Summary - Gianna Lannister is the youngest daughter of Tywin Lannister from his second wife Lynnette Stark. When Gia rushes in to help Sansa Stark, after her nephew humiliates her, the king suddenly has a 'brilliant' idea... or so he says.
A/N - This is only the second time I've done something like this... so bare with me please.
WARNINGS - If you are UNDER 18 then DO NOT read! Forced marriage, loss of virginity, blow job, blood, PIV, maybe breeding kink and size kink, literally has no plot just doing this coz I had an idea! If I've missed anything that should be added as a warning then please let me know!
Gianna watched from the crowd that had gathered in the throne room, as Joffrey terrorised poor Sansa Stark, again.
"You're here to answer for your brother's latest crimes. What do you have to say?" Joffrey aimed his armed crossbow at the Stark girl as she kneeled before him.
"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part in it!" The poor girl began to sob, "You know this, Your Grace. I beg-" Joffrey had cut her off before she could finish, Ser Lancel, tell her what her brother has done!" Demanded Joffrey.
As Ser Lancel stepped forwards, so did Gianna. She always knew something wasn't right with her eldest nephew. He was evil, one of the evilest beings she's ever come across. Gia was appalled with his actions and about the fact that no one could make him stop, not even his mother.
"Using some vile sorcery your brother fell on Stafford Lannister with an army of wolves." Lancel announced. Gianna couldn't understand how people actually believe this stuff. So she rolled her eyes and mentally face palmed herself, ridiculous fools, she thought to herself.
"Thousands of good men were slaughtered, after the butchering, the Northmen feasted on the meat of the slain." This made the crowd surrounding them gasp and whisper in horror. War was a dreadful thing, Gianna knew that, but she really couldn't see that happening. At least not on Robb Stark's orders or his mothers. When she first met them, when she went with her older sister Cersei and her family to Winterfell, she'd gotten on well with the Starks.
"Killing you would, mayhaps, send your traitor brother a message." Gianna snapped out of her thoughts at that, surely he's not really contemplating that? The poor Stark girl began to weep, "But my mother insists on keeping you alive, unfortunately. Stand." Sansa stood at the king's orders, ever the obedient Lady Stark. Gianna's pity for the girl grew day by day. She didn't deserve this, no one did.
"So, we'll just have to send your brother a message some other way." Gianna took another step forward, just so she stood slightly out of the crowd, as if she might run towards young Lady Stark, she was family after all, distant but still family. "Meryn." The unspoken order was spoken and Joffrey's favoured Kingsguard stepped towards Sansa, "Leave her face, I like her pretty." And with that Sansa was punched to the stomach.
Gianna gasped and tried to step forwards, but before anyone could truly notice, her handmaid Dalia grabbed her arm, "No, my Lady. I do not think it wise to step in." Gia didn't take her eyes off Sansa. Meryn took out his sword and struck the backs of her legs, so she fell to the floor.
"Meryn, my dear lady's over-dressed. Unburden her." The Knight stood behind poor Sansa and ripped the back of her dress open, "If you want Robb Stark to hear us, we're going to have to speak louder!" Ser Meryn took out his sword again, swinging it over his head, "What is the meaning of this?"
The crowd split to allow Gianna's brother, Tyrion Lannister, to make his way through along with his man Bronn. "What kind of Knight beats a helpless girl!" Snaps Tyrion. "The kind who serves his king, Imp!" Meryn Snapped back. Gianna hated that man, he was just as vile and cruel as her nephew. "Careful now, we wouldn't want to get blood all over your pretty white cloak." Bronn, even though he irritated Gia sometimes with his crude words, managed to shut the Knight up.
"Would someone get the girl something to cover herself with." Gianna and Sandor 'The Hound' stepped forward towards Sansa. "It's alright sweet girl, Tyrion will handle Joffrey." Whispered the young Lannister Lady as the Hound grabbed his White Cloak over her shoulders.
"She's to be your queen. Do you have no regard towards her honour?" Questioned Tyrion, "I'm punishing her!" Tyrion gaped, "For what crimes? She's not fighting her brother battles you half wit!" Gianna helped Sansa stand, wrapping the girl in her arms.
"Your behaviour is despicable, Nephew! She's done nothing wrong!" Gia shouted. The Stark girl shook in the Lannister Lady's arms. "Neither of you can speak to me like that! The king can do as he likes!" Again Lady Lannister rolled her eyes, "The Mad King did as he liked! Look where that got him! Killed by his own guard, his people rebelled against him. Is that what you want to be done to you? For people a hundred years from now to remember you as the king who beat helpless Ladies?" Snapped Gianna, turning to her brother, "Perhaps they'll title him 'The Half-wit King', brother?" The people in the room sniggered and gasped. Gia swore she heard The Hound huff amusingly behind her.
"No one threatens his Grace in the presence of the kingsguard!" Meryn rushed towards Gianna, threateningly. "I'm not threatening him, Ser. I'm merely giving my nephew some... advice." Gianna didn't bother to look at Ser Meryn. "Bronn the next time Ser Meryn speaks, kill him." Tyrion said in a bored manner, turing to Ser Meryn, "Now that was a threat... see the difference?!" Gia chuckled at her older brother, they'd always been close, even since she was a little girl.
Tyrion walked towards his little sister and Sansa, leading them away. "I apologise for my nephew's behaviour. Tell me the truth, do you want this wedding to happen?" Spoke Tyrion softly, "We could try to get the engagement broken, if you'd like?" Gia rubbed the girls shoulders and they walked, "I am loyal to king Joffrey-" Stated Sansa, pulling out of Gianna's arms, "He is my one true love." With that she walked ahead of them, her ladies maids following her.
Gianna was summoned back to the throne room, a couple hours later. As she walked in she realised that the crowd had only gotten bigger. At the throne sat her nephew, on both sides of him were his mother, Gianna's only and older sister, and the hand, who was Gianna's father. At the bottom of the stairs to the throne stood the kingsguard.
"You summoned me, Your Grace." Gianna stood before her family. She had changed into a more comfortable dress, since she was planning to go horse riding after. "Yes, I did." Signed Joffrey. "Tell me, Dear Aunt. Do you think the way you spoke to me earlier was appropriate? Especially of a Lady." Questioned the king.
Gianna looked towards her father at that moment, his face was emotionless. So she looked towards her kingsguard brother, he looked nervous for her. "I said what I thought to be true, Your Grace." She wouldn't lie. He needed to be told. Cersei scoffed, "You're king deserves more respect from you." Gianna rolled her eyes, "DO NOT ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME!" Screeched Cersei. "My apologise, sister."
"You know, I'll have to punish you." Gia's heart began to race. Surely her father wouldn't allow that. She was his daughter, and she knew he favoured her out of all his children. Looking towards him again she saw that his face was still, emotionless.
"You see, I've had a few hours to... come up with your punishment. Mother helped me." They both chuckled. "You're young, unmarried, pretty. What better punishment is there than to marry you to a... hound." The crowd gasped at their king's words. Joffrey laughed hysterically. "Mother's always calling you a bitch, so it seems quite fitting! Don't you think?!" I glanced towards 'The Hound' . He stood tall, but you could tell he was angry.
"Your Grace I don't think that's-" Tywin tried to reason with his grandson, he didn't want to drag his house through the mud again. "Silence!'' shouted Joffrey. "Hound stand by your bride to be!" Sandor reluctantly moved to stand beside Gianna. "The Hound and his bitch. He's so massive I'm sure he'll split her open when he takes her maidenhead!" Gianna looked down in shame at being spoken about in such a way.
“Your wedding will be the day after tomorrow.” With that Joffrey excused everyone. Gianna quickly left the throne room, rushing to her chambers. Tears were dripping down her face as threw herself on her bed; her head buried in her arms.
a @rdrevents Valentines gift exchange for @cowboydisaster
SERIES MASTERLIST
pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader
word count: 4,400 words
warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, sexual themes, vaginal sex, mentions of death, unprotected sex, throwing up (TW EMETOPHOBIA), very brief mention of SA in the past, unexpected pregnancy, mentions of Micah Bell
a/n: am I britney spears in her 2000 grammy award winning song??? because oops, i did it again. i don't know how I managed to get Bea as my recipient for a SECOND time, but it only felt right to carry on building this universe I've made for her and lying to her about it all week. Whoops.
Bea, my beloved, Happy Valentines Day. You deserve the world and Im so glad I could dedicate this fic to you. Honestly I probably couldn't have gotten the motivation to get back on my feet and write again if it wasn't for you. Thanks for everything you do bby and I hope this lives up to your 'if by some miracle you get me for your gift exchange disregard my prompts and write a TGG prequel' (yes she actually said that) idea. Love you lots xxx
I’m writing to you from up near Tempest Rim. I’ve tracked this bounty all over the goddamn Grizzlies and I’m ready to come home to you. I miss you so much and I’m real sorry I can’t be home in time for St. Valentines. Hopefully I can catch this bastard soon and make it up to ya. We’ll go to the theatre and sit right at the back, how’s that sound? I’ll move heaven and Earth to be beside you soon, you know I will.
I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can be with enough money to take you out on the town. Won’t be long, I promise.
All my love,
Arthur
All my love,
Arthur
All my love,
Arthur
Your finger runs over his looped script, over and over as if it will somehow will your husband out of the crumpled paper and into your bed. It’s been 2 months since the letter arrived, 2 months of the agony of not knowing if he’s dead or alive robbing you of sleep each and every night. You miss him, more than you could ever imagine one person could miss another and you honestly don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t come home.
It’s a 600 dollar bounty, it’s sure to be a tough job you constantly reassure yourself, unable to focus on anything but the absence of half of your very soul in every waking moment.
The day he comes home starts like any other. Time's arrow marches on, the sun rises and sets over your makeshift family as they work and plan and rob and hunt. You busy yourself planning a job with Karen, cushioned into your schedule between menial tasks so that it’s just that bit easier to not think about him. As usual, your efforts are in vain, but at least the chores are done, your steed Diesel is happy, and, all being well, you and Karen will have about 30 dollars to split between you when the week is out.
An hour before he comes home, everyone retires to bed, save for John (who’s on watch tonight) and you’re left alone by the campfire. It crackles and pops, embers swirling the air around you. It feels like you stare at the twisting flames until your eyes blur and burn and you can’t tell which are tears of irritation to your senses and which are your heart breaking once more.
Moments before you’re reunited with the second half of your heart, you hear John yelling. It’s instinct that drives your hand into your holster, still resting against your hip despite the late hour, and you perk up like a startled deer, straining to decipher Marston’s words.
“Who is it?!”
“Arthur, you dumbass!”
Arthur.
Arthur?
“Arthur?!” It’s a breathless shout, barely heard over the rushing blood in your ears as your feet take you to your husband before your mind can even fathom that he’s here.
But sure enough, when you reach the edge of camp, heart racing, you see Arthur Morgan riding his chestnut mare straight towards you, spurring her into a gallop as soon as he lays his eye on his waiting wife. Marston probably makes some remark about who ‘decided to show up’, but to you, there is nothing but you and Arthur, two magnets parted by an unnatural force finally reaching each other again with a deafening crash.
And it is. A crash, that is, when Arthur all but throws himself off his saddle and your bodies collide, great big arms wrapping around your frame. It is then that the tears fall down your cheek, soaking into Arthur’s coat that smells so much like him it truly feels like a dream.
You thought he was dead.
Only when you’re safely in his arms, when he’s pressing frantic kisses to your head, whispering your name over and over into your hair do you allow yourself to admit that fact. You thought he was never coming back, and yet here he is. Words fail you, the overwhelming emotion settling right in your throat.
“Oh, god… oh, darlin’ I-I missed you so much…”
You feel two large hands cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that holds everything and anything the past 3 months could have been had you not spent it apart. But everything fits back into place, the world starts spinning again and you’re whole the second Arthur Morgan’s lips meet yours. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts a fraction of a second. You want to stop time, keep Arthur in your arms forever and never again have to go through the torture of being away from each other. The two of you only part to throw near identical scowls at John, who is amusing himself by telling you to get a room.
Unfortunately, as Ms. Grimshaw so often reminds you all, the Van der Linde Camp is not a hotel, so tonight you will not be afforded the luxury of a private suite as John so kindly suggested. There is only your tent, hitched against the gang’s weapons wagon, the old canvas pulled around to offer a little privacy when you and Arthur first started… well, needing the seclusion.
Calloused fingers intertwine with your own digits, Arthur’s other hand flipping John off before his weight pulls you towards your little corner of camp. There's so much purpose in his stride, the need to have you all to himself, not even share you with the lord above or wildlife below, driving him forward. Driving him home.
When you’re finally, truly alone, the tears welling in your eyes glistening in the candlelight, no words are needed. Soon enough, you’ll talk for hours on end, catching each other up on every little detail of the last few months. But for now, all that there is and all that could matter is right this very second, when Arthur reaches for you, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks on your left cheek. His eyes, looking almost emerald in the dark of night, roam over each and every detail of you with such an intensity in him that you think he’s trying to remember this moment for the rest of time. You’re sure it’s one you could never possibly forget.
Arthur snakes both arms around your waist, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees gently hit the cot and you lay back onto it. He covers the full length of you and then some, making you feel so fragile and small. It’s nice to feel breakable for once, to let go of the need to be the strongest in the room, lest you be ridiculed for being too sensitive or too weak or too womanly. Arthur knows just how strong you are, you need to prove nothing to him, so you can submit to his embrace, allow yourself to just breathe for once knowing you can break and there’s re will always be somebody to put you back together.
He lowers himself to your lips, pressing a kiss to them that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Arthur then kisses your nose, then your cheeks and chin, before trailing down to the crook of your neck. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, so starved for the man you cannot live without that now he’s finally here everything feels that much more intense. The tiniest scrape of Arthur’s teeth against your flesh shoots through every single nerve in your body and you moan right into his ear. You can actually feel him harden against your thigh at the sweet melody of your pleasure.
Pushing Arthur’s hat off to the side, your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp encouragingly as he nibbles at your skin.
“Oh, Arthur… Oh, I missed you so much…” You breathlessly whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat when he pauses his movements to glance at you from under impossibly long eyelashes, jade green eyes glistening up at you.
“I missed you too, sweetheart. So so much.” His voice is soft, as if he’s handling the peacefulness around you so delicately and it causes the overwhelming emotion to well in your chest and choke up your throat. Arthur sees this, trying not to be too taken with his own surprising amount of emotion himself, and relieves you of your job of a response by directing his attention to the buttons of your shirt. You don’t remember him pushing your jacket off your shoulders, but there it lies on the floor beside the entrance to your tent, so he must have.
Despite the juxtaposition of such dainty buttonholes and such large fingers, Arthur expertly undresses your top half until you’re bare to him. He takes no time at all to take one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking at it with a hunger you feel right in your toes. You moan loudly, unable to stop yourself after yearning for this very feeling for so long.
Arthur coos and shushes you and it vibrates across your skin, not helping you stay quiet in the slightest. The hand not tugging on his dirty blonde locks reaches between your two longing bodies to begin to unbuckle his belt. You can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs, your coil growing tighter and tighter by the second. It’s been almost 3 months since your bodies have joined like this, and yet you’re not sure you can wait another minute.
You’re purring for Arthur, twitching and grinding as your hand fumbles desperately at the belt. His absence from your skin is agony the second he pulls his hips back to sit up straight. Spotting your downright bratty expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout, Arthur chuckles lowly, “Patience, baby… I gotta get these damn clothes off us.” He gestures to his belt, still very much buckled around his waist. Definitely not your fault. He was being far too distracting.
He’s quick, you’ll give him that, shedding his clothes without taking his eyes off you. You burn under his stare, even more so when he crawls back on top of you to slide your boots off one by one and peel your pants and undergarments down your legs.
The heat radiates off his huge body, his cock pulsing with need. The way he’s putting his weight into his arms to stop from crushing you with his weight adds a definition to his already beautifully sculpted body. Reaching down, you brush the tip of your finger oh so gently over his rosy head, finding a bead of cum already leaking, and you snap. You can’t wait a second longer, scratching and gripping at him like he’s the air you need to breathe.
“Please, Arthur, please I need you. S-So long, it’s been so long-”
“Shh, I know, princess, I know. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Gonna take care of your pretty little cunt, I promise.” He soothes you, though his own voice is shaky from the very effort of restraining himself, maintaining his control to not drive into you and ruin you. While he whispers to you, he lines himself up at your entrance and you quiver in anticipation.
In all your years before you met Arthur, you never really saw sex as anything but something to give, or worse, something to be taken from you. You never truly understood, not until you met Arthur, who taught you it’s something to share, to experience. With Arthur, it’s different. It is connection and pleasure and it’s wonderful and god damn it, it’s addictive. So when Arthur slides into you, letting out a visceral, guttural groan as he does, everything is right in the world.
You feel so full, especially when Arthur pushes all the way to the hilt, connecting you completely at the pelvis. The moan that escapes your lips is downright obscene and Arthur crashes down into your mouth to swallow it.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been so long, or the emotion of it all, but you swear you can feel everything. Every vein and ridge, every twitch and movement of his perfect cock as Arthur slowly starts to move in and out of you.
“Fuck… s-so good, darlin. So tight- y’feel so fucking good, princess…”
You’ve never hurtled so close towards a climax so quickly in your life. His torturously slow, deep thrusts drag into your sweet spot every fucking time and trying to hold back brings a blur into your vision. Your own hips grind against his, Arthur gripping into your flesh to guide you perfectly in time with him.
“I-I’m so close already, Arthur… fuck…” You breathe out, your breath tickling Arthur’s ear and sending a visible shudder down his spine. He looks proud at your admission.
“You missed me that much, huh? Gonna cum for me already, darlin’?”
He gives you no time to respond, pressing a thumb to your clit and rubbing in time with everything else. You implode, pulling Arthur down to catch the scream you’re about to wake everybody up with. It has never felt so intense, and with every thrust Arthur fucks into you it only grows and grows, shattering you to pieces for Arthur to fix back together again.
When you return, a rhythmic thudding in your ears, the first thing you see is Arthur, of course. His jaw is fluttering madly, a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead but the candlelight makes him look ethereal. You still can’t believe he’s here, alive.
Tears start to glisten in your eyes. You’ve never cried during sex before, not for anything positive, at least, but somehow this doesn’t feel wrong. Arthur slows again, watching you, and you spot an extra shine to his own jade orbs. He knows. He feels it too.
He’s right there with you. As he always is.
He brushes a piece of hair stuck to your forehead away, and the gesture is enough to send the tears falling down the same worn path on your cheeks as before.
“I love you, Mr. Morgan…”
“I love you, Mrs. Morgan…”
It seems to become too much for Arthur to stay still, and you’re glad for it. You’re desperate for the friction, already flying towards another orgasm. He’s really fucking into you this time, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. He’s groaning and growling and you decide in that moment that it’s your favourite sound in all the world.
“I… I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby…”
“C-Cum in me…”
“Huh?” He slows, shuddering at the exertion required to control his movements, “I-”
But you’re not listening to his protests, your nails digging into the skin of his back and ass and anywhere else you can reach to urge him forwards again.
“Please Arthur, I-I need you… I need you to cum with me, I need you with me…” you plead with him, not truly understanding your need but honouring it. You’ve been without him for so long, you deserve him with you now.
He appears to consider you for just a moment, before diving down to lock your lips with his. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting every bit of you and he starts to pump into you unreservedly. His body grinds against yours and the friction is perfect and you’re so fucking full and before you can even try to hold back, you’re cumming again, stars scattering your vision, heart pounding out of your chest to find release from it’s mortal, physical cage. Your inner walls twitch around Arthur’s length and this time, he doesn’t hold back either.
His eyes fly open and lock onto yours as you both climax together. It’s vulnerable and strange, but perhaps more connected than you ever thought possible for two people to be.
Arthur’s cock twitches inside you, pumping out his spend as he groans viscerally, completely losing control of his rhythm as he thrusts into you one last time, harsh and deep. You’ve never experienced this before, with Arthur or any other man, normally erring on the side of caution when it came to such matters, but even as you come down you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Whatever you and Arthur just experienced together felt spiritual, and worth much more than a little risk.
Arthur collapses, even as depleted as he is still considerate enough to collapse onto his elbows and not crush you. He slides out of you, earning a little wince, and rolls to the side so you can rest your head on his chest. It’s like a locket that’s been ripped apart, finally fixed together with the most satisfying click.
═══════☆═══════
Two months later, life has returned to its equilibrium. You and Arthur are perhaps clingier, still in a sort of second honeymoon phase where you just can’t seem to keep your hands off each other, more so than usual. It’s a side effect of prolonged solitude, you’re sure.
The first time it happens, you blame Pearson and think nothing of it. It’s pretty early in the morning and you’re sitting with Tilly and Abigail, peeling potatoes for the stew tonight. Abigail is venting her frustrations about when John did this and John said that, and everything feels so normal. Pearson arrives, throwing a rather large, rather dead fish onto the table you’re leaning against and you feel the thud from the weight of it vibrate against your back.
It isn’t until the smell invades your senses that everything starts to feel off. It smells exactly like all the other fish Pearson has ever slammed onto that poor table, which doesn’t explain why you immediately lurch forwards, grabbing an empty bucket and throwing up your breakfast. The fish stench is suffocating and all you can do is get the hell away from it, not noticing when Abigail’s brows knit together almost… knowingly?
You skip the stew that night.
―
The second time it happens, you try not to think about it. You’re riding Diesel and almost don’t make it off him in time. There is nothing to set you off, no horse shit or rotting animal at the side of the road, and yet in an instant your stomach feels like it has been flipped upside down.
The sheer volume of your retching catches Arthur’s attention and he tugs on the leather reins in his hands to steady his mare.
“Darlin’? Y’alright?”
His concern is evident in his tone and in the tight line between his brows, which deepens when he finds you unable to respond in anything but a frantic nod. He dismounts, spurs clicking against the dusty ground when he approaches you.
You feel gentle circles rubbed into the tense muscles of your back as you try to get through this again. It’s not lost on you that Arthur is speaking to you like a spooked horse, but it actually really does help. (You decide to prioritise peace of mind and not psychoanalyse why that is). Eventually, it relents and you regain your composure, albeit somewhat less gracefully than you’d have liked.
“Sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me, maybe I ate somethin’.”
Your apology for something you can’t help earns you a sad smile from your husband, who places a loving kiss on the top of your head before reaching for your discarded hat and putting it back on for you.
“Y’don’t gotta apologise. I gotcha, darlin’.”
You know he does.
He always does.
―
The third time it happens, the luxury of denial is stolen from you. It’s early enough that your view while you sit with Abigail drinking coffee involves glorious hues of orange and pink scattered around the rising sun. It’s peaceful, tranquil. The warmth of the little metal mug in your hands and Arthur’s jacket around your shoulders is enough to ward off the fresh morning chill in the air.
There is absolutely no warning when it hits, when it happens again. You’re so goddamn sick (no pun intended) of hurling. Your eyes water and your throat hurts a little and you curse under your breath when it’s over. Abi is beside you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. She waits until it’s over before speaking hesitantly.
“Uh, can I ask you somethin’?”
You nod, eyes still red and glistening as you swirl coffee around your mouth to take away from the awful, acidic taste lingering.
“When did you last bleed?”
“What, like an injury? Uh, I cut my hand couple days back, but I don’t see what-“
… Oh fuck.
═══════☆═══════
The anxiety bounces around your body and you decide that you’ve become far too acquainted with the concept of nausea. You can actually tell the difference between nerves twisting your stomach and… well, let’s say it as it is: morning sickness. This is the former, you deduce, spinning both your engagement and wedding ring around your finger to give your hands something better to do than carve fingernail-shaped moons into your palm. He should be home any minute now. Any minute now and it will all change forever.
It’s quite late, but the poker game Arthur was scoping out for potential jobs is known to last a while. You’re the only one still awake, poking the embers of the campfire to keep yourself as comfortable as possible.
You hear hooves hitting dry dirt first, and it seems to trigger your fight or flight response. God, you’d love to run away from this, but that is pretty much impossible, so fight it is. It’ll be the greatest fight of your life, you’ll soon learn, one you’re privileged to be a part of. But right now, it feels like an all-consuming unknown.
Arthur can tell something is wrong the second he sees you. You’re terrible at hiding things, especially from him. He always reads you as though you have a poster advertising your feelings printed on your forehead. Arthur dismounts, kissing you tenderly on the temple and wrapping his arms around you.
“What’re you still doin’ up, darlin’? Is everything alright?” You can feel his worry vibrating in his chest as you nuzzle into his embrace.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Can we talk? I kept the fire goin’.” You say it into his shirt, reluctant to move from this hold.
“Of course…” there’s something in his voice, a tense apprehension that really doesn’t help the knot contorting itself in your gut.
While you’re more than capable of keeping a fire going, Arthur is an expert, and has it healthily burning within seconds of you sitting down on the overturned log the gang has fashioned into a bench. You’re back to spinning your beautiful gold bands around your finger, trying to remember to breathe in and out every so often.
“What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” His voice is so soft, so kind that it makes you want to cry. But you promised yourself you wouldn’t until you’d told him, because this might just be the most important conversation you’ve ever had, and you definitely won’t get through it if you’re a blubbering mess.
“I, uh… I… somethin’s happened.”
You hear his breath hitch in his throat and Arthur leans towards you, completely enveloping your hands in his. They’re sandwiched in now and you can’t fiddle with your rings anymore.
“What? What happened? Was it Micah? If he’s said somethin’ to you, I’ll kill him, the rat bastard-”
“No, no, it’s… as much as I’d love to see that, it’s not him.”
The tension releases. Just a little bit.
“I’m pregnant.”
Oh wait, there it is.
The silence is deafening, even though you’re almost certain it isn’t actually silent out here right now. There's a fire going and crickets are just metres away, you’re just shutting down with nerves.
The normally so often tense, fluttering jaw of Arthur Morgan is slack, his eyes wide and gaping at you, occasionally flicking down to your so far bump-less belly. (You should know- you’ve been obsessively looking in a mirror any chance you get for some sort of sign that this is really happening).
Say something. Please say something. Please don’t be angry. Oh, God please don’t hate me.
“I-I… You’re pregnant?” He repeats, reassuring you that you haven’t actually gone deaf, though his tone holds no indication of anything but shock. That’s probably fair…
You nod, hands instinctively reaching over your belly. It feels… weird. Holding your hands over your baby. Yours and Arthur’s baby.
“It happened a couple months back, when you got back from The Grizzlies, I think… I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I shoulda’ been more careful and-and…” You’re rambling, filling a silence that probably should just be allowed to be a silence.
“There… There’s gonna be a baby?”
There. Right there, adorning Arthur’s beautiful features, is the pull of a smile. It chokes you up instantly, so far deep in nightmares of arguments and unhappiness that you hadn’t even considered the good. You start to nod, a little bit of your fringe falling in your face.
“Yeah… There’s gonna be a baby. Our baby…”
“Our baby…” He repeats, his arm raising to brush the hair away from your eyes in such a natural manner it feels like it’s just his instinct to care for you. It is his instinct to care for you, Arthur has shown you that in every minute of every day of your marriage, and suddenly you’re not sure why you’ve been so scared.
“I’m gonna be a dad?” He still seems in disbelief, but that’s normal. It’s taken you a few days to come to terms with it, and even then the fingernail marks in your palms are still red raw.
“You’re gonna be a dad.”
It hits him. Really hits him and he all but throws himself into you, scooping you up and spinning you around as he laughs unreservedly.
“Well goddamn, I’m gonna be a Daddy!”
You laugh with him, worries and anxiety a distant memory as your feet swing around in the air. You’re probably waking the camp up, but you don’t care all that much. Right now, you’re the happiest girl in the world.
A baby. There’s gonna be a baby. Arthur’s baby.
Really, it’s the greatest gift a cowgirl could ask for.
❤︎ Summary: You and Micah are fathers, but lately you've both been getting annoyed with each other, and Micah being the proud man that he is; he's not the type to apologize directly. Until he finds you in your nightgown in yours bed...
❤︎ Classification: explicit adult content, fluffy, mentions of pregnancy, the reader's hurt feelings towards Micah, breast milk, finger masturbation, etc.
Possible accidental spelling mistakes, as English is not my first language so I don't have much experience!
Morning
It was a muggy morning, the sun was already high in the sky, the sharp wind was caressing the trees outside the window, making them sway with the force of a light morning gale, but the problem was something else; the deafening silence inside the house seemed as suffocating as the tension between the two of you. The wooden walls of the house, once welcoming, were now impregnated with a tension between the two of you that dragged on and on. You, in front of the kitchen sink, washed the dishes and smelled the coffee brewing in the bule while Micah, standing by the window, watched the distant countryside. His broad shoulders were tense, which you were able to interpret very well: he was furious, you knew your husband well enough, but he didn't want to admit it.
The reason for the fight? The baby, of course, but not just him. Micah had been as impetuous as ever in his stance as an indomitable knight. He'd been out drinking, riding and smoking for days and the main thing? Bounty hunting to ward off the desire to shoot someone and take out the frustrations of broken pride, while you, alone at home, dealt with the demands of being a mother. When he came back, he was prouder than ever, taking pride in the way he still shot well and headhunted bounties so well, as if absence had been a favor to his freedom. "I needed the hunting, the space. You should understand," he had said, with a harsh arrogance that overflowed. But you didn't understand. No longer, you had let go of all your past interests. Your son was at home, and you were no longer just the wife of the head of the Bell family, who had his own gang in the past; not now, you were mommy.
"Why the hell are you still angry and ill-bred? Why are you just so grumpy? Hm?" He asks you disdainfully, but you don't give in and continue washing the dishes, he pinches your bottom with his fingers, making you startle and move away in denial of his provocations. What you realize makes his smile drop, okay, that's a good start, point for you. But it was obvious that it would turn sour faster than milk on a hot day, overnight.
"See? That's why no one likes you, right?" he spat with annoyance and his bad mood, "Don't test me again." He threw it in the air and left.
The argument was inevitable, harsh. He couldn't see your side, in fact he didn't want to be contradicted and didn't like to see that you didn't play his games, and you... well, you didn't know what to expect anymore. So all you could do was ignore him, try to calm the rage that was growing inside you, and avoid smashing a clay jug over his head if he continued to harass you. When he, with his harsh tone, asked if you were still angry, you just snorted, without a single word. The door of the house slammed hard behind you, and you stood there, feeling the weight of the anger and frustration of it all.
Days later:
It was late afternoon in the cold autumn, you were finishing your household chores in the small cottage, with the cold wind blowing outside at the half-open windows, but the heat from the fireplace still doing its job of warming the interior of the room. The smell of burning wood mingled with the aroma of bean soup simmering in an iron pot on the stove. Her fingers were reddened from the constant work with soap and water, and her back was beginning to ache from bending over, scrubbing and cleaning. With motherhood you knew that the day never really ended, there was always something more to do, whether it was sweeping the floor, washing the bed linen or putting the house in order. But now, after you'd managed to finish the chores and breastfeed your son, he was finally asleep in his crib and you'd done everything. Your eyes were heavy with exhaustion.
With a deep sigh, you moved away from the wooden table where you were cleaning the utensils. The room now looked simple but cozy. The wooden floor had been swept, and the furniture, made of rough wood, was in good condition and organized, despite being worn down by time. You made your way to the bedroom. At the end of the room, an iron basin filled with warm water awaited you, one of the few luxuries you were allowed, since there was a river with clear, clean water nearby. The water wasn't abundant, but you had managed to heat enough for a quick shower, which was only a small relief. You undressed behind the screen, threw your clothes in the hamper and went to get cleaned up.
You took the linen towel, already yellowed by years of use, and, with quick gestures, dried yourself. The ritual was simple: wash your face, hands and body quickly, because the hot water would soon cool down and the time it would take to heat up more water would wear you out. After washing up, you put on a cream silk nightgown with lace trim, whether you liked it or not, it was the thinnest and shortest nightgown you could get and it was still Micah's favorite. The movement was repetitive, automatic, while your thoughts revolved around Micah, or rather, the 'lack' of him. It wasn't the first time this had happened, and you knew it wouldn't be the last. . Your stress was there again, although still stored and boiling inside, growing inside you like a weight, a hurt that he was so difficult to understand and talk to, Micah wasn't the feeling type, but you were still angry and nothing could change that at the moment. With your hair now brushed, you closed the curtains on the windows and lit the wax candles on the bedside table. The soft light illuminated the room, making it slightly more pleasant, but you still missed it. You lay on the bed, hugging the pillow, your mind still heavy. Your eyes were fixed on the wall in front of you, your thoughts lost in the darkness. You were too tired to cry or complain, you just wanted to fall asleep and not wake up so soon.
(…)
Opening your eyes in the middle of the night, still dazed, now with the sound of hooves waking you up, you were lying in bed, under the thick blankets, the heat inside the room and the blankets still enveloping your skin. The contrast between the cold outside and the heat of the moment made the scene in the house more evident. The warmth of the room seemed to intensify the proximity between cold and heat. You considered getting out of bed and going to check if it was really Micah, but as soon as you felt the slight chill in the air, you gave up and went back under the covers again. Just pretend to be asleep or ignore him.
Micah approached the hut still riding, the soft light of the lamp in his hand partially illuminating the darkness as he pulled on the reins, leading Baylock into the small paddock. Baylock neighed softly, uncomfortable with the silence of the night. He dismounted his horse with a sudden movement, the stirrups creaking. Without haste, he tied him to the paddock, the sound of the ropes stretching and the saddle being removed echoing in the stillness. Baylock snorted one last time, shaking his head, before settling down in the darkness.
He walked towards the stairs, up the porch steps with heavy steps, his leather boots tapping on the wooden treads, leaving dirt and dust marks from the path he had traveled. He swung the lamp with his right hand, the flame dancing to the rhythm of the cold night wind. When he reached the door, he paused for a moment and, with a sigh, tapped his boots on the floor, as if to rid himself of any trace of dirt from the world outside.
He kept his heavy feet against the threshold, taking off his boots one by one, and put them aside without haste. With a final movement, he pushed the door open with his shoulder and entered, his steps now slower, as if the weight of the day was weighing more heavily on him than before, the lamp casting faint shadows on the wood of the floor. The night outside was distant now, replaced by the stillness and warmth of the hut. The heat from the fireplace still burned, trying to warm his skin, but his pride seemed colder than any wind outside.
The door creaked slightly as Micah entered, his footsteps echoing in the room. He didn't say anything, but the sound of heavy boots and the creak of hunting gear on his belt made it clear that he had just returned from another of his endless days away. The thud of boot leather being slammed against the front door and the sound of guns being carefully put away were as familiar as the grumbles he made when he got home.
You could tell now; it was really him who had arrived, you could hear his heavy footsteps in the other rooms finishing something, anyway; you didn't care either. He entered the room, pushing open the door as he finished putting his own suspenders away, sat on the bed as he took the objects off the bedside table and put them in the drawer, now putting his pistol on and lighting a new candle on the cabinet to replace the previous ones, now dimmed, feeling the softness of the mattress, and then, you could feel his head turning over his shoulder, watching you with his eyes, with a wry smile, he commented, looking at the fabric of your nightgown:
"you are warming yourself here, then? Or do you just want to tease me with that lace camisole?" The teasing was there, as always, but something in his tone revealed a vulnerability that he was trying to hide. He was well aware of the situation between you, Micah has many layers of pride and peeling them back isn't so easy
but sometimes he allows you to make him spit that pride and anger out, he probably knows you're awake and wouldn't give in. You didn't answer straight away, still with your back to him, your face turned towards the pillow, as if looking for the answer in your own thoughts was easier than talking to him.
He was visibly irritated, with frowning eyebrows and a slight tremor in his hands, perhaps more from anger than frustration at not having been able to provoke a reaction from you, his penetrating gaze fixed on your shrunken figure with your back to the wall on the other side, dead with your back to him. The silence between him and you remained heavy and the tension almost palpable.
Micah stretched lazily, leaning back on the bed. His thoughts were muddled, but his voice, as it merged with the sound of the crackling fire, seemed softer. The house was still deafeningly quiet from the tension still lingering in the night. The fire in the fireplace crackled softly, and the candles on the oak table cast dancing shadows on the walls. You didn't dare say a word as you lay in bed, hugging your pillow, your face turned to the side, as if the simple act of not looking at him was a form of punishment. The weight of your feelings, still on the boil, seemed to choke the breath out of you.
Micah, with the elegance of a mischievous feline, stretched out on the bed, now sitting a few centimeters closer to you. He stood with his back to you, but not before glancing again at what you were wearing - that same cream lace camisole, light and delicate, that he had always commented on liking. His eyes, imposing and implacable, shone with a mixture of desire and disdain, an almost instinctive reaction.
"You're not asleep, then?" He grimaced, arching an eyebrow with a mischievous smile, and clucked his tongue. "Or are you ignoring me once again?"
with his shoulders tense and his eyes focused on the floor. He knew he'd done the wrong thing, but it wasn't easy to admit it. It never was. Your pride, always as sharp as a blade or as venomous as a snake, prevents you from apologizing as easily as you deserve. However, the heavy atmosphere in the house couldn't be ignored. The silence between you outweighed any quarrel, and he was really getting disturbed by it.
He closed his eyes, huffing in frustration, took a deep breath and, in a low, slurred, almost hesitant voice, said: "I... I know I screwed up. I'm not one for apologizing, you know that yourself." He looked away, his fingers restlessly tapping his own knee, as if he didn't know what to do with his hands.
His posture remained firm, but there was something in his voice that betrayed a deep discomfort, that Micah stubbornness. He didn't know how to deal with it, with this need to expose himself, to let it be known that, yes, he felt it too. He hesitated, as if each word were a weight. But he knew he had to speak. He had to make it clear that he was recognizing what he had done wrong, breaking down that barrier, even if his pride wanted to tear him to shreds.
You listened to him, silently, your eyes softer now. Micah moved towards you on the mattress, crawling, his shaky hand reaching up to your hair, pulling a few strands from your neck. He ran it gently between his fingers, tucking it behind your ear, trying to convey, through the gesture, something that words couldn't express; when he didn't say anything, he was touching you, a way of trying to appease his mistakes.
The touch on his hair was gentle, almost as if he was trying to communicate what he didn't know how to say. You could feel it; feel the sincerity in this unusual little gesture coming from him, Micah is not a "romantic" kind of man.
he let his own pride and stubbornness get away from him.
You looked at him, the silence between you fading, and without needing to say much, you just came closer. The longing for the hug, for the contact that was missing, took over you. Micah pulled you closer, with firm arms, but now without the hardness of before. He was there, trying, and that was slightly pathetic to you, but you liked it even though you denied that you didn't want him close.
The hug was affectionately exaggerated, he still liked to make fun of the two of you in situations like this, but he was still and silent, and you let yourself be carried away by the feeling of finally being less upset. Micah behind you, next to you on the bed, the room quiet and silent except for the soft sound of his breathing and the breeze coming in through the window. He stares at you for a moment, the outline of your body illuminated by the soft moonlight spilling through the window. You're already lying on your back, and he approaches you as gently as ever. With a careful movement, he wraps an arm around your waist and presses your body against his in a gentle but protective and territorial way.
He nestles his face into the back of your neck, feeling the warmth of your skin and the soft scent of your hair. The pressure of your embrace is firm, but not suffocating — it's the kind of hug that conveys the necessary longing for him. His fingers slide lightly around your waist, in a gesture of affection, and he takes a deep breath, as if he were completely closing in on himself at that moment. Your heart skipped a few beats, you hadn't let him touch you in the last few months, you were so absorbed in tasks and stress that you fell asleep first to avoid him inside the house, good months without feeling your bodies.
It's obvious that Micah grumbled when, months after you'd recovered from childbirth and the complications, you denied him because you were bored-which also made him grumpy, almost every time of the week he wanted to pin you down in the corners of the house or in the kitchen sink when you were washing dishes, and....STOP IT! You wondered about the erotic thoughts floating around in your head.
just forgive him and go to sleep.
I'm not like that. I'm not one to forgive easily. He needs to learn. He has to learn that he can't do this and expect everything to go back to normal. You thought in your mind.
But then something inside you broke. His coldness, his grumpiness, everything that always seemed to push you away, was now there, in front of you, so... human. He was trying and, as much as you didn't want to admit it, that meant something. It was a change you didn't want, but knew you needed to see. At least so you wouldn't regret it later.
You took a deep breath and, as you let it out, the weight on your back seemed to lessen. Slowly, you approached him, your gaze still steady, but your voice softer than you would have liked:
"This time... I forgive you, Micah. But only this once. But you have to do what you have to do," you gave him a threatening look. He only smiled with a drawn-out laugh.
His eyes shone with a mixture of pleasure and control. He slid his face down to your shoulder, nibbling on it, kissing your neck.
He leans forward, almost touching your ear, his voice soft but slurred with pleasure. Micah slides his hand up to your face, his fingers pressing into your chin, forcing you to feel his dominating presence. He moves even closer, the heat of his body almost overwhelming.
- "I know... I know you could. I'll do anything you want, anything you need. Now, thank you, my little doll... such a good girl for forgiving me." He smiled, his breath warm on your ear. His scent was like a mixture of strong tobacco, woody whisky, leather and a primal hint of musk. It's intense, borne of someone who liked danger and something irresistibly attractive, as if he were a fire about to consume everything around him.
You felt the inside between your legs stir, taking a deep breath to prevent yourself from making any suspicious sounds. You stiffened a little when he pressed his calloused hands to your sides, your breathing making a strange mixture of hitching and quickening at the same time. "Relax, doll." His chin rests on your shoulder and he whispers to you softly, trying to keep you relaxed for him. All the while his hands were running over your abdomen and waist, waiting patiently for you to fall asleep or tell him to leave. But you chose to go with the first option.
You were about to close your eyes, until, just as you were about to fall asleep, something strange caught your attention. Something… between your legs. When you moved slightly to adjust yourself, you realized that Micah's knee was there, wedged between your legs.
You didn't know if he had done it on purpose or not, but when you noticed it clearly, feeling it, a heat rose on your skin. At first, you tried to ignore it, not finding it so strange, in fact, when you slept together he did that to pull you closer.
but soon the movement was repeated. Micah moved his knee slowly, fitting it more and more between your thighs, as if trying to warm you up, but you couldn't help but notice how flaming the touch was. The seemingly perverse gesture, typical of him, however, was starting to make you excited, you weren't sure, you could barely reason, the force with which he was rubbing, moving your folds and intimacy.
“Micah…” you tried to say, your voice weaker and muffled than you intended. But he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to you. His eyes were closed, or at least he was pretending to be. His knee was moving even more provocatively now, putting a little pressure on his casual, almost disinterested tone, but you could hear a slight smile in his voice.
“What’s wrong? Are you feeling too tight there?”
He feigned concern “-or… is something bothering you, hmm?” You could feel the humor on the tip of his tongue.
"Relax, woman. I'm just trying not to freeze to death... and you're a furnace, very warm, you know?" He kept his knee in the same place, moving faster, one of his hands going under you on the mattress, reaching your shoulder, his hands going up to your breasts.
You bit your lip, trying not to give in to the sensation of pleasure and warmth that was growing inside you. "You…are...What do you think you're doing?!" The question came out weaker than you would have liked. Micah didn't answer. Instead, he moved his knee once more, now more slowly, forcing his body to move to accommodate the touch. He seemed to expect your reaction, as if he was enjoying the effect he was having.
You felt your throat close and you could feel his hands opening the first buttons on the front of your nightgown. The way he flicked his knee continued, provocatively making you roll your eyes for a few seconds, testing your limits. And the worst part? He knew the effect he was having even though you were still annoyed, but he still carried on, as if he was having fun with it.
You stopped thinking when his hands finished unbuttoning the fabric over your breasts, calloused hands reaching brazenly up and squeezing and massaging them slowly, you choked on the touch, the nipples hardening in the early dawn air. But he just laughed again, a soft laugh, kissing the back of your neck and continuing to massage them, now twirling his thumb around your nipples. You just squirmed without being able to deny it, your mind so focused on his fingers that you didn't even notice his other hand sliding down and pulling at your underwear, with the same hand he slowly arched one of your legs, lowering his hand to your insides, now already needy, clenching around nothing.
"Oh ho...were you ready, dear? Why didn't you tell me? I would have...hurried." he says, a low laugh resonating in his voice, as if he's having fun with some kind of secret plan. You just moan, squeezing your thighs together as you feel his fingers foaming with your wetness and then laying into your folds, his middle finger penetrating and making you arch up and sigh, which made your breath engage, your legs shaking with stimulation, pain and excitement.
Micah presses his fingers against your lips more firmly, then, tilting his head slightly to the side, he makes a soft but clear sound - a "shhh" that seems to reverberate in the darkness. He moves even closer to you, his warm, controlled breathing almost blending in with the sound of the chaos outside.
With almost predatory speed, his large, icy fingers press against your lips, slamming your mouth firmly shut. The touch is unexpected, but effective at silencing.
"Shhh..." He leans close to your ear, his voice whispering with intensity, low, almost like a command, the tone allowing no questions. The closeness of his body warms you even more from the lack of warmth in the room.
You try to murmur, but all that comes out is a muffled hum, like a wordless "mmmmm...", the muted sound being crushed by the pressure of his hand.
His fingers slipping in and out, the knot in your abdomen forming as you sighed harder. Long enough for you to be trapped in that hazy stage of the mind where you only felt him enter you, just like that. The sound of a needy moan resonated in your chest, his dick pulsing inside you.
"Mmmm.....yeah, good," he growled in your ear, thrusting his pelvis against you, both of you shuddering with pleasure."Hehe... you're still the same as you were that night years ago..... perfect; perfectly made for me, huh? Don't you agree?"
"S-Shut up!" you scolded, looking at him over your shoulder. He kept hitting that spot on you again and again while moving with slow vigor. And as he pushed you to the top of that sea wall. Still, he didn't give in, his hand finding your throat again, forcing your head back as he descended into your mouth. Until your eyes rolled and rolled behind your head, and a wave of pleasure exploded through you, your mouths colliding in a quick kiss, Their mouths together tasted of smoke, alcohol and something almost sweet.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your skin. “You’re amazing” You returned that feeling with a moan, pushing your ass back, which only served to bring him deep into you. His large body twitched in his grip, a deep growl emanating from his chest.
Without haste, you slowly turn to the other side, where Micah Bell was standing, he's there, quite desperate, with the darkest blue eyes fixed on you, almost as if he knows exactly what you need, even without saying a word. The desire for affection becomes inevitable, and you approach him without hesitation, kissing his lips with a soft, almost lazy touch. The kiss is almost gentle, but it also has a hint of affection and needy, as if you were asking for something more, something that can't be said, but is understood.
With a soft sigh, you wrap your arms around him, hugging his shoulders with a certain amount of fragility mixed with firmness, your body seeking his warmth. Your body lifts as Micah grabs you by the hips, seeking to penetrate you anew, and you can't help the feeling of vulnerability and excitement that comes with the moment. Micah, with that smile so characteristic of him - a smile of someone who knows his own feelings, but is unable to hide his tenderness - squeezes you and arches his hips upwards, pressing you against himself in a protective and selfish way.
The heat between you becoming uncontrollable, the only sound in the middle of the silent dawn, are the muffled, wet noises and sounds between you, together, sharing and processing the various feelings that once were, but full of affection and complicity. He wraps his arms around you more tightly, and you forget that, for a moment, you were trying to be silent, but him coming in and out of you like that was too much....You rolled your eyes inside your head, panting above his head, yours almost suffocating him as they moved up and down, both of them and your bodies.
You removed your arms from his shoulders and then slid the soft cotton fabric of your nightgown completely between your own body, over your shoulders, pulling your hands over your chest and twisting. His nipples hardened, whether from the slight chill of the night or from lust, he couldn't tell. But Micah found himself unable to resist the sight, leaning forward and capturing one between his lips, biting and sucking. You choked softly, a sound so beautiful it made him moan.
Soft, gentle sighs as his tongue moistened the material of your sensitive, milk-filled breasts, teeth gently pulling you in. Your hand found his blond hair again, running your fingers through the strands and arching your back into his touch, moaning slyly when you felt the milky yellow droplets dripping out, you tried to pull away, but Micah kept pulling you forward, finishing sucking and tasting what was dripping.
He wanted to pinch your skin, bite you and soothe you with his tongue. You opened your mouth at times, when the pleasure became too much, with him taking the opportunity to plunge his tongue into the warmth of your mouth. His fingers in your hair, twisting strands around his fingers and tugging lightly.
Letting you take him inch by inch, watching the look of ecstasy take over his features. His eyes closed. He didn't struggle to keep his composure, overwhelmed by the tight, moist heat of her walls enveloping him. Being able to feel every unique ridge and bulge that made your vagina so perfect, to feel every muscle stretch and contract as you welcomed it.
"Oh my…!" You spoke, sounding louder, covering your mouth to keep from making noise, lightning buzzing through your veins, coursing through your entire body. His pace was almost animalistic as he panted behind you.
"Shit. You're delicious, darling…" He hummed, his large , rough hand coming down against your ass in a crushing slap. You groaned, tears stinging your eyes, but not from pain. Your body hummed beneath him as you teetered on the edge of pure pleasure.
Only seconds later it happened. You clapped a hand over your mouth as your orgasm hit, muffling your choked moans. Micah finished as well, making low, panting sounds as his body gave in to extreme exhaustion. The sound of his joints cracking as he lay back down was followed by a deep, drawn-out breath, the tension slowly leaving your bodies, both of you going limp and closing your eyes. You felt drops of cum running down your thighs, but you refused to get up to wash again. Maybe tomorrow morning...
Micah's head rests softly on the pillow, his breathing now regulated. Next to him, you settle in, resting your head on his shoulder. The temperature of the room is pleasant, and the welcoming silence of the room makes your sleep come closer and closer. But a few minutes later, you are woken by a sound that cuts through the silence of the room—the baby's cry coming from the other room. You let out a soft sigh, hesitating for a moment, feeling discouraged and laziness setting in, but knowing that you needed to check on him. Ready to get up, intending to pick up the baby, but just as you were about to make any movement, Micah's voice reemerges, firm and direct.
“Go to sleep, I’ll calm him down,” Micah murmured, the words clear and straightforward. His voice had a tone of authority, but it wasn’t harsh, just practical, like someone who knew exactly what they were doing. He moved away from the bed without waiting for a response, his footsteps firm on the floor as he walked through the door toward the next room.
You let out a low laugh and, with a smile on your lips, snuggle back into your pillow. The comfort of the mattress, the familiarity of the surroundings and the thought of Micah taking on what he never took on, dealing with the situation, brought you immediate relief. You hugged the pillow, letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of the sheets. Your joy coming in small doses, even if you were hurt before, but at this moment you can forget that and allow yourself to truly rest, talk and sex almost never failed when it came to your conflicts with each other.
THIS TEXT IS NOT COMPLETELY
CORRECTED, I BELIEVE.
Author: I apologize if some words seem unconnected, it happens that when passing the original text from my language to English, some words and expressions do not exist, so in these cases I use the translator to try to “normalize” what I wrote. That's it.
People who asked to be tagged in this post (I believe ;P) @08melancholie @yey56 @rom-707
Summary: Arthur sets out to find his family.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader
Word Count: 2,802
Tags: family, girl dad Arthur, angst, mid to high-honor Arthur
Warnings: Still mostly angst, religious themes, implied/referenced suicidal ideation
previous
An: A long awaited part three to this saga. I really wanted to focus on Arthur's inner thoughts and feelings for this one. Not a whole lot of reader interaction this time around, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.
The remains of Beaver Hollow succumbed to flame as suffocating smoke permeated Arthur's aching lungs. Ash, dirt, and his final words to Dutch burned bitterly on his tongue. A warm pool of crimson leaked from the searing wound under his shirt, but that pain was nothing compared to the anguish of losing everything and everybody he'd ever loved.
Dutch had abandoned him—left him to be finished off by Micah, then cremated with the rest of what they'd built together. All his life's mistakes played out in what he thought were his last moments of Earthly torture: angry faces of people he'd robbed, corpses of those he killed, and tears of those he'd failed to protect.
The steel toe of Micah's boot was the cold embrace of death he'd been longing for since the day you'd left. With gritted teeth, he waited for another blow—hopefully one that would finally put him out of his misery.
Time seemed to slow as Micah's crazed ramblings faded, replaced by a sound off in the distance that tore through the fabric of his memory like sheers: the familiar laughter of a child, but one he hadn't heard in what seemed like a lifetime—the laughter of his firstborn, Isaac.
Arthur didn't believe in the afterlife, and if there was such a thing as heaven and hell, he knew that he and Isaac would be at opposite ends. Before he could rationalize it away, he heard the sound again, joyous, loud, and real—so real that it shot a dart of adrenaline through his hardened heart. He shot upright, listening hard.
But reality had re-materialized around him, the warm laughter replaced with roaring hell-fire and a curse belted from a one-eyed beast.
"And maybe when I'm done here, I'll go pay them girls of yours a visit. They might've ran away from you, but they can't hide from me."
Arthur remembered one of Beatrice's sleepless nights on account of Micah, how his innocent wife, who'd been known to pickpocket but never to kill, was minutes away from strangling a man with her bare hands had he not been there to stop you. The image of that fierce protectiveness ignited the only spark left in him, sending paternal fire through his veins. He couldn't let anyone hurt you again—damn sure not the likes of Micah Bell.
In a blur of fury, he hurled himself at the traitor, pinning him to the ground by the neck. A sound he'd never heard from himself erupted from the deepest bowels of his soul—the sound of blazing anger fueled by love. He braced himself, squeezed with all his might, and let a curtain of black blind him.
He didn't remember when Micah stopped clawing at his arms. He didn't remember snuffing the last bursts of air from his lungs, and he didn't remember toppling over at the end of it all.
Death rose on the horizon with morning light, while baptismal rain brought Beaver Hollow to a choking smolder. When he came to, Arthur was flat on his back beside Micah's corpse, fixated on a sliver of sun hiding behind gray clouds. Though his ears rang like the screech of a halting train, his heart beat on—an iron coupling rod propelling him forward. With what little strength he had left, he hurled a bag of money over his shoulder and limped out of the clearing towards the only salvation that mattered: you.
Jack Marston spotted him first, riding up to the meeting spot at Copperhead Landing on a wild mare, bloodied and barely alive. Tilly, Sadie, and Abigail nursed him back to health. He'd lost weeks to fever and pain, but he was alive.
The air felt different outside the train station when John fitted the black gambler's hat back onto Arthur's head.
"You'll be needing that."
Arthur had lost what little way with words he'd had over the events of the last few months, but John wasn't one for too many words either. Instead, Arthur extended his hand. They held their parting handshake for longer than either of them meant to until Arthur built the courage to pull him into a hug. John tipped his hat as Arthur boarded the train.
"I'll see you and that family of yours around, Arthur Morgan."
He didn't even know where he was going, really, but he began his pilgrimage by cracking open an atlas he'd just purchased and following bread crumbs given to him by Tilly in your handwriting.
I'm sorry for running away, but I have a family to protect. We'll be alright. I'm following a nice lady to a place called Salem out west. Take care of yourselves.
The atlas was falling apart by the time he made it to California—its spine cracked and pages withered by sweaty hands and humidity. Every Salem he'd circled resulted in dead ends, and he'd wasted precious months following a faint lead. There were no signs of you, and no more signs pointing toward a Salem. If he went any farther west, he'd drown himself in the Pacific. Having a little bit of hope hurt more than having none. He'd planted his mustard seed, only to be met with a drought.
After another sleepless night plagued by nightmares of cyclopes, fiery damnation, and eternal loneliness, he sat over his journal in the dimness of his cheap hotel room. Your absence had knocked something loose in him, but now that he couldn't locate you, whatever had been holding his heart together had severed entirely. The light of dawn seeped in through thin linen curtains as he made up his mind.
He would let the law do what he was too cowardly to do himself: make him swing. The pencil could barely keep up with his thoughts.
To whomever it may concern,
I, Arthur Morgan, confess to all my crimes. While I cannot name the countless people I have killed or robbed, here are the ones I participated in, directly or indirectly, in the last six months.
He split the page in half, people on the left and places on the right in the order that they came to him.
Angelo Bronte
Leviticus Cornwall
Agent Andrew Milton
Sheriff Gray of Rhodes
Catherine Braithwaite
Colonel Fussar
Micah Bell
And countless lawmen, military, and civilians.
Blackwater Bank Boat
The Grand Korrigan
Victory Street Station of Saint Denis
Valentine Savings Bank
Rhodes Bank
Lemoyne National Bank
And countless trains, stagecoaches, and homesteads.
—Arthur Morgan
With his confession written and signed, he felt free after a lifetime of running. He thought about turning the page to write a letter to you and Beatrice, but there were no words left—nothing that he could say to fully atone. Instead, when they asked him for his last words, he'd say your name and Beatrice's and maybe one day, you'd read them in a paper and know he thought of you until his last breath.
With his journal in hand, he walked out into the street of the unnamed town he'd boarded up in the night before. The sheriff's office loomed just past the train platform. Squinting, he gazed down the tracks, way out into the distance, praying, for only a second, that a train would miraculously arrive with his family on board, but the lack of a train or his family affirmed his beliefs one last time.
His shoulders sagged slightly, but he shifted his eyes to set on bold lettering: SHERIFF. He only got to take one step forward before a gentle voice stopped him in his tracks.
"You look lost, Mister."
Cranking his neck to the side, he spotted a young lady seated on a bench clad in black from head to toe, her hair covered by a black veil. For no reason other than being polite, he sat on the other side of the bench, setting the journal burning with his confession between them.
"Been lost a long time, sister."
She nodded, looking out across the platform just like him.
"I know a few places where lost people can go to be found, sir."
If such a place existed, he'd be with his family instead of wandering aimlessly through the desert. He didn't say anything—only hummed apathetically in response. Unfazed, she studied his side profile; she was the first person in a long time to really see him. Despite his overgrown beard, oily hair, and stained clothes, she spoke to him with the ease of an old friend. She reminded him of the only other nun he'd met, Sister Calderón, in the way she seemed to ignore all the bad parts of him and focus on the good.
"I know a lot about being lost. I was lost once too. Now, I know exactly where I'm going."
He entertained her even though he knew what she'd say.
"Yeah, where's that?"
She didn't answer him until he acknowledged her with his eyes.
"Right now, I'm waiting for the train to take me back to my parish, but when this vessel gives out, I hope there's a spot for my soul in heaven."
Arthur didn't know if he envied her conviction or pitied it. Silence stretched between them as they studied the tracks again. When the quiet felt too heavy, Arthur cleared his throat.
"Met a lady, Sister Caldron, back in Saint Denis, all the way in Lemoyne. You know her?"
Then she emitted a sound that made him jump out of his skin—a laugh. The back of his neck itched in slight embarrassment, but mostly, pleasant discomfort. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made someone laugh.
"All nuns don't know each other, Mister—"
"Morgan. Arthur."
"Well, you see, Mister Morgan. I've never stepped foot out of Washington. I've barley even left Salem House since I took my vows."
At that, Arthur straightened, his brow furrowing in question.
"M'sorry, sister. Did you say Salem?"
Her expression had changed, too, caught off guard by Arthur's sudden shift.
"Yes, sir. Salem House of Mercy. It's my home."
All his blood ran cold and drained from his face. Forgetting all the social etiquette he'd been taught, he scooted in close to the nun and took her hands in his.
"Sister, I been searching for my family—my wife, my daughter. My wife—she's, she was—" He couldn't think straight, so he shut his mouth and retrieved his journal, flipping through pages way before his confession to a sketch of you, one drawn out during a happier, lighter time. The nun's mouth dropped open as she inspected the page.
"Missus Callahan," she said.
"Missus Callahan," he echoed in disbelief.
"I'm sorry, did you say your wife? Her husband—he died in the mines all the way out in New Hanover."
Of course, you felt like you had to lie. It was easier to be a pregnant widow than the many words of what you really were.
"I wish I was dead, but I ain't. Look, it's a long story, but if you take me to them or tell me where to look, I'll tell you everything—hell, I'll even confess to a priest or the law or whatever. I just gotta see 'em first. I got money, whatever it takes, just—please, Sister."
A day later, he was in Washington State, standing before the wrought iron gates of Salem House of Mercy. On the way, he'd learned from Sister Genevieve that her church took in women and children, widows, whores, and anyone willing to attend Sunday service.
The sun was just setting over the church when sister Genevieve set out to retrieve you. A large wooden cross cast a long shadow through the fence when he first saw you at her arm, swollen and round as ever with his child.
You were already crying, tears rolling down your face before you'd even fully emerged from the church.
"Mister Morgan," Sister Genevieve said, gesturing to you.
"Missus Morgan," she said to you like the words were unfamiliar, "Will you be alright, dear?"
You nodded through your tears, and Sister Genevieve let go of your arm.
"I hope you found what you were looking for, Mr. Morgan. Godspeed."
She disappeared back through the doors of the church, leaving you fiddling with your hands and waiting for Arthur to speak.
"Beatrice—"
"She's fine, safe."
"And the baby?"
"Any day now."
"And you?"
"Fine, safe."
He sighed in relief. The three of you were safe and alive, and he hadn't missed the birth; he was just in time. You hobbled forward, lightheaded by the sudden presence of a ghost you'd long mourned, even though he hadn't died. As much as you didn't want to, you let him hold you steady and ease you down to the church stairs. You don't know how long you sat there, first in stunned silence, then in questions, then in more tears. Only when the sun had vanished behind the hills and the church bell rang out nine times did you finally stand.
"I gotta get back," you told him.
Arthur stood there with his hat in his hands, too afraid to ask—terrified even, but knowing he'd regret it if he didn't.
"Can I see her?"
"Tomorrow."
"Okay."
Everything in your being screamed at you to run into his arms, but you held firm, unsure if you even knew him anymore. More importantly than your own pain, you couldn't risk hurting your little girl by letting him back in so soon.
"She asks about you all the time—always asks if you're coming to see the baby. I never know what to tell her. I can't lie to her— not more than I already have.
"You did what you had to do. I know I can say it a million times, and it ain't gonna make a difference, but I'm—"
"I know."
You retreated into the sanctuary without another word, but Arthur stayed glued to the steps, unable to will himself away from what was so hard to find.
In days long gone, he could read you like a page out of his own journal—the downward curve of your mouth like letters scribbled over, your tears like smudged charcoal; even when the writing became illegible, he knew what you meant. All he could see tonight were letters that had lost their structure and misspelled words. But you had been moving to the cadence of his pen for so long, perhaps it was time he learned how to live by yours.
Not even twelve hours later, he was in the same spot again, returning from a night of feigned sleep and a bath.
Anticipation thawed the morning chill enough to keep him warm, but the arrival of you and Beatrice, angelic and divine, spread an unimaginable ardor through his bones. The two of you took your time getting down the large stairs. You greeted Arthur as Beatrice's little feet hit the ground.
"Good morning."
He nodded, shifting his gaze between you and his little girl, unable to take his focus off either of you for too long.
"Morin' to ya'."
Beatrice didn't say anything, only stared up at him, curious.
"Can you say good morning?" you asked, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze.
Her small fingers slipped from yours, and she approached Arthur, who sank gingerly to his knees to meet her.
"Honeybee," he started, his heart threatening to break through his ribs, "you remember me?"
To his surprise, her hand shot out to smooth over the coarse hair growing out of his face.
"Your beard's too long."
He sucked in a breath and felt a bubble of something unnamed building in his chest. Tying his best to keep his voice steady, he wrapped his fingers around her little wrist and responded.
"Was too busy tryin' to find you to shave it."
A little smile appeared on her features—a mirror of yours, and Arthur swallowed, trying to contain the emotion that threatened to spill over.
"You look like a bear!"
She ended her sentence with a tooth-bearing roar. As if he hadn't spent almost a year away from her, Arthur fell right into step, roaring back louder and lunging with his hands outstretched like claws. The most delighted high-pitched squeal of laughter made the bubble burst. He couldn't stop himself from scooping her up and holding her tight. Your daughter laughed and laughed until it caught in her throat, and all at once, turned to sobs. Arthur only squeezed her closer, letting her cry into his neck. When he looked up at you, you'd come to a realization that all three of you were crying because you knew, for the first time in a long time, your family was whole again.
Warnings/MDNI: angst, subtle but non/dub con smuttish scene, hence 18+ march forth only (I don't write it normally so it's not that graphic, but it's still there, so be aware) // I don't condone such behaviour irl!
Syno: Like a wife, but not. Just wifely enough to be safe because shelter comes at a price in these lands.
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"Dutch, calm down-"
"How, Hosea? Hm?" Dutch snapped, spinning on him.
"I mean-he wasn't wrong. He married her. We couldn't have just given her away! This isn't a joke you see."
"Since when does a girl matter more than this gang? This family?" Dutch hissed, yanking the tent flaps shut. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "And we got what we wanted. What's the harm?"
"Dutch!?" Hosea's voice cracked with disbelief. "You think all of this is some joke? You made him do that, destroyed her life, and now you wanna throw her back to her fa-" He stopped himself, dragging a hand over his face. "I need a smoke... God."
"Well, you think she wouldn't have wanted to leave?"
"I didn't say that." Hosea's tone dropped, tired and raw. "I just-- You're delusional if you think Arthur was ever gonna let her go."
Dutch sighed and sank down onto a crate. "We don't have time. Go check if everything's packed. Send Charles and Molly here to help me with the rest. And do me a little favor, go check on our lovely little couple."
"Dutch."
Speak of his... boy.
"Arthur."
Without a word, Arthur walked past him, lifting Dutch's crate like it weighed nothing. No hesitation. No trace of the tantrum he’d thrown just hours ago, like he hadn’t shouted in front of everyone, like he hadn’t looked ready to break something when his favorite toy was about to be taken.
And yet… watching Arthur move with that quiet determination, something in Dutch’s expression softened.
The boy's way of apologizing.
"Dutch," Arthur murmured as he adjusted his grip on the crate. "I want you to know, y'all don't have to worry about 'em. I caused it. If they come sniffin' around, I'll handle it."
Dutch sighed. His gaze flicked toward Hosea, the kind of look that carried more than words ever could. A silent conversation passed between the two old friends.
We lost two boys already. We can't afford to lose another. That's fewer hands. And with a place to build… I can't lose anyone.
"It's… alright, son," Dutch finally said wearily. "Try to be a bit more rational next time."
Arthur didn't nod. Didn't turn around.
He just kept walking.
And so everyone packed.
And.....You.
Your hands trembled with every movement, your thoughts scattered and fraying at the edges. Your brain was haywire, unable to piece together a full sentence, a full breath.
The stench of burning officers' bodies still hung in the air, clinging to your skin, your clothes, your tongue. You'd thrown up in a nearby barrel when he told you to go freshen up, his voice calm, like any husband asking his wife to get ready for a trip.
This is it...
You were going. Again.
Taken.
To another place. Unknown. Unseen.
Farther from home. Farther from family. Farther from the law.
Farther from Eddie.
❀˖°
The new camp, Deadwood Ridge, was quieter.
Not peaceful, just heavy. Silent like a place where too many ghosts had followed. Not humans though. Tents had gone up just before sundown, the lanterns burning low and sputtering against the damp night air. You moved near one of the barrels containing cold water, your breath uneven. It wasn't working.
The air smelled of pine and sweat and sorrow. No one laughed. No one sang. The gang had lost Mac and Davey, and while no one had said it aloud, you could feel it,
They were looking for someone to blame.
You knelt by the barrel, trying to calm your anxiety and sprinkling some water on your face, when you felt something scratching your back....
Eyes.
You turned your head slowly, too slowly, and there he was, half-lit by firelight.
Micah Bell.
Arms crossed, leaning on a post like he'd been watching you for longer than you wanted to believe. There was something sharp in his eyes. Something ugly. His gaze didn't leer, it was...calculated. Or what he seem to be doing....calculating...
You quickly looked away.
But it was too late. He knew you saw him. Knew you were scared. And you didn't know what he knew, or was trying to know about, but you knew what he thought.
A rat.
A spy.
Or worse... a reason all this had come down on their heads. Your fingers trembled as you washed them quickly. You didn't dare glance again.
And then-
The sound of boots behind you. Not hurried but very familiar. You froze as a hand came down on your shoulder.
Arthur.
His presence coiled behind you, silent, unmoving, as if he'd been watching long enough to read the tension in your back. His voice, when it came, was quiet, almost casual.
"Coffee's cold."
You blinked in relief. "I'll...w-warm it up," you said automatically.
He didn't move, his hand staying on your shoulder. Then, a little quieter, "Bring it to the tent." It wasn't a request. Not really.
You nodded, heart thudding, your eyes still locked on the barrel.
He gave your shoulder a brief, almost affectionate squeeze. "Good girl. Hurry now.."
And then he was gone. You stayed kneeling. That's when it sank in, slow, terrifying, inevitable.
You needed to survive this.
If Micah was watching, if Dutch was doubting, if the whole damn camp was one bad breath from turning on you, then there was only one place you were safe.
Arthur's side.
Not just his prisoner.
His wife. Better his than dead. What was it your mother used to babble about?
"Men get loud when they're scared. Let them roar. You keep your voice quiet and your aim steady. If we can't outmuscle them, no worries, sweetheart, we outlast them. How do you think your father values me this much? I just make him think my ideas are his." Had said your mother, grinning over a teacup, after you had complained about fools giving you headaches in the factory in the absence of your father.
And if that meant giving yourself over completely, if that meant smiling when he asked for coffee, laughing when he called you "his girl," and crawling back into that tent every night like it was home-
Then.... so be it.
Because pretending to love the monster was the only thing that might keep the others from tearing you apart.
❀˖°
The night air crept in through the thin canvas walls, brushing against your skin like a warning.
The cot creaked beneath you as you sat on the edge, still dressed, still waiting. Your fingers hovered over the small glass bottle in your lap. A perfume you'd barely touched since being dragged from the life that once felt like yours.
You uncapped it with trembling hands.
The scent, soft and familiar, hit you like a memory. A world you'd never get back. You tilted the bottle carefully and dabbed the tiniest drop against the side of your neck. Then another behind your ear and wrists. Your lips were dry, so you gently rubbed in balm, just enough to bring back a bit of color. Just enough to not look sick with fear.
Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to make him notice. You weren't sure what you expected, affection? Control? Mercy? Maybe just... a reminder. That you were here. Playing the part. Doing your part.
The flap of the tent rustled faintly in the wind, and you startled, turning too quickly.
But no one entered.
Not yet.
You lay back slowly, the cot stiff and cold, hands folded over your stomach like a girl waiting to be buried, or... already buried at this point. You had died the moment all this began. The scent curled around you like a question you didn't know how to answer.
Would he come in tonight or sit by Dutch's feet to make up for what he did, apologizing all night?
Would he be quiet?
Would he be kind?
Would he touch you?
Find a reason to scold you?
Or would he simply know what you were doing?
You closed your eyes and whispered to the dark, "Please..." But you didn't even know what you were asking for. And so curl into yourself, trying to quiet your thoughts.
Then the flap rustles. And you know it's him this time and not the wind. The lantern flickers, and Arthur steps inside, tall, quiet, dirt still clinging to his boots and shirt clinging to sweat. His eyes find you instantly.
He shrugs off his coat and unbuttons his shirt with stiff fingers, then gestures to the stained bandage around his side.
"Change it."
You sit up slowly, heart leaping to your throat. You reach for the bottle of spirits, for the cloth, for the routine you've taught yourself.
He stands there, watching you, his body looming over yours as you kneel on the cot and start peeling the old dressing away at his bicep. The wound's deeper than it looked yesterday. The skin around it's turning angry purple. You wince for him but he doesn't.
You clean it in silence. He breathes through his teeth, his jaw tight. You don't look at his face, but you feel his eyes drift all over you.
The scent hits him. He doesn't say anything for a moment, but his eyes get softened in a twisted way.
You finish the bandage with shaking hands, tying it off carefully around his ribs. The wound is clean now, or clean enough. He doesn't thank you. You didn't expect one anyway.
Arthur exhales through his nose, the weight of his body shifting as he lowers himself onto the cot. He groans low as he stretches out, head tipping back against the pillow, breath heavy with exhaustion and something else.
You stand up quietly, cradling the bloody rag in your palm.
"I'll...go wash," you murmur.
He doesn't answer. You duck out of the tent and into the cold night, the damp air biting at your skin. The camp's grown quiet, most fires put out, only faint embers and muttering men lingering like ghosts in the dark. You rinse the cloth in a basin, watching the pink swirl cloud the water. You scrub your hands until the chill sets into your bones.
It doesn't leave you clean.
When you return, the lantern's dim glow still flickers. Arthur lies on his back, one arm behind his head, eyes closed.
You move slowly, carefully, stepping over his coat, about to settle on your side of the cot again-
But a hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. You gasp, the basin's water still cold on your skin, your heart leaping.
Before you can speak, you're pulled down, not roughly, not enough to hurt, but with finality. Something decided. Your body lands half across his chest, a palm pressed flat to his ribs. You feel his heartbeat there, steady as always.
"You were gone too long," he mutters, eyes still half-lidded.
"I--I was just--"
"Don't matter."
His arm curls around your waist.
You freeze. Every instinct screams to wriggle away, to keep breathing your own air, to stay upright, but you don't. You can't.
You settle against him like you belong there. With an internal sigh. Like you meant for this.
Keep calm, (Y/N), think of the happy times- this is just a nightmare. Just---think it's Omar-
His breath ruffles your hair, and you feel the faintest brush of his thumb against your spine. "You smell nice," he murmurs again, almost like a reminder. Your pulse flutters in your throat. You close your eyes.
Because this is how you stay safe.
Wrapped in the arms of the man you're most afraid to disappoint.
You heard everything...that day, didn't you? How he killed them all-
And now, there's no way back. But then his hand moves.
Slowly....
It traces up your back, across the slope of your waist, fingers brushing over your blouse like he's memorizing how you're made. His touch isn't soft, it never is, but it's careful. Like something he's decided belongs to him.
You....let him.
This was what needed to be done. Because you need to survive. Because his suspicion is worth more than your pride, and his protection, more than your freedom.
His other hand cups your jaw and tilts your head up. His mouth finds yours before you can think, before you can brace. It's rough, a claiming kiss, more teeth than tenderness. Your hands tremble against his chest, fingers curling into him like a reflex.
"Good girl," he murmurs against your mouth, voice gruff.
The cot creaks under the weight of him as he rolls you beneath him, the full press of his body settling over yours. The scent of your perfume is stronger now, clinging to your skin, mixing with the sweat and smoke on his.
You don't say a word.
Because this is your choice now. Even if you vanish under the weight of it. Your heart hammers against your ribs, but you don't stop him.
One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back, not gently. Just enough to remind you who's in control. Just enough to make your eyes sting.
The other grips your hip like a man holding down a storm. No softness. Like if he lets go, you'll disappear, and he can't allow that. Won't.
He doesn't say your name. Doesn't ask if you're okay.
He kisses you like it's a punishment. Like it's your fault he wants you this badly. His mouth is rough and unrelenting, dragging then over your jaw and throat, biting into your lips with more anger than affection. As if he knew you were at fault for everything.
For all the drama. For the damn tradition itself.
There was only need.
Your hands go to his back, to the still-tender wound beneath the bandage, which he takes as a sign, as your 'consent'. You anchor yourself there, nails just lightly scraping the gauze. Not to hurt. Just to remind him.
Just to remind yourself.
It's a nightmare (Y/N)....not real.
His belt clinks low, sharp in the quiet. You feel your skirt pushed up. His palm spreads against your thigh. And somehow , even after convincing yourself , you couldn't help but try to stop all this one more time.
"…A-arthur…"
His breath brushes your jaw. "What is it?" He sounds almost amused. Like, you don't even know what you're asking.
"You're-hurt," you manage. "You shou-ldn't…"
Your thigh gets lifted up before you could protest. "That never stopped me before." Then, quieter, crueler, "Yer' gonna tell me to stop?"
You don't, and instead close your eyes in defeat, bracing yourself. "I'll be decent, do n'tchu worry, give you a break..... Maybe...."
And when he pushes in , slowly, unbearably , your breath stutters out like prayer. His mouth is at your ear now, breath ragged.
The pain lances sharp through your abdomen, enough to make your fingers claw into his shoulder with a pained grunt.
He notices. Of course he does. "That's it. Stay sweet.....Keep still."
"Arth- But-", He hushes you again with a kiss when your breath hitches , not from pleasure yet, but that raw edge of surrender. And God, he likes that sound.
"There you go, darlin'. That's better. Just take it. You're doin' so good for me."
He moves like he's been holding back for days, every motion deliberate despite the sharp ache in his injured shoulder. Like there's something in him only you can quiet. Every thrust is slow, rough, exacting. His hand stays on your hip the whole time, like he's grounding himself therem
He kisses the corner of your mouth, slow, like he's rewarding you for obedience, like it's his right to soothe the pain he caused.
"Ain't gonna hurt for long, you'll get used to it, woman." he promises, his thumb brushing over your lip, holding your face like you're precious even as your thighs tremble beneath his cruelty.
He lets the torn seam hang crooked off your leg, like a trophy. There's no rush in him. He doesn't need to strip you down , he wants you half-undone. Still wearing traces of modesty he's slowly corrupting.
You bite your lip so hard it might bleed.
You try not to cry.
You don't speak.
You just take it.
But still, a few tears slip past anyway, as a result of your past replaying in your mind, how much you have lost. They slide down your cheek like you didn't give them permission to fall.
Arthur feels it, in the way your shoulders tighten, in the way your nails curl against the gauze on his back. He pauses, just a second, but he doesn't stop. He only lowers his mouth to your ear again, voice rough, breathless.
"I know, darlin'," he manages with a gruff grunt. "I know it's a lot." His lips brush your cheek. He kisses the tears and your pained whimpers away. "S'alright-- I gotchu."
And then he keeps going, like the tears don't matter.
Like you're still saying yes.
Again and again, until the ache in your muscles blends with the ache in his body, until the cot groans beneath the weight of him. Because this is what survival looks like.
When it ends, his body collapses half over yours with a loud groan, his breath a harsh wind against your collarbone. Part of him still inside you. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't speak. Just slides his arms around you and drags you in close, tighter than before. Like something he nearly lost. Like something he means to keep. He pulls you close, buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing deep like you're his home.
And you lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, limbs trembling because of what you've done.
What you chose.
Dawn arrives like a breath held too long.
The canvas above your head glows a muted gray, not quite morning, not quite night. The stillness is almost sacred, until you remember what it's covering.
His arm is still slung around your waist like a brand.
Arthur sleeps behind you, his breath soft at the back of your neck. But even in sleep, he doesn't let go. His palm rests against your stomach, fingers splayed wide like he's keeping you there. Like the memory of last night might slip away if he loosens his grip.
You stare into the dimness of the tent.
Eyes open and mouth dry.....
It's too quiet.
Your legs ache in that deep, telling way. You feel the press of bruises blooming under your skin, on your hips, your neck, your thighs. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him, and feel the stickiness between your legs where he left himself in you. A stain.
You swallow hard.
There's no comfort here. No guilt either. Just fact. Just the cold morning air slipping under the tent flap and the dull ache of having given something away you can't take back.
Not now.
Not ever.
You move slowly, like something broken, like you don't want to rattle the illusion he's resting inside. You lift his arm from your waist, gently, as if it's not a shackle. He doesn't wake up. Just turns, muttering something low and incoherent, his hand falling to the empty space where your body used to be.
You stand barefoot on the cold earth with your blouse wrinkled, torn would be the more fitting word, and skin marked. You look like you got mauled. Hopefully, no one would see it in the dark.
❀˖°
Susan was confused as to which girl is taking a bath in the outhouse at the crack of dawn and so she knocks and suddenly-
You open the door, startled, your mouth shapes into an 'o' clearly not expecting her, but you quickly compose yourself with a gulp. Her eyes take in your swollen eyes, indicating your breakdown under the water. There is a moment of silence, known silence between you two, which you break with a nod of greeting and hurriedly hurry back to the tent, hair wet and towel in one hand and previous outfit in the other. You couldn't speak even if you wanted to.
And Susan isn't the only one flabbergasted, Karen saw it too from her bedding.
What would be the point?
Let them see it.
Let them know.
You wrap your arms around yourself, not from cold, but from something deeper. Something spreading inside you like frost as you enter and see his dozed off form.
You should feel powerful. Protected. You did what you had to do. Instead, you feel like a body that's been hollowed out and stitched into a new shape. And that shape fits now.
Arthur's wife.
But there's still one thing you remember.
The small bundle Eddie gave you, the herbal medicine, meant to keep you safe, to keep your remaining choices yours. With trembling hands, you move slowly, pressing your fingers against your chest to steady yourself. Your eyes flick to Arthur's face, half-turned away.
You can't let him see.
Careful not to make a sound, you open the chest and slip your hand beneath your clothes, fingers searching for the small wrapped bundle tucked close to your skin.
Your pulse quickens as you take out a pinch of the herbs from inside and close up everything as quietly as you can. 'Eddie had said to take a small dose with tea.'
This small act is yours alone.
❀˖°
You have your breakfast in the quiet wagon, hiding, from the eyes already awake, and even from those still sleeping. The solitude is thin and anxious, like it might tear at any second.
Just as you turn to put your dish away, you nearly bump into Susan.
"You alright?"
You gulp down the last bite, which feels like swallowing a nail, and nod quickly. "Y-yeah. Um…"
This is embarrassing.
Your hand tightens around your tea mug as you angle it slightly away, like that could somehow shield it. You know she won't ever find out. But the paranoia, it lingers. It always will.
Susan watches you for a beat longer than you're comfortable with, then clears her throat. "So… you can rest today. Most folks'll be out scouting and all, so there ain't much to do." She glances off to the side, voice softening. "The other girls'll… handle it."
Her gaze drifts past you, out the wagon window.
Arthur.
Emerging out of the tent and lighting a smoke, sleeves rolled up, the morning air curling around him. The look on his face screams "relaxed" and you can see that Susan is thinking the same. After seeing him stressed and angsty for days, thus quite might be a sight.
She doesn't say anything else though.
"Got it?" Susan's voice is gentler now, but still carries that motherly concern.
You nod, taking a small sip.
"How's your hand by the way?"
"Much… better," you flex your fingers slightly as if to prove it.
"....Good."
The hand seems to be the only thing better now. Everything else is now ruined.
"(Y/N)! C'mere!"
His voice slices through the air outside the wagon.
Both of you nearly flinch at his call and you finish the lukewarm tea in one gulp before going to him.
Arthur's leaning against his tent pole, one arm across his middle, the other bringing a cigarette to his mouth , his hair still messed up.
"Morning, sweetheart," he says, smoke curling lazily past his lips. There's a drag in the word sweetheart, like he's remembering something, something indecent, shameful.
His gaze rakes over you, from the collar of your blouse down to where your skirt brushes your knees. You don't miss the way his jaw ticks, or the way the corner of his mouth curls just slightly.
"Sleep alright?" His voice dips low, casual on the surface. But the way he says sleep? It's almost a joke. Almost a dare.
You swallow. "Mhm..."
He hums through his nose, steps forward, just enough to be too close. "You wore me out, darlin'. Could use a little more... fuel, though," he drawls, fingers brushing your hip, pulling you closer roughly, taking advantage of the fog and fewer eyes in camp at the moment. "Reckon you'd fix me a plate, darlin'? Anything will taste better when it's from your hands."
Let me feed you fucking cyanide then.
His words shouldn't make you warm, but they do. Not in a comfortable way. More like you're standing too close to a fire you didn't ask to build.
Meanwhile, in his mind, you're whole now. Finally.
And soon, you'll feed him next, and maybe later, he'll keep you in his lap while he sharpens his knife, like somethin' out of a dream he didn't know he wanted 'til it looked like you.
You'll sit there quiet, thighs warm across his, his chin tucked near your temple as he works the blade slowly, one hand resting firm on your knee just to feel you breathing. You'll hum or maybe braid something, your hair, his, while the fire crackles low.
He imagines you putting your hand on his chest when he comes back from a ride, scolding him without words. Bringing him water before he asks. You will reach for his coat to patch the tears without being told. Maybe you'd even come meet him when he rides in late, lantern in hand, face lit like home.
Not because he asked. But because you know.
That's what it is in his head. A woman who knows. What he needs, when to touch, when to stay quiet, when to look up at him with those eyes he already wants to see above him every night, blinking softly in candlelight. Like a woman who knows her place is beside him, not behind or ahead, just close enough for him to reach.
You haven't promised him a thing. But the way you stood there, shy and warm, wearing his scent, it was as good as vows in his eyes.
He flicks the ash from his cigarette, then taps it out against the heel of his boot. "You're dragging your feet. Didn't think I'd ruin you that quick, darlin'. Might let you sleep tonight… Might not."
He smirks at your gulp, and your heart stumbles against your ribs.
You can only pray that it gets better--scratch that. Just breathable enough for you from here...
★ Next
─AN: Interactions and ur thoughts bout the fic are always appreciated and a boost, so don't be shy, my pooks. To be added or removed from the tag list, u can always lemme know!
Definition: a tradition as cruel as it is final. A gunshot outside a woman’s door, her name spoken into the cold night air, and with it, her freedom is gone. There is no consent, no ceremony, only the sharp assertion of power masked as ritual. A crime? A sin? A violation of all that is decent? A taboo that civilized folk shun?. Perhaps. But outlaws don’t concern themselves with decency. Outlaws don’t ask. They take...
This masterlist contains ✮Chapters I✮Scenarios I✮Extras
───AN: This masterlist is only for Arthur and John. No other VDL members. It is made solely for this concept; abbrev: WOC. While sending me asks/requests, do make it clear that you want it for this concept by mentioning it. Do read the rules too.
───Warnings/MDNI: fem reader, forced marriages, kidnapping, manhandling, suggestive dub/non-con themes , angst, abuse, fluff, forced pregnancy, honour fluctuations (high--mid-- low), basically you are in 1800's // I don't condone such behaviour irl!
───Req/asks status: open!!
─── main rdr2 m.list
───Arthur's Version
──Chapters
⋆ 01 ⋆02 ⋆03 ⋆04 ⋆05 ⋆06 ⋆07 ⋆08 ⋆09 ⋆10 ⋆11
──Extras
Parenthood
───John's Version
──Chapters
One-shot ── Scenarios gonna be based on this
──Scenarios
No such thing as leavin'
He Calls It Love
Taught You Proper
Daddy troubles
You are pregnant
Sweet Bread
A/N: So this takes place during chapter 4 at Shady Belle. It’s around the second trimester for anyone wanting to know the time frame. This could be read as a prequel to any of my dad!Arthur fics :)
Word Count: 1.1k
Warnings: pregnant reader, mentions of pregnancy, Arthur is a fussy baby daddy
Summary: Arthur insists that you get more sleep, but you only agree to do so if he does the same.
***
You hummed as you made your way towards one of the tables that rested at the center of camp. You placed the book in your hand down on the table.
“What are you doin’ up so early, missy?” Susan asked as she joined you.
“Couldn’t sleep.” You offered her a little smile.
“That’s what you’ve been saying for the last three days, Miss Y/L/N. You should still stay in bed. Try to rest.”
“I’ll drive myself crazy sittin’ up there starin’ at the walls.” You shook your head as you opened the book.
“You’re gonna drive Arthur crazy is what you’re gonna do.” She took a puff from her cigarette.
“Where is he anyways?” You looked around camp, knowing very well you wouldn’t find him.
fluff, drunk, affectionate Arthur, father-daughter bonding, lots of hugs!!!
--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--♡--
Yet again, Dutch called the shots, and miraculously, his judgment proved to be the difference between going straight to the gallows and becoming filthy rich. Although the gang nearly met their demise after Blackwater, everyone continued strong, finding a home in the forest at Clemens Point. Not even the Pinkertons had combed through the trees thoroughly enough to find them. It could only get better, right?
As successful as the boys had been at robbing the train with minimal injuries, you couldn't help but allow the darkness to blanket you. It wasn't that you were up to anything nefarious, no. You happened upon Arthur's journal in his tent, and, naturally, you got curious. You told yourself that you would only take a peek, but there you were, at hour two, searching through every one of his entries. What you noticed most was that there were many, many drawings of you. Some were crude, maybe drawn while you were tending to the chickens or peeling potatoes, but others had remarkable attention to detail, even your flaws that you disliked the most. That was the difference between you and Arthur. You noticed when your body changed, you noticed the marks that had been with you since birth, but Arthur saw none of it. All he saw was perfection—his little girl.
Flicking through the pages of his worn leather journal, you happened upon a few sketches of the occasional rabbit or bird that weren't any more detailed than a child's stick figure. That was the only thing that brought a smile to your face in the otherwise depressing state you happened to be in.
Arthur trudged past the gang, a bit woozy, having downed half a bottle of whiskey. Although he could barely see beyond the treeline, he felt good, so what did it matter?
While absorbed in the pages, you heard the snapping of twigs and the crunching of leaves. Heavy footsteps stumbled through the trees, and you thought that maybe it was a drunken Uncle who had lost his way, but moments later, you heard a gravely tone that sent shivers down your spine.
"There you are," Arthur said, a grin plastered across his face.
You instinctively yelped as he appeared, peeking at you from around the tree trunk you leaned against. "Arthur!" you cried, your heart racing in your chest. "You scared me half to death!"
"Oh," he chuckled, finally lowering his weary body to sit right beside you. "Whatcha got there?"
There was no point in hiding it, so you waited for him to figure it out, and once he did, he just smiled, taking another swig of his whiskey.
"I never knew you were such a good artist or writer, for that matter," you said thoughtfully, tracing your fingers across a page littered with pencil marks.
"Yeah..." he groaned, letting his head fall back against the tree. "It ain't much; just a few words and pictures here and there."
You shook your head and shifted to make eye contact with him. "I saw drawings of me, and they're perfect. You capture every detail, even the ones I don't like."
He just shrugged and bowed his head again, swirling the alcohol around in the bottle. "I have to draw every detail, else it won't really be you."
Contemplating for a moment, you turned your attention back to the journal and said, "Well, not every detail—"
"Yes, darlin', I have to capture every detail. If not, it won't be you."
"Well, it can still be me even if it doesn't—"
"It can't," he stated, plucking the journal from your hands and shutting it.
You crossed your arms and turned away, a bit defensive, but after he took another drink, he spread his arms.
"Come 'ere," he cooed. "Give yer old man a hug."
Without further hesitation, you leaned into him, making sure to wrap your arms uncomfortably tight around his large torso. As soon as you did that, he gave you a squeeze, pressing his free hand to the back of your head and rubbing your scalp with his calloused fingertips.
"There you are," he whispered. "There you are, darlin'. I've got ya. Arthur's got you right where he wants you, so he can smother you 'til you can't breathe anymore!" After a few moments, he finally loosened his grip and pulled back to stare into your eyes.
When you peeled yourself away from him, you said, "I love your hugs."
"Yeah? Then, c'mere again," he ordered, setting his whiskey aside and pressing one hand to the middle of your back, the other to the nape of your neck. "It's alright. It's all okay, doll."
You buried yourself against him, inhaling his masculine scent—a mix of pine, alcohol, and cigarette smoke. But, somehow, it was so comforting. Before you realized it, he was pulling you onto his lap and rocking you from side to side, giving you the occasional kiss to the head.
"There you are," he whispered, pressing his bearded cheek against the top of your head. "I captured you. Nobody could've done it, 'cept for me. Not Micah... not Dutch... not any one of those bastards who say they could love you just as good."
You pressed your face to the nape of his neck, and he let out a breath he'd been holding for far too long. The sensation of his thighs beneath yours and his frame engulfing you in a bear hug was as warm as a bath, or perhaps even warmer. Somehow, it made you feel fuzzy inside, but you wouldn't trade the feeling for the world.
"I love you most," he claimed, his words a bit slurred. "'Cause the others don't know that you just want a daddy."
That hit you hard. It was true; it felt like the world had left you behind long ago, but ever since the Van der Linde gang took you in, everyone felt like family. Even Micah felt like family, as much as you despised him. He still had a place, even if he was the black sheep.
"Don'tcha?" Arthur asked, rocking you back and forth. "You just want a daddy..."
You nodded, confirming his suspicion, and he grunted, pulling you impossibly closer, attempting to somehow merge with you. When he accepted that he had to conform to terrestrial physical limits, he let go, allowing you to sit back.
Once you had slightly moved away, he pressed an obnoxiously wet kiss to your forehead. "Well, you've got yourself one. But for now," he said, wrapping his hand around the discarded bottle. "Daddy's gotta finish this whiskey, 'cause it's makin' him feel damn good."
"You won't get so drunk that you can't stay awake, will you?" you asked, giving him a little pout.
"No guarantees, sweetheart." He took one more big gulp and lazily pulled you in with his other arm. "Just stay right here... feels cozy."
Relenting, you brought your arms to your chest and made yourself as small as possible against the rugged outlaw, feeling the way his chest moved with every breath. Then you set your ear right over his heart, letting the sound lull you into a tranquil state.
Arthur quietly hiccuped, but played it off with, "Your daddy loves ya. Now, be a good girl and just stay here, and let me drink. Promise we'll do somethin' fun tomorrow... just you 'n me."
You’ve unintentionally fallen pregnant and Arthur’s the father.
warnings: pregnancy, birth
alright y’all! so this is my first sfw fic and i chose to spoil y’all with some pregnancy and dad arthur fluff. it kinda jumps around a bit, but hopefully it’s still a good read
You were fully aware with how lazy you and Arthur had gotten with contraception, both mutually agreeing that the linen condoms dulled the experience. You pretended like him finishing inside you was a nonissue, you liked it that way.
You started to become sick as a dog every day for weeks on end, pissing like a racehorse every 30 minutes, and your cycle never came. Abigail, having gone through this before, immediately knew what was going on.
”You need to see a doctor, y/n. You’re for sure pregnant.”
“It’s probably nothing.”
“That’s what I thought too, but look how that turned out for me.”
You let the symptoms persist for another two weeks before you decided you couldn’t take it anymore, you got yourself in with a doctor. It took a short exam of your cervix for him to break the news.
“Well, miss, I can say with 100% certainty that you are indeed pregnant.”
“Ah, I was kinda hoping you’d tell me it was just really bad food poisoning.”
“No, I’m afraid you are, as you say, ‘up the spout’. Now, are you and the father on good terms? Do you know the father?”
“Oh yeah, I know him.”
-
It took a few days for you to muster up the courage to tell Arthur. You were riding back to camp when you decided you couldn’t hide it any longer.
“Arthur, we need to talk.”
“You know I hate when you say it like that.”
“I know, I know, but I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t important.”
He tugged on the reins and halted his horse to a stop, he hopped down and helped you off of yours.
He put his hands on your waist. “Okay, now what was so important?”
You shifted on your feet nervously and took a deep breath.
“Arthur, I’m pregnant.”
He froze for a moment. “You’re sure? For sure, for sure?”
“As sure as the doctor who told me.”
You had no idea what to expect from his reaction. For a second you thought he’d get mad, but instead he wrapped you in a crushingly tight hug, lifting you off your feet.
“Oh my god, I had my suspicions with you bein’ sick and all for so long, but I didn’t wanna pry. You’ve made me so happy, happiest man on earth.”
“Y- you ain’t mad?”
“Are you kiddin’? You’ve given me the greatest gift I could ever ask for.” He said, kissing you.
That night you lay with Arthur in the tent you shared. When you fell asleep he put a hand to your stomach, stroking it with his thumb.
-
Immediately after receiving the news Arthur objected to you doing any jobs that could be even slightly dangerous.
He would always answer your protests with “And what happens if the baby gets hurt?”
“You sure as shit didn’t care when it was just me.” You retorted.
“That’s because I know what you’re capable of, it’s different now.”
-
A month later you had just arrived back at camp when Micah decided to once again participate in his favorite sport, antagonizing the fuck out of Arthur. He watched as Arthur assisted you in helping you down from your horse.
“How do y’all even know if he’s the father?” Micah sneered.
“Watch it, Micah.” Arthur growled, teeth clenched.
“Hey, I’m just sayin’, everyone ‘round here’s had them, even Dutch.”
“For your information, I’ve been faithful since the day Arthur and I got together.” You retorted.
“Yeah you say that, but I think we all now deep down you’re still the same little whor-“
Arthur cut him off with a punch square in his face, breaking his nose. Micah stumbled back.
“You son of a BITCH!”
Micah returned with a blow of his own, connecting straight with Arthur’s mouth, busting his lip.
Dutch overheard the commotion and rushed over, putting himself between them.
“What the hell is with you two? Can’t y’all have a single conversation that don’t end with either of you drawin’ blood?”
“It’s what he gets for not keepin’ his mouth shut.” Arthur spat.
“Just speakin’ the truth, Arthur. You’re gonna find out one way or another.” Micah grinned as blood streamed down his face.
You dragged Arthur away to the tent, Micah called out to get the last word in.
“That whore ain’t gonna be yours forever, Arthur!”
You sat him down on the cot, taking a cloth and dabbing at the blood that seeped from his lip.
“Lord almighty Arthur, you can’t keep lettin’ him get to you. You’re a better man than that.”
He put his hand to yours. “And I can’t let him talk to you that way. I love you too much to ignore it.”
-
Around 5 months in you were dozing off next to Arthur when you felt a flutter in your stomach, you shook him awake and put his hand to you.
“Arthur! Arthur! The baby’s kicking!” You said, full of excitement.
“Huh? Wha- OH!”
He felt the tiny foot against his hand.
He chuckled. “Well how about that? We got a little fighter.”
-
Another 4 months passed you by. Your water broke early in the morning and you were in severe pain all day, contractions kicking your ass. Late in the afternoon you tried to distract yourself by hanging up the washing to dry when you fell to the ground in the most intense pain you had ever felt in your life.
“ARTHUR!”
He ran over. “What? What’s wrong?”
You were breathless, panicking. “The baby, it’s-“
Arthur leapt into action, scooping you up and rushing you back to your tent. He laid you down gently on the cot, taking off your skirt and bloomers. He stuck his fingers inside you, feeling your cervix.
“What in the sam hell do you think you’re doin’?” You barked.
“Seein’ how far along you are. Don’t start pushin’ just yet, it won’t do you any good.”
“Why’re you actin’ like you know what you’re doin’?”
“Cause I’ve done this before.”
Two hours passed as the contractions rolled through you, each one worse than the last.
“Remind me to fuckin’ kill you when this is all over.” You said through gritted teeth.
“I honestly deserve it.”
He returned his fingers inside you.
“Okay, you’re ready, you can push.”
The pain from the contractions was nothing compared to this. It felt like your insides were being ripped apart.
“God, it hurts so BAD.” You said, tears streaming down your face.
“I know sweetheart, you’re doing so good, keep goin’.”
You gripped Arthur’s hand almost hard enough to break it.
“You’re almost there, just breathe.” He cooed.
“I AM BREATHIN’ YOU BASTARD!”
You let out a deafening shriek, there was silence for a moment, then you both heard a cry.
There she was, all 8 pounds of her, face bright pink as she cried. Arthur held her in his arms.
“It’s- it’s a girl, we have a little girl.” Arthur said, tears forming.
He cut the umbilical cord with a knife and holding her for just a moment longer before handing her off to you.
“She’s so beautiful, y/n, she-“
“She looks just like you, Arthur.” You smiled, exhausted.
-
John and Abigail showed up a few hours later with little Jack in tow.
John spoke. “We came to see how y’all are doing. How’s the baby? Is it a-“
“A girl, Dahlia.” Arthur replied.
“Heh, guess I have a niece now.” John smiled.
“It’s a beautiful name, y/n.” Abigail said.
“Aunt y/n, Uncle Arthur, can I hold her?” Jack asked.
“Of course Jack, sit down first.” You responded.
Jack sat on the edge of the cot.
“Now you gotta support her head. Okay, Jack?” Arthur said.
“Okay.”
You handed Dahlia to Jack, he carefully took her in his arms. He extended a finger, she took it in her chubby little fist.
-
That night the men of the camp sat by the fire as Arthur passed out cigars. The women crowded into your tent, sipping whiskey and fawning over your new baby girl. You had to admit, it was nice to have a drink after nine months of involuntary sobriety.
“Well one thing’s for certain, Arthur definitely ain’t gonna be able to leave you now.” Karen laughed, sufficiently intoxicated.
“Arthur’s been crazy about them long before this. You’ve seen the way he looks at them, watches them like a hawk. I think it’s sweet.” Abigail said.
-
Arthur held you as you slept when he heard a whimper, he gingerly got up so as to not wake you. He took Dahlia in his arms, cradling her and holding her against his chest.
“Shhh, you’re okay, your daddy’s got you. I know you probably want your mama, but we’re gonna let them sleep for now. You kinda tuckered them out.” He chucked.
He stepped out of the tent and returned to the fire, John was still there.
He put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Welcome back to fatherhood, prepare to never know a full night’s sleep again.”
Arthur laughed. “It’s worth it, I already love her to death.”
“Despite lookin’ like your ugly mug she really is beautiful, Arthur.”
Arthur looked down and smiled at the baby that slept in his arms. “Yeah, she is.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ the year is 1890 and you find yourself as the newest member of the ever growing van der linde gang.
⊹ ࣪ ˖CHAPTER SIX
𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟
your head throbbed just about as much as your arm did, even days later. the bright and early sun taunted you, dancing in your face until you gave up squinting. rubbing your eyes, you forced yourself up and lazily stepped out of the tent. the noise of bare feet made against the mud followed you all the way to the water bin. morning dew clung to the frills on the bottom of your night gown — leaving the white now brown and wet.
you were beyond grateful for miss grimshaw getting you some clothes together. she was rough on the outside, sure — but maybe she had a soft spot for you. could have something to do with the fact you were the only other lady in camp. maybe the only other woman on earth unwise enough to live with a bunch of wanted men. the cold water, collected in the barrel as a makeshift wash-bin, sent relief through you, chasing the sleep off your skin. you relished in it, rinsing off the tiredness and lapping the relief through your cupped hands.
stretching, you sucked in a deep breath, heading back towards your tent. as you peeled the tent flaps fabric above your head, you paused. it felt like.. someone was watching you. slowly, you turned on your heel. it wasn't unlike arthur to lurk in the shadows. you visibly relaxed when you met his gaze; he straightened from where he was working gun oil into his revolver. setting down his things on a crate, he blinked. your lips twitched upwards. before you knew it, he had clambered over to you with the jangle of spurs and heavy steps.
he cleared his throat, eyes flicking down at your attire before he could stop them. "what're you doin' up so early?"
you crossed your arms. the breeze of the wind shook the thin material and you suddenly felt a bit exposed. "not sure. couldn't fall back asleep."
"how's your arm?" arthur queried, already leaning forward to get a closer look at it. "feel any better?"
you smiled softly, nodding. his gentle hands abandoned the bandage when he seen your scabby wound. "it ain't too bad. nothin' i can't handle."
there was a pregnant pause. he rocked on his heels, jaw working like he was chewing up his words. you couldn't infer what he was thinking, and you couldn't begin to try since his blue eyes were shadowed by the brim of his hat. your eyebrow ticked up in curiosity.
"reckon it's time you had a horse of your own." he grumbled, matter-of-fact, like it was a demand rather than an invitation. he met your eyes expectantly.
you blinked. "a horse?"
arthur smirks. "yeah, bit hard to be a part of the gang on foot. ya think?" he nods towards the valley yonder. "saw some wild ones out by the ridge yesterday. figured i'd take you to go get a look."
you blinked again. gears worked in your head, and you were deemed shell shocked for a moment. a beat passed and you nodded, smiling sheepishly. you missed your old horse, not like he was worth much besides the couple of dollars you paid for him, but he meant something to you. so while you did plan on getting another horse, eventually, you couldn't deny that it helped to have a cowboy offering to wrangle and break your pick.
"yeah, okay." you reply, nodding again. "i'd like that."
he clears his throat, looking down at your attire with a smirk. "not sayin' i mind it, but for your sake, you might want to change."
you flush, waving off his half compliment disguised as casualty. "nope, was plannin' on wearing this." you roll your eyes and the growing smile on your face betrays you.
that earned you a soft laugh. you ducked into your tent, and he's grateful you can't see him shamelessly watch your retreating figure. he rubs his neck, forcefully averting his eyes from your backside and opting to lean against a post and wipe down his revolver. when you come out, he huffs a 'finally' and you start on your way to the hitching posts at the edge of camp. something ate at you, pleasantly flipping in your stomach and making you question why his half hearted comments always elicited a reaction from you.
he was an outlaw — cruel, murdering, thieving, and downright mean. didn't mean his compliments didn't have an affect on you. you couldn't tell whether he was messing with you or not; maybe he relished in making people nervous, one way or another. maybe he just was picking on you. part of you didn't want to believe either of these options were viable. he sure had a way of making orders sound like kindness.
you pushed it down, taking his calloused hand and letting him hoist you up onto the horse. the warmth lingered for a beat too long. he broke the silence, "you ever broke in a horse?"
you snorted, "tried to, maybe." boadicea started trotting along the trail. "most horses i ever got were cheap and stubborn as a mule, so i reckon you could say i did most o' the work breaking them in... what about you?"
he hummed in thought, idly stroking boadicea's mane. his one handed grip on the rein tightened. "a good bit.."
an eyebrow ticked up in amused curiosity. "really?"
"yeah," he rubs his stubble, "can get a lot of money for horses. 'specially when you ain't gotta pay a dime for 'em."
you laughed. "reckon you're right. never thought the risk was all that worth the reward. always thought i'd get thrown right off."
"reckon you'll see today." he side ways glanced at you to see your reaction, a big smug grin on his face.
you blinked. "you want me to try and get on one of them?" you ask in exasperation.
his smile grew and he chuckled somewhere deep in his chest. the sound reverberated through the woods and morning birds chirped in delight. you had to admit you relished in the sound too. what a rarity to hear a man that battles with the gripes of the law daily, genuinely laughing. if you told yourself — a year ago, that today you would be riding a horse and laughing with one of the most wanted outlaws, you would've had an aneurysm. you gripped the edge of the saddle, it didn't ease the nerves that bubbled up in your belly.
"reckon it'll be an entertaining way to spend my day." he replied, grin big.
you opened your mouth to speak and he quietly shushed you. he gestured to the clearing up ahead, where a couple of wild horses grazed peacefully in the valley. their manes danced with the grass in the wind, tails flicking at the bugs. when boadicea came to a stop, he quietly hopped off of her, grabbing your waist and lifting you down before you could blink. a hand rested lightly at the dip of your back as he guided you to get a closer look.
"we gotta be real quiet. got it?" he whispered low and you definitely didn't get it.
it was impossible to think.
the warmth of his hands burned something unknown on your skin, sending sparks all over and a blush to your face. his voice was low and rough in your ear. you gulped. a horse in the clearing afar raised its head and peered at your direction, bowing to eat the foliage below once again. you followed suite in returning to what you were doing before you let your mind get the better of you.
you nodded, quietly clearing your throat. "yeah, got it." glancing at him sideways, you added, "what next?"
as if on cue, the warmth was gone and he lazily tossed boadicea's reins on part of a tree — she was a real good horse, never wandering far. he grabbed the lasso off the saddle, hand on the small of your back as he led you towards the horses, coming to a quiet halt when you were nearing them. the grass paused its waving in the wind, watching the two of you in anticipation.
quiet as a field mouse, "i'm assumin' you don't know how to use this." he continued with a hint of a smirk before even letting you finish. "i got it. which one you want?"
the sun continued its relentless dancing against your face, eyes wide when he gestured to the horses across the valley. he watched your gaze lock on a dapple grey mare in the distance. you answered after a hum of thought, "i like her."
he nodded, hand abandoning the dip in your back. you watched, awestruck, as he stalked forward with a hunters grace — the rope firm in one of his hands. the horses looked at him and instinctively began huffing, taking a couple steps back and staring straight into his soul. his stride didn't so much as budge when the hundreds of pounds of muscle in front of him began threatening him.
in the blink of an eye, his lasso was up above his head and snapped around the neck of your pick of the bunch. her herd abandoned their spots at her side, neighing apologies and angry snorts as they kicked up the terrain. the mare's beautiful grey coat shined in the sun, but you couldn't tear your eyes off of arthur's figure. he held fast, yanking back on the rope as the two did their dangerous dance of stubbornness. boots dug into the dirt.
he was admirable at the very least, and his voice came out in that rare gentle tone you weren't used to, still full of grit, as he hushed the horse, "shhh, you're alright, girl."
this went on for minutes. you nearly passed out from holding your breath every time you thought arthur would've gotten pulled into the dirt. right when you were ready for him to wave a little white flag, unbelievably, the horse began quieting down and giving up on her futile attempts of escape. like a true predator, he stalked forward, shushing all the while and calming the beast. when she let him touch her coat, you were floored.
he peered at you for a moment, not wanting to take his eyes off the freshly tamed horse for too long. a small smile appeared on his face when he noticed your wide eyes and parted mouth. you quickly blinked off the evident awe in your expression, and hesitantly stepped forward when he glanced at you again.
"she.. ain't gonna bite me, right?" you whispered, flinching when she huffed. he laughed.
"nah, not unless you let her. wouldn't go sittin' on her now 'less you're lookin' to end up in the dirt." he assured you, one hand lax on the rope around her neck.
he watched with a big grin as you slowly stepped forward, your big eyes never going far from the creature. the blue of his irises swirled with something sweet as they lingered on your approaching figure. when you got as far away as you could be while still being able to touch her, you gathered up your courage. you couldn't let yourself look like a fool in front of a man who just wrestled with a wild animal on your behalf. a breath you didn't even know you were holding exhaled when your hand safely met the hair on her neck. the mares skin was hot, trembling, alive beneath your palm. the world was just breath and heartbeat for a pause.
"good girl," he whispered — low, rough and tender — and it went straight through you.
"wasn't that bad, was it?" he asked.
you smiled faintly, hoping the heat you felt rise to your face wasn't too obvious on the surface. you traced the mares mane idly. "no.. not bad at all."
the horse made a noise of approval under your gentle touch, her intelligent eyes making you out the same way you were to her. you looked up to find him watching you too — that quiet pride in his eyes. the two of you stared for a moment, the comfortable silence filled only with the breathing of the mare and distant caws of birds. the valley continued on living around you, yet it felt like things had stopped and you were encapsulated in this moment.
the wind carried a breeze that smelt of tall grass and something you couldn't quite name, but you wished you could bottle it and keep it with you for a while. you looked at the finally calm horse and back at him, a certain softness in your voice.
Say It With Your Hands, Not Your Eyes (A. Morgan x deaf! Wife! Reader)
Summary: Protective husband activate.
HAPPY NEW YEAR GUYS! IT'S BEEN A LOONGG TINE SINCE I START MY TUMBLR ACCOUNT AND THANK YOU FOR SUPPORTING ME AND MY WORKS! 😖✨✨✨✨
Warning: mind you, this series is one shot series so anything that i posted about this series not exactly like continuously for previous fic (angst one) it could be from before reader pregnant or accident, it could be a future of those two. Arthur is jealous, fluff, protective husband, married couple. No angst, love,
As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
It was mid-morning at the café — just busy enough to keep things lively, not chaotic. The soft hum of conversation, clinking mugs, and the hiss of the espresso machine filled the space. You moved through the floor confidently, a dish towel tucked into your apron and your tablet in hand as you took orders.
Arthur had the day off. For once.
He sat in his usual spot — back corner booth, facing the room like any good officer would. He was in plain clothes today, flannel rolled up at the sleeves, boots muddy from the yard. A steaming mug of black coffee sat in front of him, untouched, because his eyes weren’t on the cup.
They were on you.
You didn’t see it at first — you were too focused on cleaning off the chalkboard menu behind the counter — but Arthur did. A customer, maybe early thirties, slick haircut, clean dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up like he wanted everyone to know he owned a gym membership.
He was leaning on the counter, smiling.
At you.
Arthur squinted.
The man tapped the counter to get your attention and handed you his number written on a napkin. Then he started signing.
Not well, mind you. It was awkward, slow, and clearly something he'd picked up from Google Translate or a TikTok video. But he was trying.
Arthur leaned forward now, jaw tightening, a low grunt rumbling in his chest.
You turned, blinking at the guy with a polite but confused smile. He was fingerspelling something terribly. You caught “C-U-T-E” and… something that maybe was “L-A-T-T-E”?
You chuckled softly, signed back: “Thank you. I’m married.”
The guy paused, surprised.
Arthur stood up.
Boots thumped.
The guy didn’t notice right away. Arthur walked up slowly, casual, like he had all the time in the world to ruin this man’s day. He stopped right beside the guy, arms folded, looming like a mountain with a badge tucked somewhere under that flannel.
“Somethin’ wrong with your eyes, fella?” Arthur asked in a deep voice that made the café go quiet.
The man startled and turned. “Uh—no. Just… saying hi. Friendly compliment.”
Arthur gave him a look. The kind of look that made suspects confess things they hadn’t even done.
“She’s deaf. Not blind,” Arthur muttered. “She saw you leanin’. She didn’t need to hear how much of an ass you were bein’.”
The man mumbled something about finishing his drink to go, then quickly walked off.
You stood behind the counter, shaking your head, signing:
“Arthur Morgan. You jealous?”
Arthur shrugged, still frowning as he watched the man leave.
“Don’t like people thinkin’ they can just… slide in all friendly-like.”
You giggled, walked over, and tugged gently on his flannel sleeve to make him look at you.
“He was bad at signing anyway. You’re still my favorite student.”
That made his scowl twitch upward. Just a little.
Then you leaned up and signed directly into his chest:
“Next time, just come kiss me. That usually scares them off faster.”
Arthur snorted and muttered, “Damn right it does.”
Then — without a care in the world — he bent down and kissed you right there behind the counter. Just once. Just enough.
The café patrons clapped.
Arthur groaned. “Great. Now I’m part of the show.”
summary: arthur being a sweet baby daddy, even if you aren't as optimistic
wc: 2k
tw: accidental/unwanted pregnancy
all pics taken from pinterest
based on this request
a/n: yeeeehaw finally back from my break
Getting pregnant wasn’t ever something you planned nor wanted to happen. Hooking up with Arthur, you were aware of the possible consequences. Both of you were, but the consequences aren’t something you thought about during the heat of the moment. And now you were living with them. Suffering through them.
Meanwhile Arthur didn’t seem so upset.You supposed you were somewhat lucky he was the one that got you pregnant, he wasn’t running off or pretending it wasn’t happening. But his optimism was starting to piss you off. From the day you had told him, he’s been attentive, caring, and a little happier. He wasn’t that grumpy guy the gang had known anymore. Now, he had a reason to be happy, perhaps even to live.
“Brought you somethin’.”
Arthur’s voice cut through the spiraling thoughts in your head as you sat alone by the fire. No bottle nor a cigarette in your hand, as it would’ve usually been. Now you had to be careful.
You looked at Arthur as he sat down beside you on the log. “What’s that?” You muttered as he handed you a small brown paper package.
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Open it and see.”
You frowned, but curiosity got the best of you and your fingers ripped the paper. Inside, there was a blanket. A new one, not stolen. It was neatly folded, soft, and warm. For the baby.
Your stomach twisted. The moment your fingers brushed over the fabric, it all felt even more real. As if it hadn’t already been real enough. And this wasn’t even the first thing Arthur had bought. If things were different, maybe you’d be happy. If you were different. But you weren’t. You didn’t want any of this.
“You keep buying all these things,” you said.
Arthur replied as if that was the most obvious thing. “Somebody has to think ahead.”
“And that somebody is you?”
“Well, I’m the father.”
You scoffed and shoved the blanket back at him. “Yeah, well, I don’t want it.”
“Ain’t for you,” he shot back, his tone softening when he realized he shouldn’t have snapped back so harshly, “it’s for the baby.”
You stood up. It’s been baby this and baby that for the past few months. No wonder it was starting to get on your nerves. “I can’t wait until this,” you gestured at your stomach, “is finally over so I can go get shitfaced.”
Arthur didn’t smirk, knowing it wasn’t a joke. He didn’t even reply, not having the words. He tried, he really tried to help you warm up to the idea. There wasn’t much he could do. He had searched for solutions to make your problem disappear. Doctors had the skills and tools to help you out, but the problem was it wasn’t legal. Doctors were scared of helping ordinary people in that matter, let alone outlaws wanted in many states with bounties bigger than the money you’ve ever made.
“I just… I hate this, Arthur,” you admitted finally, “I hate feeling slow. Weak. I hate the way y’all look at me like I ain’t me no more.”
Arthur stood up as well. Looking down at your face, he saw how glassy your eyes were. You didn’t want to cry, you were fighting it. “Ain’t nobody thinks you’re weak,” Arthur tried to assure you.
You scoffed. “Oh, please, don’t tell me you don’t see it. The way the gang treats me like I’m fragile. Like I ain’t spent the last few years robbing and shooting and killing right beside y’all.”
“Difference is, now you don’t live just for yourself.”
Arthur paused, and so did you. An uncomfortable silence settled between the two of you. The kind of silence that made the night around you feel overwhelming. You wished you could run, run away from all your problems.
Arthur continued, “I know this ain’t what you wanted. I know you’re scared—”
“I ain’t scared.”
But you knew he was right. You were scared, you had no idea how to be a mother. This had never been in the cards for you. You were an outlaw first, a woman second. And now, you were going to be a mother first.
Arthur let out a breath slowly. “Ain’t a crime to be scared,” he said, “hell, I’m scared too. But we can deal with this, you have me. Me and everyone else in this gang.”
“I don’t know how to do this, Arthur,” you muttered, your voice low.“I don’t wanna do this. I ain’t no mother material, and you ain’t exactly cut out to be a father either.”
Well, that hurt, but you had no idea about his past, about Isaac. The day Isaac and Eliza died, Arthur promised to himself that if he gets another chance, he’ll do better. And maybe you were his another chance.
“I tried,” Arthur sat back down on the log, his elbows on his knees as he stared into the dying fire, “tried to find someone, a doc, a midwife, someone who could help you. Ain’t no one who’d do it, not for us. Not for you. They’re scared to do it for normal folk, we can’t even dream of it.”
You opened your mouth to say something, but then closed it without a word. You swallowed, despite your mouth being suddenly dry. There really was no way out.
You sat down next to Arthur, closer than ever, so close your legs touched. The thing that really got to you was that he had tried. That he had gone looking, knowing well that helping you meant getting rid of something he clearly wanted to keep. Something that was important to him.
“Why?” You asked suddenly.
Arthur turned to look at you. “Why what?”
“Why did you try to help me?”
“Cause I care about you.”
Your throat tightened, and you hated it. You weren’t supposed to cry. Not over this. Not over him.
He continued. “I ain’t gonna pretend I don’t want this kid. I do. But I ain’t the one who’s gotta carry the burden, and I sure as hell ain’t the one who’s gotta go through all this. You are.”
You sniffed and looked away. “Well, ain’t no fixing it now, I guess.”
“No,” the man nodded slowly.
There was silence again, but now just a bit more comfortable. You could hear the soft hum of the night, a distant owl, the fire crackling in front of you, the wind dancing with the leaves. Maybe this wasn’t going to be that bad.
“Now,” Arthur gave your knee a light squeeze as he pushed himself to his feet, “you eaten yet?”
You rolled your eyes. “Of course I have. That thing makes me eat everything in sight.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow at you, his gaze telling you he didn’t exactly believe your words.
You huffed. “Okay. I haven’t.”
“That’s what I thought. Sit here for a moment.”
He turned around to bring you something to eat. Something he got in town, something that wasn’t Pearson’s stew.
And you weren’t going anywhere. You hadn’t moved from your place at the fire for the past few hours. That was how most of your days looked lately. From time to time, someone else would join you, but the more pregnant you were, the more snappy you were. At some point it became easier to leave you alone.
“Eat,” Arthur ordered as he gave you some bread, cheese, and an apple. Then, he reached into his satchel to take out a chocolate bar.
It was a lovely gesture. The food wasn’t some fancy dinner, but not like you expected anything fancy. Fancy isn’t a thing when it comes to any aspect of the outlaw life. The food was simple, but better than whatever was floating in Pearson’s stew.
“Thank you.”
You bit into the bread first, interchangeably taking bites of the cheese. Then, not having fully swallowed the cheese yet, you opened the chocolate and took a few bites. And later on you finished it off with the apple.
You didn’t deserve that kind of understanding. Arthur had wanted this baby. He was probably excited, dreaming about a future you couldn’t bring yourself to imagine. Even if he himself would deny it, you knew he deserved better.
Out of a sudden, you asked, “Why ain’t you mad at me?”
Arthur frowned. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because I don’t want this, and you do. I’ve been a pain in the ass to everyone, you included.”
“You have every right to be like this. Your body isn’t yours anymore. I’d be mad as hell if I were in your shoes.”
Arthur was so understanding it made you nauseous. You wanted to hit him and cuddle into him at the same time.
Then, you felt something. As you threw the apple core into the fire, you felt a weird sensation in your belly. Some shifting, pressing from the inside. Then, a sharp kick.
“What the hell?” You hissed, looking down at the curve of your belly.
Arthur straightened immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“It just kicked me,” your hands went to your stomach, fingers pressing against the spot, feeling the kick again. “You want me to throw you a real punch, little bastard?”
You heard Arthur laugh. His laughter was genuine, probably for the first time ever.
“You wouldn’t be laughing if a baby was trying to kick its way out of your guts, Arthur.” You groaned, rubbing a hand over your belly. Another kick made you jolt slightly. It wasn’t something you were used to, the baby didn’t kick before. “Keep that up and I’ll— ouch!”
Arthur’s laughter died down, and now he was just smiling as he leaned in. He hesitated before saying, “Lemme feel.”
You looked at him with disbelief. “What?”
“The baby. Lemme feel the kicks.”
You sighed, eyeing him for a moment before grabbing his wrist and placing his hand on your belly. His touch was warm, but soft. When you let go of his wrist, his hand practically hovered millimeters above your skin as if he were scared of pressing too hard.
For a second, there was nothing. You were about to tell him to forget it when another kick landed right against his hand. Arthur stilled completely. You could see his face firstly flash with a surprise, which soon switched into a smile. He looked damn near mesmerized.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, eyes focused on where his hand rested.
You could see it in his face, how much this meant to him. It was strange, seeing Arthur Morgan like that. He looked younger somehow, hopeful in a way you hadn’t seen the whole time you knew him.
You scoffed, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat. “Told you. Little shit’s got an attitude already.”
Arthur grinned. “Must take after you.”
You looked at the man as he kept his attention on your stomach. Nobody was arguing, nobody was scheming, nobody was running from the law. Just the two of you sitting there, Arthur’s palm resting against your stomach, feeling the proof of the thing that had turned your whole damn world upside down.
After a while, he finally broke the silence. “You ever think maybe this don’t gotta be as bad as you think?”
You didn’t answer right away, because, yeah, you had thought about it. Not in a hopeful way, not in the way Arthur had, but in a tired, resigned sort of way. You weren’t getting rid of it. You weren’t running from it. Whether you liked it or not, this was happening.
Then, suddenly, all you said was, “We can’t let the baby become like us.” And your voice finally carried a softness that wasn’t there for the past few months.
Arthur smiled, finally pulling his hand away. “We won’t.”
Note: was bored and thought this up, it’s inspired by Yellowstone bc I just love all the moments in that show catered around cattle ranching and setting up camp to watch over them (it’s the life I want 😫)
Warnings: kinda modern au, reader and Arthur have children, fluff, kids have an age gap (early teens, youngest is 4)
Enjoy xoxo
Summer time on a cattle ranch had to be one of the busiest times of the year with hundreds of heads needing to be watched, calves still clinging to their mother’s sides, and predators on the move. The cowboys would move the herd to different pastures during the year wherever better grass was growing, were they would be safest.
They had set up a camp to where they were going to let the cattle rest for a few days before settling them into another pasture. It was June, getting close to July and the Montana weather was not kind.
The sun had been beating down on you all day, your shirt and jeans clinging to you uncomfortably, and your youngest son had been grumpy all day. In your younger days, before you had popped out three children, you’d be the one rounding up cattle until the sun came down.
But now, you had been working around the camp. Helping fix tents, make coffee, cook breakfast in the morning, chase your youngest around while your other two were out with their father learning how to be cowboys and cowgirls.
Now that the sun had set, starting to cast a blue hue across the camp as it went down below the mountains, Arthur had finally ridden back into camp with the lowing of cattle following the clomp of horse hooves.
Clad in his chaps, a wild rag hanging around his neck, and his gloves in one hand he made his way over to you. Your hair was a frizzy mess, the top buttons of your shirt undone, and you had flour wiped on your thighs as you stood over the fire poking at a cast iron skillet full of biscuits.
“How much longer until they’re done, mama?” Your youngest son, Spencer, whined at you. You sighed, raising your brows at him as you heavily sat back on a log that surrounded the fire. “Five more minutes, son.” You huffed out, sending him a little smile as you watched him stomp his little booted feet and storm off to go pour on the edge of camp.
Arthur came over, pressing a kiss to your temple before sitting down next to you. “Hi sweetheart.” He murmured as his large hand came and caressed your flour covered thigh. You gave him a long look, brows quirked up. “Hello dearest.” You greeted back with some exasperation.
Arthur chuckled, looking out to see his son pouting in the dirt. His little arms were crossed as he sat on the ground, eyes scanning over the black angus cattle. “He’s been dyin’ for these fuckin’ things for nearly two hours.” You shake your head as you stand to check on the biscuits again.
“Darlin’ that boy will eat anything you put on his plate.” Arthur said, watching as you flipped them around before sitting back down. “I know.. I know, but,” you hummed and leaned into his side.
“But then I can’t watch him eat em.” You turned your head, resting your chin on Arthur’s strong shoulder. “Can’t watch him eat em hmm?” Arthur smiled something small, glancing between you and the boy that was his spitting image. “Yeah..” you uttered, shifting your head to lay it in the crook of your husband’s neck.
His big hand came up to rub up and down your back while your hand rested on top of his thigh. Your other two came over, chaps still on and a plate of food in their hands. Your oldest, Issac, already had a biscuit from the first batch you made shoved into his mouth. Your daughter, Dakota, was yammering on about something to Hosea who followed behind them.
You and Arthur watched as Spencer stood, toddling back over to you with a little grump in his expression. He went to his dad, wrapping his arms around his neck and clinging to him. “You don’t want steak like everyone else is havin’, son?” Arthur asked Spencer as he hugged him closer. The boy just shook his head, humming his disagreement.
You stood, smiling softly as you watched the father and son. You slid on an oven mitt to take off the skillet lid and finally the biscuits were done. Nice and brown on top and fluffy. “Are they done?” Spencer squirmed out of Arthur’s hold to peer over your shoulder as you scooped the biscuits out.
“Yeah, son. They’re done.” You handed off a plate of fresh biscuits and he went off on his way. He was still grumpy, needing to eat, and went and sat on the edge of camp again. Even though his back was turned, you still smiled softly at your youngest as he blew on his food before eating it.
“You spoil him rotten.” Arthur said in a low tone in your ear. His arm came up and wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you into him to he could press a kiss against your cheek. You turned your head and caught his lips, smiling as you did. “He’s my baby, I have to.” You grinned.
“You know,” Hosea spoke up as he watched your boy go back to his pouting spot to eat. “Spencer reminds me of Arthur when he was younger.”
John chuckled quietly from where he sat with Abigail, their daughter, and Jack. “Don’t be laughing too hard over there, John,” Dutch smirked as he came and sat by the fire as well. “If we’re thinking of the same memory I recall you doing the exact same thing Spencer’s doing.”
“Bessie would spend hours over the fire cooking these same biscuits.” Hosea gazed upwards briefly before focusing back on the young boy that had both hands full of half eaten biscuits. He chuckled softly then, “lord she’d get so mad at them when they’d beg her for more.”
You laughed softly and leaned into Arthur more as the others of the camp chuckled while listening to the story. “They were really good.” Arthur shrugged, huffing out a small laugh. You nudged his chest with your shoulder teasingly, “and mine aren’t?”
“They clearly are, sweetheart if our son is begging for a whole skillet to polish off by himself.” The two of you looked back over to him, the skillet only having a few more left. “Awh,” Sadie tisked from across the fire. “Don’t it make you wanna have more?” She smiled.
“Think our baby makin’ days are done.” You scrunched one side of your face. Your two teens gave you a sideways glance, making faces as they did. “Well they don’t gotta be..” Arthur pulled you closer, he wouldn’t mind having another baby.
“Okay,” Issac and Dakota shot up from their seats. “Ew. Goodbye.” They quickly went off as the camp laughed. You and Arthur laughed, leaning into one another before everyone settled down again. You sighed softly as you seen Spencer curled up on his side in the grass.
“I’ll get him.” Arthur said as the two of you stood up. You both said a quick goodnight ti everyone before making your way over to your son who was sleeping on the ground next to the cast iron skillet. It had one more biscuit inside, a small bite taken out of it. You giggled as you picked it up, eating what was left as you put the pan away.
Arthur carried Spencer to your shared tent, laying in down in the mess of blankets before covering him up. “I love you, cowboy.” You whispered. Your hand came up and removed his cowboy hat from his head before kissing him.
“I love you too, sweetheart.” He whispered against your lips, pulling you in closer by your hips. “After all this is over,” he muttered, still kissing you. “If you want another baby,” he pressed a long kiss to your mouth. “Then I’ll give that to ya.” He pulled back, watching your eyes gleam in the darkness of the tent.
“I think our family’s perfect just the way it is, Arthur.” You ran your knuckles gently over his cheek, against the scruff growing on his jaw. He nodded, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. “I think so too.”
“But,” you looked up and smirked. “If it happens, I won’t be too discouraged either.” You gazed up at him, a teasing tone leaving you. He chuckled and caught your mouth for one more kiss.
That night the both of you fell asleep with your youngest curled up between you. His little head resting on your chest, Arthur’s muscular arm wrapped around you and your son to tug you a little closer. You watched Spencer and Arthur for a little while before falling asleep yourself, taking in the perfect image even in the darkness of the tent.
Cattle drives like this were your favorite time of the year, even if you had to spend hours baking those darn biscuits.
heeeey I just want a little fluff of Arthur Morgan x wife!reader who is very merciful and empathetic so feels very bad for Kieran and of how her friends and husband treat him. So, as the respected woman that she is, tries to get the things better for him, starting with Arthur and telling him to help her, becoming like mama and papa.
You can change any if this if you want but all i need is my man being a paternal figure alongside his woman 💔
thank you for the request! i'm so so sorry this took me so long, i wanted to wait until i got to this part in my playthrough again! i loveee kieran and always hated the way he was treated by the gang :( i hope you like my take on your story, i had fun writing this!
Taking the reins
plot summary: reader teaching arthur a lesson in empathy
warnings: canon typical violence, cursing, argument between arthur & reader
female!reader, established relationship, domestic!arthur (medium-high honor)
wc: 1.7k
It was a late afternoon in the Heartlands, dark shadows cast onto the ground by the rocky peaks. A cool breeze blew through the valley, making you shiver in your thin coat. You were relieved to finally see familiar terrain again after being gone for over a week. As the forest near Valentine grew closer when you rode through the Twin Stack Pass, you found yourself becoming giddy, almost nervous.
It was silly, really - to still feel like a teenager in love after all these years of being married to your husband. But no one could blame you, you thought; not everyone had the privilege of being married to Arthur Morgan. Though the man in question might disagree with you - a 5000$ bounty on your lover's head was not for the faint of heart - you made it your mission in life to change his perception of himself.
By the time you arrived at Horseshoe Overlook, the smell of horses and stew in your nose and the sound of laughter in your ear, you were consumed by thoughts of him. If you only knew the chaos that lay ahead of you.
You had only just dismounted your mare when you heard commotion at the backcorner of the camp; incoherent shouting, laughter, Arthur's voice right in the middle of it, as usual. Panic struck you as hurried towards the source of the noise, fearing the worst. A thousand questions ran through your head as you ignored your companion's greetings - Arthur, Bill, and Dutch notably missing.
You stopped in your tracks in horror at the scene ahead of you: the young man the gang had captured back in Colter, tied to a tree with his pants by his ankles, screaming for his life. Bill Williamson, laughing like a maniac while walking towards him in large strides and threateningly wielding a pair of hot tongs. Dutch cheering him on. Anfd, worst of all, Arthur - your Arthur - stood beside the poor man, doing nothing in his power to help him.
You were seething at the sight. O'Driscoll or not, the treatment he was currently receiving was in no way better than what you were used to from Colm and his men. Besides, the man, Kieran was his name, had been nothing but kind to everyone in camp despite the horrible hand he had been dealt.
You had spoken to Arthur about this before you left to scout ahead, and, at his dismissive handwave, naively thought that the situation would be resolved by the time you got back. You felt like a fool.
""Okay! Okay! Listen. I know where O’Driscoll’s holed up… and you’re right… he don’t like you… any more than you like him. He’s at Six Point Cabin." Kieran's words snapped you back to the scene ahead, and you found yourself disgusted at Bill's disappointed look. Anxiously, you waited for the other men to speak up after the prisoner had promised, or rather pleaded, to take them there.
"Okay then, partner. Why don’t you take a few of us up there… right now."
You couldn't believe Arthur's words. He had been so preoccupied with his own ego and Dutch's nemesis that he wasn't even aware of your return. You decided it stayed that way until you could have a proper conversation with him, more level-headed on either side. You were ready to unleash hell on him if push came to shove, but his horse disappearing into the woods never failed to leave a heavy feeling in your heart.
Arthur was a capable man, and anyone could vouch for you saying this, but a bullet was still a bullet, no matter whose heart it struck.
You began to grow worried after the camp had gone quiet. You were done with your chores and your hello's, and empty hands led to crowded minds. Thoughts of Arthur not returning home to you, regrets of letting him leave due to your anger were beginning to eat at you.
Too busy with your thoughts, you hadn't noticed the gallopping of hooves towards the camp, or the voices, or the heavy boots stepping towards your tent.
Arthur looked about equally as shocked as you when he opened the canvas flaps to find you, in nothing but your chemise, nervously chewing on your nails and staring at him like an intruder.
"You- You're back?" he found his voice first, accompanied by an incredulous tone.
Your husband stepped towards you, taking you into his arms. You let him. The scent of gunpowder and wet grass entered your nose, reminding you of the reason your return was unbeknownst to him.
"I-...yeah. I got back this evenin'. Reckon you would've known sooner, if you hadn't been so busy torturing that poor feller." You knew it was harsh for these to be your first words upon your reunion, but so was his behaviour towards Kieran.
"Did you kill him? Cut off his balls, like the big, tough man that you are?" You freed yourself from his arms now, turning to look up at him with narrowed eyes.
"You should be ashamed of yourselves. All of you." you continued speaking your mind, finally freeing the words that had been circling in your head all night.
Arthur felt guilt and shame creep into his conscience. He had never meant for you to witness the interrogation.
Would he have acted differently, had he known that you were watching?
Yes, definitely. The thought made him want to sink even deeper into the hole he had dug himself in.
"He saved my life today" he admitted, sheepishly. "Wouldn't be standin' here right now if it weren't for him."
He saw the hard gaze in your eyes soften in the dim light, and decided to continue.
"I took him back here. Reckon he deserves a chance here with us, after all we 'done to him." He realised his mistakes of the past as he was speaking, and felt a weight lift off his shoulders at his confession. He went on.
"Don't even know why I was bein' this way. Guess I jus' start actin' all crazy when you ain't around. I missed ya like hell. You make me a better man, I notice that most when you ain't by my side."
You felt your anger cease at his words. The man you decided to spend the rest of your life with, proving your decision to be the right one once again. You stepped towards him again, hugging him tightly. You felt him let out a relieved sigh at the feeling of your body on his, and he stroked slow circles on your back.
"I missed you. Every day."
"Me too, Darlin'." the deep, familiar rumble of his voice made you sink even further into his embrace and you felt the weight of the past week being eased off your shoulders.
"I want you to apologise to him. First thing tomorrow. And we'll sit with him at every meal." You glanced up to him with affection, but the stern tone of your voice left no room for discussion. Not that Arthur felt the need to do so, anyways. Whatever his Lady wanted, she got.
"Whatever you say, Mrs. Morgan. I'm at your mercy."
You giggled at his worshipping, and dragged him to your shared bedroll.
"You hit your head at six point cabin?" Your teasing words put a smile on his face and he joined you, experiencing his first restful sleep in a week.
The next morning, Arthur had vowed himself to keep his promise despite waking up before you. He decided to let you sleep and made his way over to Kieran with two cups of coffee. The sight of the poor man alone, his own fireplace and no tent, sent a pang of guilt to his heart. He shook it off as best he could and raised one of the cups in greeting, earning him confused looks by Kieran and the other camp members awake to witness it.
"Here ya go." he awkwardy offered the drink to the seated man, who accepted it in an equally awkard manner.
"What are you doing? You here to threaten me again? I already told you, I ain't-"
"Easy there." Arthur interrupted his anxious mumbling. "I-uh-, I wanted to say thank you. Y'know. For savin' my life yesterday." he scratched his neck, trying to find words. "I realised I never did, not properly at least."
He sat down next to him and continued. "It weren't right of me, the way I treated you. For that, I apologize."
Kieran looked at him with big eyes, hardly believing what he was hearing. Arthur proceeded his ramblings.
"My lady nearly ripped my head off when I got home yesterday. But I reckon she's real grateful for ya too, I think." His attempt at a joke seemed to actually lighten the mood.
"Brought you some coffee, thought ya might want some." The man was no longer looking at Arthur, however, but rather something behind him.
"What's this I hear about me rippin' off your head?"
Arthur felt his ears turn pink at the sound of your voice, his panicked look mirroring Kieran's. You gave the two men an ammused glance before sitting down next to them.
"I'm sorry, M'lady." Arthur almost choked on his coffee. "Not like I ain't deserve it, though."
"At least you get it now, you fool."
Your eyes shifted on Kieran, who was curiously eyeing the banter between the pair of you. You gave him your kindest smile and offered him some bread.
"It ain't that good, but it's somethin'."
"Thank you, ma'am." He still seemed starstruck at the scene. Wondering wether he was still dreaming.
"How 'bout we get you a tent next?"
The smile on his face warmed both Arthur's and your heart. He put his arm around your waist and pulled you closer. You melted into him and took his hand, ringed fingers touching.
Your husband. Through sickness and through health, for better and for worse.
Arthur's blood froze in his veins. His muscles tensed in a way that felt numb. One problem after the next. That seemed to be a pattern here.
But his annoyance couldn't be something to bother with. Not when your worried expression tore at him. His own son somewhere out there.
As he steps closer, Dutch pushes through the gang to him. "Arthur, have you seen him? Have you seen the boy?"
You immediately bolt to Arthur, his arm naturally wrapping around your back as you cry into his chest. "Easy, sweetheart," he whispers low to you, his gaze set on the men in front of him. "I haven't. My boy is missing?"
Your forehead rests on Arthur's vest as you try to breathe. "Where is my son?" You turn to look over your shoulder with the scorn of a hurt mother. "Where is my son, Dutch Van Der Linde?!"
Dutch steadies himself, his posture going from concerned to confident. Whether to convince you or himself, he's not sure. "We will find him, we will bring him back to you and we will kill any fool that had the temerity to touch one hair on that boy's head!" He rests a hand on your shoulder. "You have my word."
As the men rush to grab their guns, Arthur rubs a hand through your hair. "I'm just as worried as you, darling. But I gotta go with 'em to get him back. Alright? You gotta stay put, here." When he doesn't get a response, he cups your cheeks, tilting your face up to look at him. "I promise you, sweet girl. I won't come back to you until I have him in my arms."
"Our boy, Arthur," you sniffle.
The combination of fear and anger in Arthur somehow keeps him calm. "I know. I know, darling. I know." He pushes a piece of your hair back. "I want him back as much as you. I will be back. And I will have our son."
You relent, nodding as a new sob broke out.
He pulled you close, leaving a heavy kiss to the top of your head before stepping away with the others.
…
Arthur, to you, seemed a good man. Kind and considerate of you. Honest and fair around others. Loyal, perhaps to a fault.
That wasn't the Arthur the others saw.
Low honor. An outlaw that lived behind a mask, killing anything that stood between him and what he wanted: money, clothes, provisions.
And now, his son.
Going in, Dutch knew Arthur would be ruthless. He was a ruthless enforcer anyway. But even Dutch knew this time Arthur couldn't be contained to his usual leash.
Not did Dutch really want him to be.
The others were angry, of course. But Arthur? Breathing so low, his eyes trained on that Braithwaite Manor, so stark you'd think he wasn't alive.
A dead man walking.
"WHERE IS THE BOY?"
He would get him. And he would get back to you.
And anyone who tried to destroy his only peace would easily find the end of the barrel of his gun.
Breaking through doors, shooting men without consideration.
Arthur Morgan was every bit the criminal he was ever thought to be.
…
When he returned empty handed, you went into a hysteria. Poor Karen that had been trying to console you knew even she was no match for this. So, when Arthur neared you with his arms out, jaw set tight, Karen handed you over.
"You p-You promised~" you blubber, half incoherent. You beat on his chest. And he let you, holding you close. He was mad enough at himself that he felt deserving of it.
But as your tears slowed, only due to dehydration, that's when he finally countered. He brushed your hair to one side, tipping his head so he could whisper in your ear on the other side. "What we're gonna do," he spoke lowly. "Is we're gonna clean you up and get you to bed."
You began to move, prompting his grip to tighten. "Ah, I'm not done." When you stilled, he loosened again. "Good girl. Now, in the morning? We're gonna take care of you and me. Because that's all we can do. After that? I'll continue where I left off, but I can't do it a moment before."
He grips your jaw and forces your head up to make sure you understand him fully. "Because I can't do this on my own, you understand? You gotta care for yourself so I can focus. Can you do that, sweetheart?"
When you nod, he leans in. "Do you?"
"Y-Yes, Arthur," you hiccup, still trying to catch your breath.
"Sure." He lightens his grip, moving to spin you around and guide you out to your shared tent. "Let's get you settled."
You don't see the way he eyes Dutch before doing so.
…
The next morning, you've chosen to agree with Arthur. You pulled yourself together, dressed and decent. You ate and can even hold small dialogue.
Arthur left you with Charles, making him swear to keep you close; if any man in camp was truthworthy with something so precious, it was Charles.
Gathered around the table with a few of the other men— John, Hosea, and Dutch— the four discussed their next move.
"I've never been more proud of you, Arthur, than this moment here," Dutch says.
"Well, if I don't get my son back, I—" He pauses, running a hand over the scruff of his beard. "I can't do this, Dutch." Arthur didn't blink anymore at doing unspeakable things to others. But to have something done to his boy? He didn't want to see what might be unleashed.
"I know, but listen to me. Logically, the boy is fine. Took him to scare us, is all."
"But can you blame me? Stirring up all this trouble, killing all those people? For nothing."
"Not nothing," Dutch counters. "For living. Trust me. When w—"
"Dutch," Lenny's voice echoes through the clearing. "We got a problem."
"Ah, gentlemen. Mr. Van der Linde. Mr. Mathews. Good day to you, sirs. Agent Milton Pinkerton. Detective Agency."
Arthur felt compelled to react, stepping towards the lawman with his chest puffed out.
"Ah, Mr. Morgan."
…
Charles had taken you down the river. To fish, read, just keep your mind off things. Arthur had taught you to fish fairly well before, but Charles was much better at explaining things than your sweet Arthur.
A silence set in as you two waited.
"How did you meet Arthur?"
You blink a few times before it registers. "What?"
"Arthur. How did you meet him?" He adjusts his line. "I don't think I've ever heard the story."
"Oh." It takes everything in you to remember; your brain feels overstimulated with every conversation right now. "Just… well. It's a long story, Charles."
He smiles softly. "We have time."
You hum before deciding to go for it. "I was… promise not to laugh?"
His smile falls as concern sweeps over. "Of course. I would never mock you."
"I was a bounty hunter for a while."
The pieces started to click in Charles' head. "And Arthur was your bounty at some point?"
You sigh. "Yeah. Some bounty hunter, huh?"
He laughs lightly. "Seems like you caught him enough."
For the first time in 24 hours, you smile. "Didn't think of it that way."
"Arthur adores you. I hope you know that." When silence falls for a moment, he speaks again. "I'm sorry about your son."
Like that, the small bit of happiness you were feeling was gone. "Thanks, I guess."
"No mother deserves to go through that. But he'll get your son back. That's the thing about Arthur: once his mind is set, it can't be undone."
Your fingers rub over the ridges of the fishing pole, trying to give yourself something to do.
"Just give him time. Arthur Morgan doesn't fail."
…
Towards the end of the day, the two of you return to chaos in the camp. Your things are packed away, the tents being taken apart, the crates of belongings in the wagons.
"Ah, Mrs. Morgan," Hosea greets. "We're moving camp. Arthur and John went out to ensure a place for us a ways out from here."
"What? Why? Why would we m—"
"The law is after us. Dutch mostly. But we're not going to be sitting ducks for the crows to pick off of one by one. We're moving over by Saint Denis."
Your head perks up at that name.
Hosea smiles gently. "That's right. We'll get your boy back. Now, go help Mary-Beth finish and we'll get moving."
With more pep in your step, it takes no time.
…
You're quick to rush to Arthur when the wagon comes to a stop. He's standing on the porch of the large abandoned estate. He catches you with ease, whispering questions to make sure you've been taking care of yourself.
And the moment he knows you're safe here, he took off for the city he knew his son was being held in.
…
With a promise not to come across aggressive, Arthur holds back all he can.
Angelo Bronte was pompous and annoying. To call them simple country folk made his blood boil. But trust Dutch. Trust Dutch. It lived like a mantra in his head.
As angry as he wanted to be about the mission to kill grave robbers in exchange for his boy, he was honestly grateful for both a distraction and something to take his anger out on.
…
The relief in Arthur's very being when the gates open and Dutch sits on the stairs of the Bronte manor with Arthur's son in tow.
The boy runs at the first site of him, yelling for him "Pa! Pa!" Arthur instinctively leans down, catching him with ease and holding him close.
If anything is said after that, Arthur doesn't hear it, besides his son's rants on Italian food. He's too set on getting a son back to his mother.
…
"I think I see Jack!" Bill cries out from his watch.
Dutch rides up to the old house, screaming your name. "We got you your son, everything—"
You run from the porch, barely able to stop well enough to hug Arthur, your son in his arms.
You kiss your boy's head before kissing Arthur. "You did it. You really— You got him back. Dutch, John, thank you." Your eyes set on your husband. "Oh, Arthur."
You take your son in your arms and begin to fuss. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"
As he begins to rattle on about his experience eating spaghetti and wearing slippers, Arthur sneaks back over to the guys.
But Dutch stops him. "Arthur, go be with your family."
And for once, not being tied to Van Der Linde's side feels… hopeful for him.
He tugs up a grin, looking over at the pure joy in your eyes as you run your hands through your son's hair and listen to him ramble and play with his toys.
…
"Arthur, I really didn't thank you enough," you mention one night while it poured outside.
The two of you are lying together in the dark of one of the rooms. He pulls you closer by your waist, tucking your head under his chin. "Don't need it, sweetheart."
"Well… thank you anyway. You're a good man, Arthur."
And somehow, Arthur starts to believe your groggy voice murmured with your own version of the truth.
