless, unsure of how to respond.

"A... cute overlord?" you echoed, the idea feeling both absurd and strangely enticing all at once. The notion of reclaiming your soul and forging your own path in Hell had never seemed like a viable option before, but Rosie's words planted a seed of possibility in your mind.

"I... I'll consider it," you finally replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you entertained the thought of a different future for yourself. "Thank you, Rosie. You always know how to lighten the mood."

Rosie's grin widened at your response, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Consider it carefully, dear," she said, her tone teasing yet sincere. "Life in Hell could certainly use a bit more whimsy, don't you think?" she remarked, her voice tinged with playful sarcasm. "Besides, who wouldn't want to see you ruling over the underworld with grace and charm?"

As Rosie's playful banter lifted your spirits, you couldn't help but laugh, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. However, just as quickly as the tension dissipated, a wave of anxiety surged in your stomach as your phone buzzed once more in your pocket.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you decided to address the elephant in the room. "But... I do need help with something else," you confessed, your voice tinged with nervousness as you retrieved your phone and placed it on the table with a hesitant smile.

"Oh, I assure you, I'm utterly clueless when it comes to phones, sweetheart!" Rosie exclaimed with a touch of dramatic flair, her laughter filling the room as she dismissed any notion of being adept with digital technology.

You hesitated, reluctant to burden Rosie with your troubles, but the weight of the situation compelled you to seek her help. "It's not the phone I need help with, Rosie... It's who's messaging me on it," you confessed, sliding the phone across the table to her.

As Rosie scrolled through the messages, a range of emotions flitted across her face—confusion, anger, and shock evident in her expression. "Who sent these?" she inquired, her tone laced with concern.

"Vox," you replied solemnly, the weight of the situation settling heavily upon your shoulders.

Rosie's expression shifted from concern to a steely determination as she processed the information. "Vox," she repeated, her voice tinged with a hint of disdain. "I should've known."

You watched as Rosie's eyes narrowed, her mind clearly working through possible courses of action. "This won't do. Not at all," she muttered to herself before turning her gaze back to you, her resolve evident. "We need to put a stop to this, darling. You can't let him continue to harass you like this."

You nodded in agreement, grateful for Rosie's unwavering support. "I don't know what to do," you admitted, feeling a knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.

Rosie reached out, placing a comforting hand on yours. "We'll figure it out together," she reassured you, her voice firm but reassuring. "But first, let's make sure he knows he can't mess with you anymore." With a determined glint in her eye, Rosie began to formulate a plan, With determination igniting her gaze, Rosie sought out the messaging app on your phone, her fingers deftly navigating the device.

"What are you doing?" you questioned, a note of panic creeping into your voice as you observed her actions.

"We should inform Alastor. He'll handle this with his usual flair," Rosie suggested, her intent clear in her tone.

"No!" You interjected, a surge of fear propelling you to snatch your phone away from her grasp. "We can't! We can't—"

"Why? What's wrong?" Rosie's concern was evident in her voice as she watched you with furrowed brows.

"I don't want Alastor to know. I don't want him to know," you confessed, your words rushed and laden with apprehension.

"Sweetheart, why? Alastor wouldn't care—" Rosie tried to reassure you, but you interrupted her with a pained expression.

"I don't want Vox to tell him anything—" you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What could Vox tell him?" Rosie's inquiry hung in the air, her expression reflecting a mix of confusion and concern.

You paused, the weight of your words sinking in as you realized you might have said too much. Panic surged within you, your mind racing to backtrack and contain the information you had inadvertently revealed.

"I, um, I..." You stumbled over your words, struggling to find a way to backtrack or downplay your slip-up. But the truth spilled out before you could stop it. "That... I had a run-in with him a few years back, after Alastor disappeared," you admitted reluctantly, the weight of the confession heavy on your shoulders.

"Oh, Alastor won't care—"

"He will. I know he will," you interjected, your voice tinged with certainty and apprehension. “Even if Alastor won’t outwardly admit it, I know he will, because it’s Vox. The mere idea that I confided in him in a moment of loneliness will be all he focuses on. Not the fact that I was alone or scared or…” You trailed off, your hands gripping the edges of your skirt as you took a pause.

“Dear…” Rosie said softly as she pulled out the chair next to you, taking a seat and placing her hand over yours. “I won’t force your hand to tell him… but maybe it's best that he hears it from you…” She glanced over at your phone. “Instead of from another.”

"But don’t decide on it this very second," Rosie said gently, patting the top of your hand. "I think for now, we get rid of this phone and find you a new one. Hmm?" She suggested with a supportive tone as she moved to get up. "We can make it a girl’s day out."

You nodded, grateful for Rosie's understanding and support. "That sounds like a plan," you agreed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. The prospect of spending the day with Rosie, away from the stresses of the hotel and the constant barrage of messages, was a welcome reprieve.

As Rosie gathered her things and you followed suit, a sense of relief washed over you. Despite the lingering uncertainty about how to handle the situation with Vox, you found solace in the knowledge that you weren't facing it alone, for now.

Together, you and Rosie made your way out of the house, the anticipation of a girls' day out adding a spring to your step. With each passing moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift from your shoulders.

As you strolled through the winding streets of Hell, the vibrant energy of the city surrounded you. Your first stop was a quaint little boutique that Rosie had mentioned, known for its eclectic collection of vintage clothing and accessories. As you browsed the racks of dresses and skirts, Rosie offered her expert advice, guiding you toward pieces that suited your style.

Trying on clothes together was a delight; you practically dotted on each other, even wearing a matching little number as you posed for photos together.

After finding a few new additions to your wardrobe, you ventured to a nearby bakery, enticed by the heavenly aroma of freshly baked treats. The display case was filled with an array of delectable pastries and confections, each more tempting than the last. With Rosie's encouragement, you indulged in a few sweet treats, savoring the rich flavors and decadent textures. Next, you found yourselves drawn to a quaint little café tucked away in a quiet corner of an alley way. The cozy atmosphere and inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee drew you in, and you settled into a cozy corner booth, eager to enjoy a moment of relaxation with your dear friend.

As you sipped your coffee and savored the delicious pastries, you couldn't help but feel a sense of ease as you listened to Rosie catch you up on all the gossip you had missed.

With each passing moment, the weight of your worries seemed to melt away, replaced by a renewed sense of optimism and gratitude. As you and Rosie chatted and laughed, you couldn't help but feel grateful for her and how she fell not only into a role as your friend but almost like family. You even started to forget about the problem you had both come out to deal with. 

After finishing your coffee and treats at the café, you and Rosie made your way to a nearby electronics store to find a new phone. The store, adorned with neon signs and flashing lights, buzzed with activity as demons browsed through the latest gadgets and devices.

Navigating through the aisles, you were met with a dazzling array of smartphones, each boasting impressive features and sleek designs. Rosie, ever the expert shopper, guided you through the options, offering her insights and recommendations along the way. Even if they were only about which one was cuter.

After carefully considering your preferences and needs, you finally settled on a stylish smartphone that suited your tastes. With Rosie's help, you selected the perfect model, complete with all the necessary features and capabilities - she decided on the style and you made sure to know what features you would need.

With your new phone in hand, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing that you could leave the past behind and start fresh. As you activated the device and set it up, Rosie stood by your side, offering encouragement and support every step of the way.

Once your new phone was up and running, you couldn't resist snapping a selfie with Rosie to commemorate the occasion. With smiles on your faces, you captured the moment, then saved it as your wallpaper.

As you left the store, your new phone safely tucked away in your pocket, you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief as you looked down at your old phone.

"What will you do with it?" Rosie asked, glancing down at your old phone.

You hesitated for a moment, then let out a sigh before making a decision. With resolve, you raised the phone above your head and, with a swift motion, hurled it down onto the pavement, watching as it shattered into pieces.

"Oh!" Rosie gasped in surprise as she watched the phone meet its demise. She chuckled softly as you picked up the larger pieces and disposed of them in a nearby bin. "That was rather dramatic," she remarked with a small laugh.

"Dramatic and effective," you pointed out, flashing her a sheepish grin.

With your new phone in hand, you and Rosie exchanged satisfied smiles, the weight of the old phone's troubles lifted from your shoulders. Now, armed with a fresh start and a sleek device, you felt a renewed sense of confidence and determination.

"Looks like you're all set now," Rosie remarked, her tone filled with approval as she glanced at your new phone. "Ready to keep on shopping, hm?"

You nodded, a small grin playing on your lips. "Absolutely," you replied, feeling a surge of optimism coursing through you. With Rosie's unwavering support and the promise of a fresh start, you were ready to tackle whatever challenges lay ahead. a new beginning, you were more than ready to face whatever challenges Hell had in store for you.

But just as you turned to continue down the pathway, you collided with an all too familiar chest. With a sharp inhale, you brought your hand up to your nose, wincing as you felt the telltale sting of another scrape.

"Ah, so this is where you've been all day, hmm?" Alastor's voice cut through the air, his grip firm on your wrist as he steadied you. His gaze shifted, honing in on the mask adorning your face. "What is that on your face?" he asked, his curiosity evident in his tone.

"Alastor!" Rosie cheered as she waltzed over, all smiles and charm. "Would you look at that! As dapper as ever!"

Alastor's gaze shifted from your mask to Rosie, a curious glint in his eye. "Rosie,  Lovely Rosie," he greeted with a charming smile, releasing your wrist to offer her a polite nod. "What brings you to this corner of town?"

Rosie returned his smile with equal warmth, her posture radiating confidence. "Just enjoying a lovely day out with our (Y/N) here," she replied, gesturing towards you with a playful twinkle in her eye. "And might I say, you're looking positively devilish as always".

You couldn't help but chuckle at Rosie's clever wordplay, grateful for her ability to lighten the mood even in unexpected encounters like this. Meanwhile, Alastor's attention remained fixated on your mask, his curiosity palpable as he studied it with keen interest.

"It's a new accessory I've been trying out," you interjected, offering Alastor a sheepish smile as you adjusted the mask slightly. "Adds a bit of flair to the ensemble, wouldn't you say?"

Alastor's grin widened at your comment, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Indeed it does, my dear," he replied, his tone laced with playful intrigue. "But do tell me, what's the occasion for such a daring fashion choice?"

You exchanged a quick glance with Rosie, silently conveying your agreement to stick to the story you had discussed earlier. With a confident nod, you turned back to Alastor, ready to deflect his questions with practiced ease.

"Just felt like adding a touch of mystery to the day," you replied casually, hoping to steer the conversation away from any deeper inquiries. "You know me, always one for a bit of theatrics."

Alastor chuckled at your response, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. "Ah, a kindred spirit indeed," he remarked, his grin widening as he gestured towards the bustling streets of Hell. "Well then, why don’t I join you both? I would hate to miss out.”

"Of course, Alastor," Rosie chimed in, her smile brightening at the idea of their impromptu trio. "The more, the merrier!"

You nodded in agreement, though inwardly you couldn't help but feel a twinge of apprehension at the prospect of spending time with Alastor right now. You couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to his sudden interest in joining your outing than met the eye.

Nevertheless, you plastered on a polite smile and nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely, Alastor," you replied, your tone laced with forced enthusiasm. "It'll be a delight to have you with us."

With Alastor now officially part of your excursion, the three of you continued your leisurely stroll down the road as Rosie and Alastor engaged in conversation. Their banter filled the air with lively energy, and you couldn't help but smile at their playful exchanges. This really did feel like old times.

As you navigated the colorful crowds and eccentric characters, you couldn't shake the feeling that this day would be anything but ordinary. The bustling streets of Hell seemed to hum with an undercurrent of anticipation, and you found yourself growing increasingly wary with each passing moment.

Glancing down at your watch, you noted the time—2:30 pm. It felt like too much time for something to go wrong, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine. As you slowed down to try and walk on the side of one of them, you felt a hand on your lower back, forcing you to stay where you were. Looking up, you noticed Alastor staring down at you, his hand the one on your back.

His gaze was intense, his crimson eyes seeming to pierce right through you. You could feel a chill run down your spine as his touch sent a tingling sensation across your skin. Despite the warmth of the day, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease that washed over you in his presence.

"Is something the matter, my dear?" Alastor's voice was smooth and velvety, masking any hint of concern behind its charismatic tone. But you could sense the underlying curiosity in his words, as if he were probing for something hidden beneath the surface.

Your words spilled out in a rushed flurry, a feeble attempt to mask your unease. "Oh! No, no – not at all," you said quickly, shaking your head as you smiled up at him. "Just didn't want to interrupt the rhythm of your conversation—"

Your voice faltered for a moment as Alastor's gaze held yours, his piercing eyes seeming to search for something beyond your facade. You couldn't shake the feeling that he saw right through your flimsy excuse, but you pushed aside your apprehension, plastering on a reassuring smile.

Alastor's gaze lingered for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he finally released his grip on your back. "Ah, I see," he replied, his tone nonchalant as he turned his attention back to Rosie. "Well, no need to worry about interrupting, my dear. Your presence is always welcome."

As you all wandered from shop to shop, café to café, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at the back of your mind. Despite the pleasant distractions and lighthearted conversations, the weight of your secrets hung heavy on your shoulders, casting a shadow over the otherwise enjoyable day.

As the daylight slowly faded into dusk, signaling the approaching end of the day, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of anxiety every time you made eye contact with Alastor.

"Ah, well! This is me," Rosie said, breaking the tension as she turned around and pulled you and Alastor into a farewell hug.

You embraced Rosie tightly, grateful for her presence and the distraction she provided from the weight of your secrets. As she released you from the hug, you exchanged warm smiles, knowing that her unwavering support had made the day bearable despite the underlying tension.

"Until next time, sweetie," Rosie said, her voice filled with warmth and affection as she bid you farewell. With a final wave, she disappeared into the bustling streets of cannibal town, leaving you and Alastor alone once more.

With Rosie gone, a palpable silence settled between you and Alastor, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the bustling city around you. You shifted uncomfortably, suddenly acutely aware of the weight of his gaze upon you.

"So, my dear," Alastor began, his voice low and measured, "care to enlighten me on the purpose of your little outing today?"

You swallowed nervously, your mind racing for a plausible explanation that wouldn't betray your true intentions. "Oh, you know, just needed a bit of fresh air and some company," you replied with a forced nonchalance, hoping to deflect his inquiry.

Alastor's expression remained unreadable, his crimson eyes boring into yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. "Is that so?" he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Well, my dear, I must say, I find your sudden need for 'fresh air' rather intriguing."

You fought to maintain your composure, refusing to let his probing gaze unsettle you. "I suppose I just wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to spend some time with Rosie," you added, hoping to steer the conversation away from any further scrutiny.

Alastor's smirk widened, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Ah, yes, dear Rosie," he mused, his tone tinged with amusement. "She does have a way of brightening even the dreariest of days, doesn't she?"

You nodded, grateful for the change in topic. "Indeed she does," you replied, relieved to have successfully deflected Alastor's suspicions, at least for the moment. But deep down, you couldn't shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on, and that your secrets were not as safely guarded as you had hoped.

Alastor's smirk persisted, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made you feel as though he was peeling back the layers of your facade with each passing second. "Yes, indeed," he said slowly, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. "But something tells me there's more to this little outing than meets the eye."

You swallowed nervously, cursing yourself for not being more careful with your words. Alastor was perceptive, far more perceptive than you had given him credit for, and it seemed that he was not content to let the matter rest.

"Come now, my dear," Alastor continued, his voice silky smooth but with an underlying edge that sent a shiver down your spine. "You can't expect me to believe that you simply wanted to spend the day gallivanting around Hell with dear Rosie, can you?"

You bit your lip, your mind racing as you searched for a plausible explanation that would satisfy his curiosity without revealing too much. "Well, you know how it is, Alastor," you said, your tone carefully casual. "Just felt like getting out of the hotel for a bit, that's all."

Alastor's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Is that so?" he mused, his voice dripping with skepticism. "And yet, here we are, the three of us, wandering the streets of Hell with no clear destination in mind. That's very .. unlike you."

You shifted uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny bearing down on you. It was clear that Alastor wasn't going to let the matter drop until he had satisfied his curiosity, and you knew that you would have to tread carefully if you wanted to keep your secrets safe.

"Did you successfully change your number?" Alastor inquired casually.

"Well, yes, of course I did—" You trailed off abruptly, your eyes widening in realization. He knew.

You froze, the color draining from your face as realization dawned upon you. Alastor's keen observation had unveiled the truth, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. How had he known about your attempt to change your number?

Alastor's grin widened at your reaction, his amusement evident as he tilted his head slightly. "Ah, so you did," he remarked casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "But you see, my dear, there are some things that simply can't be hidden from me."

Your heart pounded in your chest, the weight of Alastor's words settling heavily upon you. It was clear that he had ways of uncovering even your most carefully guarded secrets, and the realization filled you with a sense of dread. What other truths did he know, and how much of yourself had you unwittingly revealed to him?

"I must say, though," Alastor continued, his tone light and playful. "I do admire your efforts to maintain a sense of privacy. It's quite endearing, really."

You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you tried to process the implications of Alastor's words. It was clear that you were no match for his keen intellect and uncanny ability to unravel the truth, and you couldn't help but wonder what other secrets he had uncovered about you.

Alastor's playful demeanor shifted subtly, his gaze sharpening as he took a step closer, effectively cornering you against the nearby storefront. His presence loomed over you, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch into the depths of your unease.

"You know, my dear," he began, his voice low and intimate, "secrets have a way of finding their way to the surface, no matter how deeply buried they may seem."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a vice. Despite your attempts to maintain a façade of composure, you couldn't shake the feeling of being ensnared in Alastor's gaze, trapped by his uncanny perception.

"I'm afraid I must insist on the truth," Alastor continued, his tone taking on a subtle edge of determination. "There are matters at hand that require clarity, and I cannot abide by deception."

You felt a bead of sweat form at the base of your neck, your nerves fraying under the intensity of Alastor's scrutiny. With each passing moment, it became increasingly clear that you were outmatched, caught in the intricate web of his manipulation.

As Alastor's intense gaze bore into you, you felt a surge of nervous energy course through your veins, rendering you unable to maintain eye contact. His eyes seemed to pierce through your defenses, unraveling the carefully constructed facade you had built around yourself.

But just as you averted your gaze, Alastor's hand snaked out, his fingers wrapping around your chin with a firm yet gentle touch. The unexpected contact sent a jolt of electricity coursing through you, igniting a spark of tension that crackled in the air between you.

Forced to meet his gaze once more, you found yourself ensnared in the depths of his piercing eyes, unable to tear yourself away. There was an intensity in his stare, a magnetic pull that drew you in despite your instinct to resist.

As you locked eyes with him, you felt a strange sense of vulnerability wash over you, as though he could see straight through to the depths of your soul. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to look away, to break the connection and retreat to the safety of your own thoughts.

But his grip on your chin held you in place, anchoring you to the moment as the tension between you reached a fever pitch. In that electrifying moment, you were acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the tantalizing proximity between you stirring something deep within your core.

And as the seconds ticked by in silence, the air thick with anticipation, you couldn't help but wonder what lay beneath the surface of Alastor's enigmatic gaze. It was a question that begged to be answered, a mystery that tantalized your senses and beckoned you closer, even as you struggled to resist its pull.

"Now, why would Vox be contacting you, my dear?"

[sheriffaxolotl]

Fallen: A Path to Redemption (Chapter 4) Alastor x Reader

Word count: 5,879

✿ Friends to Lovers ✿ Slow Burn ✿ Eventual Romance ✿

Drabble | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |

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Well, you should have expected this.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, weighing heavily on everyone present. You could practically feel the disappointment radiating from Charlie and Vaggie, their expressions mirroring the disaster unfolding on the screen.

Alastor's voice cut through the heavy silence, a smug edge creeping into his tone as he reveled in the chaos he had unleashed. "So, what do you think?" he inquired, his crimson eyes alight with amusement.

Vaggie didn't mince her words, her frustration boiling over as she unleashed her pent-up frustration. "I'm sorry. What the fuck was that?" Her voice crackled with indignation, the sharpness of her words slicing through the air like a blade.

You offered a strained smile, feeling the discomfort in the air settle like a heavy blanket. It was clear that this wasn't the reaction anyone had hoped for. But before the tension could escalate further, Charlie interjected, attempting to diffuse the tension.

"Uh, yeah. One note, Alastor," she began, her words cautious as she navigated the delicate balance of criticism and gratitude. "I mean, first off, thank you so much for making this, seriously amazing, but um, maybe the tone is a bit off. We want people to want to come here. This makes it look, um..."

“Bad. The word you're looking for is bad,” Vaggie cut in, her glare unwavering as she addressed the radio demon.

The tension in the room became almost palpable, making you shift nervously and fiddle with the collar of your shirt, eager for some resolution to the discomfort.

"Funny. I was going for hilarious," Alastor retorted with a chuckle, his tone dripping with amusement. You shot him a pointed glance, suppressing the urge to reach over and pinch his ears, though the temptation was strong. Yet, you knew better than to provoke the powerful demon – your life wasn't worth the risk.

As the argument between Alastor and the others continued, you found yourself tuning out their voices, the incessant chatter grating on your already frayed nerves. Rubbing your temples in frustration, you couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment bubbling up within you.

You had tried to convince Alastor to let you help with the commercial, eager to lend your expertise and make a meaningful contribution to the project. But he had dismissed your offers with a wave of his hand, keeping you occupied with menial tasks and endless piles of paperwork.

It felt like you had been running around non-stop for the past week, playing catch-up with the never-ending stream of administrative work that seemed to pile up faster than you could tackle it. Who knew that running a small hotel could generate so much paperwork?

But as the voices around you continued to drone on, the weight of exhaustion settling like a heavy fog around you, you couldn't help but wonder if you would ever catch a break. And as you stole a glance at Alastor, who seemed unfazed by the chaos unfolding around him, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to his dismissive attitude than met the eye.

Maybe he was being like this towards you because of the Voxtech radio he found. Maybe.

As Vaggie's voice pierced through the room like a knife, her words dripping with frustration and disappointment, you couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her. Her impassioned plea cut straight to the heart of the matter, laying bare the simmering resentment that had been bubbling just beneath the surface.

"Oh, fun? You had a little fun with it?!" Vaggie exclaimed, her hands gesturing at him with each word. "Well, this is not what we want to represent us. When you showed up here a week ago, you told us you would help run this hotel. Instead, you're mocking us. Nobody's gonna wanna come to a place that a powerful overlord like you thinks is a waste of time."

The tension in the room thickened as her words hung in the air, the weight of her accusation settling heavily on Alastor's shoulders. Yet, despite the gravity of the situation, he remained unruffled, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he regarded Vaggie with an air of detached amusement. Without a second thought, you spoke up to fill the silence.

"We'll give it another shot, Vaggie. I assure you, Alastor simply needs some time to adjust to this new—"

Your words were cut short as a sudden movement caught your eye, drawing your attention to Angel Dust, who raised a hand from his lounging position on the couch, instantly commanding the focus of the room.

"What?" Vaggie grumbled, clearly not in the mood for interruptions.

"If you're filming a commercial, can I suggest you take better advantage of the talented celebrity you have right here?" Angel chimed in, his flamboyant gestures emphasizing his point as he reached for a bottle with one arm while the other three gestured toward himself.

"Angel, you're a porn star," Vaggie retorted, her tone dripping with exasperation.

A sudden realization struck you like a bolt of lightning, and your eyes widened in surprise. 'Oh! That's where you know Angel from!' you thought, piecing together the puzzle of his familiar face. Memories of hastily averted eyes and flustered embarrassment flooded back to you – you had stumbled upon advertisements for his work before, though you had quickly looked away, not wanting to indulge in such content. Caught up in your revelation, you had momentarily lost track of the conversation unfolding around you.

“Why not? Sex sells don't it? I swear if you film me going at it with Mr. fancy talk creepy voice here, you'd be rolling in participants willing to stay at this tacky hotel.” Angel Dust interjected, his voice laced with a provocative edge. You whipped your head in his direction, your lips parting in shock at his brazen suggestion.

Alastor appeared beside the couch where Angel was lounging, his chuckle reverberating through the room. "Ha ha. Never going to happen," he declared, his tone carrying a hint of amusement.

"Angel, I appreciate your willingness to utilize your... talents to attract guests to the hotel, but I really don't want to exploit you in that way," Charlie interjected, her voice tinged with nervousness as she attempted to diffuse the tension. But Angel, true to form, only made matters worse.

"Oh, please, baby," Angel continued, his tone dripping with innuendo. "This body was made to be exploited. I got the arms, I got the stamina, I got the legs. I got the lung capacity." He let out a raucous laugh. "Oh, I got the legs. The gag reflex, the holes, the chest fluff everyone thinks are tits."

As Angel's explicit remarks filled the air, a deep blush crept up your cheeks, the heat of embarrassment spreading like wildfire across your face. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, desperately seeking refuge from this moment.

With a quick glance around the room, you found yourself unable to meet anyone's gaze, your embarrassment threatening to consume you whole. Charlie's sudden departure provided a welcome distraction, and you seized the opportunity to avert your gaze, pretending to be engrossed in something on the table in front of you.

"I could keep going all night, baby," Angel's voice floated after her, his mischievous tone dripping with suggestive undertones.

A nervous chuckle escaped your lips at his words, though you couldn't deny the lingering flush of embarrassment that still tinged your cheeks. "Please, don't," you interjected weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.

You offered a polite smile, though it did little to mask the turmoil of emotions swirling beneath the surface. It wasn't that you judged Angel for his openness—or that he discussed such intimate matters, it was just you liked to keep that private aspect of life behind closed doors.

Despite your best efforts to maintain a facade of composure, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease creeping into the pit of your stomach. There was something about Angel's penetrating gaze that made you feel as though he could see straight through you, unraveling the carefully constructed walls you had built around yourself.

As the conversation continued, the weight of Angel's scrutiny hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the otherwise lighthearted banter. It was as if his gaze had cast a spell over the room, enveloping you in a cloak of discomfort that seemed impossible to shake off.

But before the tension could escalate any further, Angel's sly grin broke through the haze of unease, injecting a sense of playfulness back into the atmosphere. His eyes danced with mischief as he addressed Alastor, his question laced with curiosity and a hint of daring.

"Hey, I've got a question," he began, his gaze flickering between Alastor and you. "If freaky face over there is so powerful, then why can't he just make people stay here?" The question hung in the air, heavy with implications, as the room fell silent, waiting for Alastor's response.

Alastor's smile widened into a mischievous smirk, a subtle flicker of dark magic dancing around him for a brief moment. "Oh, trust me," he replied, his voice dripping with confidence. "I can."

"Why do you think I'm here?" Husk grumbled, his irritation evident as he continued his task of cleaning bottles. "You actually think I'd be cleaning bottles and listening to you fucks bitch and moan all the time if he wasn't forcing me?" His words were tinged with a grumpy edge, and you fought back a snicker, earning a sharp glance from the cantankerous feline.

"I wouldn't say 'forced'—" You started, only to be abruptly cut off once again.

As Husk busied himself with cleaning, Niffty popped up from behind the counter, her hand raised eagerly as she prepared to join the conversation.

"I like being forced," Niffty piped up with her usual cheerfulness, eliciting a collective groan from the others.

"Oh, no, Niffty," you murmured under your breath. You knew all too well her tendency to overshare, and you couldn't help but cringe inwardly at the prospect of her unwittingly adding fuel to the fire.

"Keep that to yourself, Nif," Husk grumbled, clearly not in the mood for her antics.

The social dynamics at play wore on you, and you found yourself leaning against the arm of the couch, observing the interactions unfold. Angel's playful flirting with Husk was met with the latter's gruff responses, and you couldn't help but notice the underlying chemistry between them. They had a dynamic that was almost endearing, despite their constant bickering.

Lost in your thoughts, you momentarily tuned out the conversation, only to snap back to attention when Charlie began to sing, her voice filling the room with melody.

"Okay, but just don't... sing to them," Vaggie pleaded, her tone laced with exasperation.

Before Vaggie could issue her warning, however, you, Angel Dust, Alastor, Niffty, and Keekee were already gathered at the window, watching as Charlie sang out in the destroyed Pentagram City. Angel Dust turned back to Vaggie, still drinking from a bottle, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"That bitch is halfway down the street!" Angel exclaimed with amused delight.

"Is she—?" Vaggie began, but Angel cut her off with his laughter.

"Oh, she's dancin'!" he announced gleefully.

"Ugh, no..." Vaggie muttered, her frustration palpable.

You couldn't help but find the humor in the situation, turning around to watch as Vaggie dragged a hand down her face in exasperation. When she looked back up, you offered her a reassuring smile, which she attempted to mirror, even if it was strained. Over the past week, you had grown quite close to Charlie and Vaggie, often gathering in the kitchen in the mornings with your coffees for what Alastor jokingly referred to as "morning meetings."

A few minutes later, Vaggie summoned the group to discuss their poorly executed commercial. Angel Dust cast seductive glances at Husk, who responded with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. You found yourself seated next to Husk, swatting his wings away from you every time they flared up in annoyance at the spider demon's flirting.

"Husk, could you please—" Another swat. You let out a resigned sigh, conceding to the futility of your efforts to calm the feline's frayed nerves, at least for the time being. Yet, a pang of envy tugged at your heartstrings as you observed Husk's wings unfurling and fluttering with such natural ease. It made you yearn for the days when you could openly display your own set of wings without fear or restraint.

"Okay, so, Charlie is dealing with something very important, so while she’s gone, we are making a new commercial. One that represents her vision and what we’re doing here. So, we need a camera," Vaggie explained to everyone, her voice carrying authority despite her frustration. "Alastor?"

With a snap of his fingers, Alastor conjured up a camera for Vaggie, but to her dismay, it was a vintage folding camera from the 1930s, utterly incapable of recording videos.

"A video camera?" Vaggie's tone was unamused, her eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

"Hmm." Despite his disdain for modern technology, Alastor complied with Vaggie's request and snapped his fingers once more, summoning a video camera that looked like it had seen better days, with pieces of tape holding it together.

"Alright! Let’s do this!" Vaggie declared, attempting to muster enthusiasm despite the less-than-ideal equipment. In an effort to bolster her spirits, you joined in with a cheer, throwing your arms up and letting out a hearty 'whoo!' However, the sudden burst of energy caught Husk and Angel off guard, causing them to flinch or jump in their seats. You quickly covered your mouth, a sheepish 'Sorry' slipping past your lips.

The day had been nothing short of a disaster. From the predictable bickering between Husk and Angel to the unsettling encounter with Niffty, it felt like chaos reigned supreme. But perhaps the most uncomfortable part of it all was your own struggle with the camera.

AAs Vaggie positioned you beside the reception desk for your scene, a knot of nerves coiled tightly in the pit of your stomach. Perhaps it was the ever-watchful presence of Alastor, who seemed to be omnipresent, observing your every move and waiting for your cue to perform. Despite your earnest attempts, you stumbled over your lines, your discomfort palpable as you struggled to find your footing in front of the unforgiving lens. It was a stark reminder of your innate camera-shyness, a trait you had not fully reckoned with until that moment.

“Hey, at least you really tried. Like you really did.” Vaggie's words of consolation were like a small beacon of light in the midst of your troubles. As you struggled to shake off the disappointment of not being able to contribute as expected, her kind words offered a glimmer of comfort.

"Thanks, Vaggie," you replied, offering her a grateful smile. Despite your own frustration, her acknowledgment of your efforts meant a lot.

You decided to steal away for a brief moment of solitude, seeking refuge from trying to help. Alone with your thoughts, you couldn't help but ruminate on the events of that day so far.

A pang of self-doubt gnawed at you as you reflected on your performance—or lack thereof—during the shoot. Perhaps, if you had mustered the courage to push aside your camera shyness, you could have contributed more effectively. You couldn't help but envy Angel's confidence and ease in front of the camera, contrasting sharply with your own hesitance.

Lost in contemplation, you wondered if there was a way to overcome your insecurities and embrace the same level of self-assurance that seemed to come effortlessly to others like Angel.

As you passed by the slightly ajar door, the voices of Vaggie and Alastor floated out, drawing you in. Curiosity piqued, you slowed your pace, unable to resist eavesdropping on their conversation.

“I came here because I love seeing wasteful souls struggle to accomplish something meaningful and fail spectacularly! like you are doing now. Good job!” Alastor's unmistakable voice carried a tone of amusement, laced with his trademark eerie charm.

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a mixture of intrigue and unease washing over you. With bated breath, you leaned closer to the door, eager to glean any insight into the enigmatic overlord's motives.

You couldn't resist being drawn to the drama unfolding between Vaggie and Alastor like a moth to a flame. Peeking through the gap in the door, you witnessed the chaotic scene as Vaggie aimed the camera at Alastor, only for it to glitch violently, its colors flickering from green to red in a dizzying display. Vaggie's exasperated reaction was palpable as she dropped the malfunctioning device to the floor.

Alastor, ever the enigma, responded with a cryptic remark, his eyes transforming into the shape of radio dials, a telltale sign of his mysterious powers at work. But it was his next words that sent a chill down your spine, freezing you in place.

“Fair enough. I'll tell you what. Let's make a deal.”

The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, casting a shadow of uncertainty over the room. It had been seven long years since you last heard those words uttered by the radio demon, and the unexpected familiarity of them left you paralyzed with apprehension.

The idea of anyone else making a deal with Alastor makes you want to push the door in to interrupt what is happening. Yet, you remain firmly planted where you were standing.

You listened intently as Vaggie firmly rejected Alastor's proposition, her refusal echoing through the room like a beacon of defiance. Relief washed over you like a cool breeze on a hot summer day as it became clear that the radio demon's intentions were not as sinister as they initially seemed. His aversion to modern technology was merely the catalyst for their heated exchange.

But before you could fully relax, a sudden surge of energy enveloped you, sending you hurtling through space and time until you found yourself standing on a meticulously crafted film set straight out of the 1950s. The transformation was seamless, with the entire hotel staff, including yourself, now donning vintage attire befitting the era. Even the backdrop was alive with the presence of ink demons conjured up to enhance the scene.

With a newfound sense of determination, Vaggie took charge, her voice ringing out with a mix of determination and frustration as she rallied the group for the task at hand.

"Alright everyone, let's make a fucking commercial," she declared, her words carrying a sense of urgency and purpose.

You couldn't help but smile at the sight of your modest yet stylish outfit, a nod to the fashion of the time. As you smoothed down your dress, a voice interrupted your thoughts, its playful tone laced with a hint of sass.

"Well, well, well. Nothing outside of your comfort zone is it, doll?" Angel Dust quipped, his gaze sweeping over you with an air of mischief. It was hard to discern whether he was teasing you or merely being his usual sassy self... but you decided to play along.

'Here goes nothing'.

You turned to face Angel, a playful glint in your eyes as you matched his banter. "Oh, please, Angel. Modesty never goes out of style," you retorted with a smile, adjusting the hem of your skirt with a subtle flick of your wrist.

Angel seemed to pause for a moment before he chuckled, his grin widening as he leaned in closer. "Sure, sure, doll. But a little scandal never hurt nobody," he teased, his tone dripping with sass as he raised an eyebrow suggestively.

You couldn't help but laugh at his cheekiness, finding yourself drawn into the playful back-and-forth. "Well, Angel, if anyone knows about scandal, it's definitely you," you quipped, unable to resist a teasing jab.

Angel flashed you a smug grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Hey, what can I say? Scandal's my middle name," he replied with a wink, before turning his attention back to the bustling film set.

As the crew prepared for the commercial shoot, you couldn't help but feel a sense of ease with Angel, the two of you exchanging sassy remarks and playful banter as you followed Vaggie's instructions on the set. In that moment, surrounded by ink demons and vintage props, you couldn't help but appreciate the unexpected bond forming between you and the irreverent porn star demon. It was a nice distraction and definitely a breath of fresh air from him judging you when you first arrived. Maybe, you mused, if you had been more open from the start, this connection could have blossomed sooner. But dwelling on it didn't serve any purpose, so you pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the present moment.

‘Huh, maybe he isn’t so bad…’

Amidst the hustle and bustle, you offered your assistance to Vaggie, eager to contribute in any way you could. Having kept up with the latest advancements in technology in Hell, particularly in Alastor's absence, you felt confident in your ability to help bring Charlie's vision to life.

By the end of the shoot, you found yourself exchanging knowing glances and little jokes with Angel, the air between you charged with a newfound sense of ease. You couldn't help but marvel at how far you had come from the awkward tension of your first meeting.

As the day drew on and Vaggie worked with the others leaving you to yourself, Angel sauntered over to where you were standing, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"So, (Y/N), did you enjoy your first taste of the glamorous life in showbiz?" he teased, flashing you a playful grin.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help but smirk in response. "Oh, absolutely thrilling," you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "Nothing quite like the chaos of a film set to make you appreciate the simple joys of paperwork."

Angel chuckled, his grin widening. "Ah, but where's your sense of adventure, doll? Life's too short to be stuck behind a desk all day."

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms playfully. "Says the porn star turned film star," you retorted, unable to resist teasing him back.

Angel feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. "Hey now, don't knock the hustle," he replied with mock indignation. "I bring joy to millions with my... ahem... talents."

You couldn't help but laugh at his theatrics, the tension of the day melting away in the warmth of your shared banter. You had to admit that Angel's charm and quick wit were growing on you.

As you and Angel exchanged banter, a subtle flicker of movement caught your eye. Glancing over, you noticed Alastor standing at the edge of the set, his sharp eyes trained on the two of you. Despite his usual air of aloofness, there was a distinct lack of amusement in his gaze as he observed your interaction with the flamboyant demon.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of self-consciousness under his gaze, sensing his disapproval of your banter with Angel. You had come to think Alatsor was indifferent about Angel – After all, he always turned down Angel’s advances or joke suggestions and never really seemed too annoyed or fed up with them. Yet.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the bustling activity of the day began to wind down, you couldn't help but feel the weight of Alastor's gaze lingering on you. It was as if he was silently dissecting the burgeoning connection that had formed between you and Angel, his keen eyes probing for any sign of weakness or vulnerability.

Finally, as Vaggie expressed her satisfaction with the day's filming, relief washed over you like a warm tide. The prospect of being released from the confines of the set filled you with a sense of freedom, the anticipation of retreating to the solace of your own company almost palpable. You longed for nothing more than a quiet moment alone, a steaming cup of tea cradled in your hands as you sought to replenish your depleted social reserves.

With a subtle excuse, you slipped away from the others, eager to find a moment of solace in the familiar sanctuary of the kitchen. Taking your time, you moved with deliberate steps, the rhythmic clinking of your cup against the countertop echoing softly in the otherwise silent room. The comforting hum of the kettle filled the space, a soothing background melody that offered a semblance of tranquility amidst the chaos of the day.

A chill danced down your spine, sending shivers cascading through your body as you sensed a presence behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, a telltale sign of the looming figure that lingered just beyond your line of sight.

"Alastor—" you began, turning to face him, but the sight that greeted you sent a chill of unease coursing through your veins. Alastor loomed over you, his normally jovial countenance replaced by a disapproving glare that you hadn't encountered since the early days of your deal, back when you were still finding your footing as his assistant. Those initial missteps were etched into your memory—the mistakes, the lessons learned—the same ones that always earned you that particular look from him.

"Having a jolly time, my dear?" His words dripped with a mixture of sarcasm and genuine curiosity, but before you could formulate a response, he continued, his tone laden with an emotion you couldn't quite discern. "You always had a knack for socializing, once you warmed up to folks... but I must say, I hadn't quite anticipated just how open you'd become." His eyes bore into yours, holding a depth of scrutiny that left you feeling oddly exposed as if he could see through the facade you presented to the world.

"Alastor..I.. um..." Your voice trailed off, faltering under the weight of his intense gaze. For a fleeting moment, you felt like a deer caught in the headlights, unsure of how to navigate the sudden shift in his demeanor.

As you struggled to find your words, Alastor's scrutiny seemed to intensify, his eyes boring into yours with an unwavering focus that made you feel uncomfortably transparent. The air between you crackled with tension, thick with unspoken questions and unspoken truths, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Finally, you managed to muster a weak smile, though it felt brittle and forced under the weight of his scrutiny. "Well, you know me, always trying to make the best of any situation," you replied, your voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

In that moment, you felt like a puppet on a string, dancing to the tune of Alastor's scrutiny, powerless to resist the pull of his piercing gaze. And as the silence stretched on, punctuated only by the sound of your own racing heartbeat, you couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay hidden behind that disapproving glare, and what price you would ultimately pay for it.

As your words hung in the air, Alastor's expression softened imperceptibly, a flicker of something you can't place dancing in the depths of his crimson eyes. For a moment, the intensity of his scrutiny seemed to waver, replaced by a gentleness that caught you off guard.

"You've always been one to find your way, haven't you?" Alastor's voice was low, a hint of warmth seeping into his words despite the lingering edge of disapproval. "But you must remember, my dear, not everyone has your best interests at heart." His tone was cryptic, laced with a veiled warning that sent a shiver down your spine. "Not like me."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling heavily in the pit of your stomach. It was a reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the safety of Alastor's domain, a reminder that the world beyond the confines of the hotel was a perilous place, fraught with unseen threats and hidden dangers. "Who knows what would happen if anyone knew what you were?.. Thankfully, you have me.. to keep you hidden."

And yet, despite the unease his words inspired, there was a strange comfort in the protective undertone that underscored his warning. It was as if, beneath his outward facade of indifference, Alastor harbored a genuine concern for your well-being, a desire to shield you from the world around you. Or all a facade to manipulate you.

As you met his gaze, you found yourself searching for some sign of reassurance, some indication that his concern was more than just a fleeting moment of empathy. But Alastor's expression remained inscrutable, his eyes betraying nothing of the emotions that churned beneath the surface.

In that moment, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps there was more to Alastor than met the eye, if perhaps behind the facade of indifference lay a heart that yearned for something more. And as the silence stretched on, punctuated only by the sound of your own ragged breath, you couldn't help but wonder what secrets Alastor held, and what it might mean for the fragile bond of your friendship.

As quickly as the moment of softness had appeared, it vanished, replaced by Alastor's trademark smirk, his features slipping seamlessly back into their usual facade of indifference. The warmth in his gaze cooled, replaced by a glint of amusement that sent a chill down your spine.

"But of course, my dear," he purred, the air thick with his signature blend of charm and menace. "After all, let's not forget who keeps you safe... and holds the strings to your soul." His words hung in the air like a weight, a reminder of the pact that bound you to him, of the debt that could never be repaid.

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling like a stone in the pit of your stomach. It was a stark reminder of the power he wielded over you, of the hold he had over your very essence. And yet, despite the fear that gripped you, there was a strange defiance that simmered beneath the surface, a stubborn refusal to be cowed by his taunts.

With a forced smile, you met his gaze head-on, refusing to let him see the fear that churned within you. "I haven't forgotten, Alastor," you replied, your voice steady despite the tremor that danced along your nerves. "But even you must admit, there are some things even you can't control."

For a moment, there was a flicker of something akin to surprise in Alastor's eyes, a brief crack in his carefully crafted facade. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same mocking smirk that had haunted your nightmares since the day you made that fateful deal.

"Ah, but my dear," he chuckled, his voice dripping with amusement. "Where's the fun in that?" And with a casual flick of his wrist, he vanished into the shadows, leaving you alone with the weight of his words echoing in your ears.

As you stood in the kitchen, the echo of Alastor's taunt still ringing in your ears, you couldn't help but ponder the weight of his words. The kettle whistled, snapping you out of your reverie, and you busied yourself with finishing your tea, the warmth of the liquid soothing the turmoil that churned within you.

With your tea in hand, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what lay ahead. Pushing open the door to the lobby, you were met with a cacophony of voices, each one adding to the chaotic energy that filled the room.

Vaggie's voice cut through the noise, her tone tinged with excitement. "Alastor pulled some strings, and it's about to air," she announced with a hint of anticipation in her voice.

Alastor's laughter rang out in response, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "I pulled a few limbs too, hahaha," he quipped, his amusement palpable.

Charlie's voice joined the fray, her enthusiasm infectious as she beamed at the group. "Wait, the commercial? You all made a new one?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Angel Dust sauntered into the room, a smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, one of my better performances if I do say so myself," he boasted, his confidence unwavering.

Charlie's smile widened at the news, her excitement bubbling over. "That's... that's amazing," she exclaimed, her eyes shining with pride.

But before the conversation could continue, Angel Dust silenced them all with a hushed command. "Sshh, it's starting," he murmured, his attention turning to the screen as the commercial began to play, the familiar jingle filling the room with its catchy melody.

As the commercial began to play, the vibrant energy of the room drew you in, with Charlie's excitement practically buzzing in the air. With a quiet sigh, you found yourself gravitating towards the television, where the others had gathered around, their anticipation palpable.

Taking a seat on the couch beside them, you cradled your steaming cup of tea, the warmth seeping into your fingertips as you settled in for the show. The familiar jingle of the commercial brought a sense of familiarity from the day.

But before the advertisement could run its course, the screen flickered, the 'Breaking News' symbol flashing ominously in the center now. Instantly, the mood in the room shifted, the group erupting into a chorus of groans and complaints, their annoyance palpable.

"Breaking news in Hell today!" the news anchor's voice cut through the air, her tone tinged with a manic glee that sent a chill down your spine. "We have just received word from the Heaven Embassy that the next Extermination is happening sooner than ever before."

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over the room as the gravity of the announcement settled in. Panic rippled through the group, their voices rising in a cacophony of disbelief and outrage.

But amidst the chaos, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that settled in the pit of your stomach.

As the clock tower loomed ominously on the screen, its countdown ticking away the days until the next Extermination, a sense of dread settled over the room like a suffocating blanket. And as the screams of sinners echoed in the background from the TV, you couldn't help but wonder what horrors awaited you in the days to come.

"It means we're all royally fucked!" Katie exclaimed, her eye twitching with barely contained frustration.

Angel's voice broke through the cacophony, his disbelief echoing the sentiments of the group. "Wait, what? Why?!" he demanded, his voice tinged with disbelief.

But as the question lingered unanswered, a gnawing sense of dread gnawed at your insides, leaving you with a sinking feeling that the worst was yet to come. You exchanged worried glances with Charlie, seeing a nervous smile on her lips as everything came out.

And then, as if to punctuate the grim reality of your situation, the sound of your tea cup slipping from your grasp and shattering on the ground reverberated through the room, its echoing chime a chilling reminder of the fragility of your world.

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My AO3 account!