Welcome to my page! This site is primarily dedicated to Red Dead Redemption 2 and all it's glory, but I will post any shiny object that catches my attention.
While I have some brain doodles of my own that I am always hashing and rehashing before I present them to the world, I want to share the things that have captured my interest and sparked my imagination again. Just want to share the goodness that I have been fortunate to find
Below is a masterlist to keep tabs on my own brain doodles and keep them corraled together.Â
So just to try to clarify what I am trying to accomplish here, I have an overall story for Arthur x female reader titled "Leather and Lace" (OC in my own mind), as well as some one-shot ideas and "asks" I've received.
**Graphics graciously provided by @saradika-graphics
Arthur Morgan one-shot fics
Arthurâs Shadow - Arthur finds an unlikely companion. *This is an âaskâ I received.
Arthur Morgan x Female Reader one-shot fics
Don't Make a Scene - You are at Angelo Bronteâs house for a fancy garden party when you meet a certain group of outlaws.
A Cup of Coffee - What do you do when the love of your life doesn't feel the same for you?
Opposites Attract - Arthur is dating a TikToker; modern au
Take a Chance on Me - Arthur takes you on a date to see Miss Marjorie's show
12 Pains of Christmas - While you are a regular Christmas elf, Arthur is a total Grinch
Leather and Lace - Arthur Morgan x Female Reader (long fic)
Arthur comes across a woman in need and brings her back to camp. With nowhere else to go, she finds love and friendship among a group of misfit outlaws and begins to rebuild her life.
Chapter 1:Â And That Is When Everything Changed... - Arthur is out on a scout when he comes across a woman in need and brings her to the camp.
Chapter 2:Â Patchwork - You patch up Arthur after a bar fight in town, leading to delightful banter between the two of you.
Chapter 3:Â I Will Sit With You In The Dark - You offer Arthur some comfort when heâs struggling
Chapter 4:Â The Job Offer - You get an offer for an honest job outside of the gang, making Arthur begin to confront his feelings for you.Â
Chapter 5:Â No Offense - You unintentionally offend Arthur while out in town.
Chapter 6:Â The Gala - Dutch and Hosea take you out on your first job to a fancy gala. And Arthur is not too happy about it.
Chapter 7:Â A Most Special Gift - Arthur finds the perfect gift for you when he is out
Chapter 8: All Hot and Bothered - You wake up to these rather intimate dreams, each more erotic than the last one, with seemingly no outlet
Chapter 9:Â A Friendly Game of Poker - You agree to a game of strip poker with Sean, earning you some time with your favorite outlaw and leading to a major turning point in your relationship
Chapter 10:Â No - Arthur is in a bad mood. By giving him something else to be focused on, you're hoping he'll forget all about the ugliness of the the afternoon.
Chapter 11:Â I Got You - Arthur gets seriously hurt when a job goes wrong. Its up to you to help him.
Chapter 12:Â Drunken Silliness - After an evening of drinking, you and Arthur both acknowledge your feelings...just not to each other.
Chapter 13: Life Is Full of âWhat Ifâsâ - Arthur struggles with whether or not he should tell you how he feels about you.
Chapter 14:Â Itâs Such a Perfect Day - You and Arthur go on your first "non-date" date, not even realizing it. *I got the idea for this one listening to Lou Reed's song "Perfect Day".
Chapter 15:Â Feelings Revealed - Part 1:Â I Have Something to Tell You - You finally confront Arthur about how you feel about him, and force him to make a decision, whether you are ready for the answer or not.
Chapter 16:Â Feelings Revealed - Part 2:Â Where Do We Go From Here? - After Arthurâs rejection, tensions run high between the two of you and decisions need to be made.
Chapter 17: Feelings Revealed - Part 3:Â The Grand Gesture - Arthur leaves camp in search of something to repair your relationship. But meanwhile, you are getting closer to leaving altogether.
Chapter 18: Feelings Revealed - Part 4:Â See Me, Feel me, Touch Me, Heal Me - You and Arthur finally have your first night together.
Chapter 19: Second Time Around - You and Arthur settle into your new relationship and try to find some more time alone together.Â
Chapter 20: All the Little Things - Arthur takes note of all the little things you do for him and tries to decide if heâs ready to take your relationship to the next level.Â
Chapter 21: Because Youâre Mine, I Walk the Line - Arthur treats you to a stay in a hotel in the new town and promises to be on his best behavior.
Chapter 22: To Pick a Lock - The gang discovers a one of your "talents" and puts it to good use
Chapter 23: Colter - The Winter Storm - After a major job goes seriously wrong, the gang is driven out of the area.
Chapter 24: To Know the Winter Darkness - Arthur's irritation with the gang's situation begins to take its toll on your relationship.
Chapter 25: As the Wicked Snow Begins to Thaw - The drama continues up in Colter, pushing Arthur to his breaking point.Â
Chapter 26: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures - You get caught up in town with Micah when running for supplies, and Arthur is none too pleased about it.Â
***These listed below here were either written before I âofficiallyâ started this storyline, or a quick idea that came about, but they do go with "Leather and Lace". They take place after Arthur and reader are together. I canât name them with a chapter # yet since I have to write a few more that come before these in the storyline.Â
I've Got Friends in Low Places - Micah helps you when you and your horse have an accident, leaving Arthur very protective and rather jealous.
Close, But Not Close Enough - You and Arthur have been trying to get some time alone together all day, to no avail. But by the end of the day, Arthur finally gets what he wants.
Say Hello to an Old Friend - Arthur is none too pleased when you run into an old friend from your previous life.
What Lurks in the Shadows - Arthur teases you about being spooked by ghost stories until he experiences one of his own.
A Thanksgiving Feast - You decide to prepare an elaborate dinner for everyone in the gang.
Iâll Be Home For Christmas - Its Christmas time and Arthur has been out in the cold, missing for several daysÂ
Perhaps You Lust For What You Cannot Have - Micah longs to have Arthurâs s/o for himself, knowing that he never will. This realization is all too clear when he is out, returning from a scouting job.
Vents And Frustrations - Sometimes you just need to vent a little
Questioning Everything - Tensions are high between you and Arthur when he goes out to see Mary yet again. Will this be the final straw?
The first day of any hunt is never about the quarry.
It's about learning the ground beneath your boots, listening more than you speak, and deciding whether the stories you've been told are worth believing.
Sometimes the trail tells one story.
Sometimes the people along it tell another.
This chapter has a little of both.
As always, thank you for stopping by the fire. let me know your thoughts on this series.
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2 - Following Dust
Arthur Morgan does not want to be found.
You figure that out within the first day.
The trail you expected to follow west disappears barely a mile outside town, the hoofprints dissolving into hard-packed dust and scattered wagon tracks until they might as well have never existed. You slow your horse to a stop, looking from the empty road to the brush lining either side, waiting for something to make sense.
It doesn't.
The ranch hand who'd ridden into town that morning had sounded certain. He'd watched Arthur Morgan ride west just after sunrise. The sheriff had accepted his word without question, and you'd done the same. It had seemed simple enough then. Find the trail, follow it, bring the outlaw home.
Now you're staring at a road that refuses to tell you where he went.
You ride another hundred yards before turning back.
Then another.
Still nothing.
With a quiet sigh, you swing out of the saddle and crouch near the edge of the road, your fingers brushing lightly across the dust. Wagon wheels have carved deep ruts into the earth, cattle have trampled over anything that came before them, and enough horses have passed through to make every print blend into the next.
Most people would've called it there. Arthur Morgan had slipped away.
But horses don't simply disappear.
So you stop looking for where the trail continues.
Instead, you start looking for where it changes.
The answer is almost insultingly subtle.
One hoofprint sits at the wrong angle beneath another. Then another a few feet away. Not enough for anyone passing by to notice, but enough for someone willing to slow down.
You follow them in silence, each faint impression leading to the next until the picture finally settles into place.
He doubled back.
Not because he was lost.
Because he wanted whoever followed him to keep riding west.
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it.
"Alright," you murmur, dusting your hands together as you stand.
"So that's how this is going to be."
The smile lingers as you climb back into the saddle, your eyes drifting over the stretch of road one last time.
A clever trick.
Simple, too.
Most men would've kept riding west until sunset before admitting they'd lost him.
You almost had.
Your horse paws impatiently at the dirt, eager to be moving again. You give his neck an absent-minded pat before guiding him back the way you'd come, though this time your attention isn't on the road itself.
It's on everything around it.
If Arthur Morgan had doubled back, he hadn't done it to ride in circles. Somewhere along this stretch, he'd have left the road for good. The only question was where.
You slowed your pace, letting your gaze wander over the fence lines and shallow ditches, patches of brush that brushed close to the roadside, and the occasional break in the grass where a careful rider might slip through unnoticed.
Minutes stretched by.
Then more.
The afternoon sun climbed steadily overhead, warming your shoulders beneath your coat. Sweat gathered beneath your hat, and every few hundred yards your horse reminded you of his opinion on the leisurely pace with an exaggerated snort.
"I know," you said. "This ain't exactly excitin'."
His ears flicked back.
"You got somewhere you'd rather be?"
Another snort.
"I'll take that as a yes."
The quiet made you smile.
You'd never minded your own company. Long rides had a way of settling your thoughts, letting your mind drift from one thing to another without asking much of you. Out here, there was no sheriff barking orders, no deputies trying to prove who could tell the tallest story over morning coffee.
Just the wind.
The creak of leather.
The steady rhythm of your horse beneath you.
You almost missed it.
A narrow patch of grass leaned the wrong way.
You pulled the reins, bringing your horse to a stop before backing him a few steps. From the saddle it hardly looked like anything at all, just a handful of flattened stalks pressed toward the south instead of the road.
Curious, you climbed down.
Boots crunched softly over the dry earth as you knelt beside them.
The grass hadn't been broken.
Just bent.
A horse stepping carefully instead of charging through.
You looked up.
South.
No road.
No ranch.
Just rolling hills scattered with scrub oak and the faint shimmer of the river somewhere beyond them.
A slow grin spread across your face.
"There you are."
You weren't looking at tracks anymore.
Not really.
Stone replaced dirt after only a few yards, swallowing whatever hoofprints Morgan might've left behind. If you'd relied on the ground alone, you would've lost him again almost immediately.
Instead, you looked for choices.
A branch scraped clean where something larger than a deer had brushed past.
Fresh mud clinging to the edge of a flat rock.
A line of reeds along a narrow creek pressed downstream where a horse had crossed that morning.
Little things.
The sort of details most people never noticed because they weren't looking for them.
By midafternoon, you realized you weren't chasing hoofprints.
You were chasing decisions.
Arthur Morgan favored cover whenever he could find it. He kept close enough to water that his horse never lacked a drink, but far enough from the banks to avoid leaving an obvious trail in the mud. When the land opened into broad fields, he'd skirt the edges instead of crossing the middle.
He wasn't wandering.
He was disappearing.
You couldn't help but admire it.
"You've done this before," you murmured to yourself.
It felt strange, talking to a man who wasn't there.
Stranger still when the land seemed to answer.
The trees thinned as another hill rolled away beneath you, revealing a small ranch tucked into the valley below.
A weathered barn leaned slightly with age, its red paint faded almost pink by years beneath the sun. A handful of cattle grazed lazily inside a fenced pasture while smoke curled from the chimney of a modest farmhouse. Chickens wandered wherever they pleased, entirely unconcerned by the stranger riding down the hill toward them.
You slowed your horse.
If anyone had seen Arthur Morgan...
It would be here.
The ranch sat quieter than most.
A dog lifted its head from beneath the porch as you rode into the yard, giving a lazy bark before deciding you weren't worth the effort. A pair of chickens scattered from the path at your horse's approach, complaining loudly as they disappeared beneath a wagon.
You swung down from the saddle, giving your horse's neck a grateful pat.
"Don't go nowhere."
He immediately lowered his head toward a patch of grass.
"So much for loyalty."
A dry chuckle drifted from somewhere nearby.
You looked up to find an older man stepping out from the barn, wiping his hands on a worn rag. His beard had long since turned white, and years beneath the sun had left deep lines around his eyes, but there was an easy sort of kindness about him.
"Well," he said, looking between you and your horse, "looks like he already forgot about ya."
"I think he'd trade me for an extra scoop of oats."
"He'd fit right in around here, then."
You laughed softly, the sound surprising even yourself.
The rancher nodded toward the water pump beside the house.
"Long ride?"
"Since this mornin'."
"You look it."
Heat crept into your cheeks as you brushed absent dust from your sleeve.
"I was hopin' I hid it better than that."
"You didn't."
He smiled as he said it, taking just enough bite out of the words that you couldn't help smiling back.
"Pump still works if you're thirsty. Horse can have a drink too."
"I appreciate it."
Cool water never tasted so good.
You cupped your hands beneath the pump, splashing your face before taking another drink. The dust on the back of your throat finally loosened, and for the first time since leaving town that morning, your shoulders relaxed.
Your horse, meanwhile, had buried his nose nearly to the eyes in the water trough.
The rancher shook his head.
"He ain't missed many meals."
"No," you admitted. "Neither have I, if I'm honest."
"Good. Means you're takin' care of each other."
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The breeze carried the scent of fresh-cut hay across the yard. Somewhere behind the barn, a cow protested loudly enough that the rancher rolled his eyes toward the sky.
"They've been complainin' all afternoon." he muttered.
"They'll survive."
"They always do."
You leaned against the fence, letting the quiet settle between you before remembering why you'd stopped in the first place.
"I'm actually lookin' for someone."
The rancher glanced over.
"Oh?"
You reached into your saddlebag, unfolding the worn wanted poster before holding it out.
"Seen this man pass through?"
He took the paper carefully.
For only a second, his expression didn't change.
Then something behind his eyes shifted.
Not fear, recognition.
He studied the sketch a moment longer before lowering the page.
"Maybe."
The single word caught your attention.
"Maybe?"
"Fella rode through yesterday."
He scratched thoughtfully at his beard.
"Big horse. Blue shirt. Kept to himself."
Your pulse picked up.
"That's him."
"He didn't stay long."
"Did he say where he was headed?"
The rancher looked past you for a moment, toward the hills stretching south beyond the pasture.
"No."
Then, after a pause,
"But if I had to guess..."
He folded the poster and handed it back.
"...I'd wager somewhere along the river."
You carefully tucked the paper away.
"That's what I was thinkin', too."
The rancher nodded once.
"You track him all the way here?"
"I believe so."
"You by yourself?"
The question seemed innocent enough.
You nodded.
"Sheriff figured one deputy would be enough."
Silence.
Not awkward, just... longer than it should've been.
The rancher's eyes lingered on the badge pinned to your vest before drifting toward the empty yard behind you.
No second horse.
No posse.
No one catching up.
"You mean to tell me..." he said slowly, "...he sent one deputy after Arthur Morgan?"
You blinked.
"Yes, sir."
He let out a quiet breath through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as though trying to work something out.
"Hm."
"What?"
His eyes met yours again.
For just a heartbeat, he looked like he wanted to say something.
Instead, he simply smiled.
"Nothin'."
You weren't convinced, and neither was the knot beginning to form in your stomach.
The rancher watched you tuck the wanted poster back into your saddlebag, his gaze lingering there for a moment before he looked out across the pasture again. The cattle had drifted farther from the fence while you'd been talking, spreading lazily across the field as the afternoon sun settled lower in the sky.
You reached for your reins, giving your horse an absent scratch beneath the mane.
"I appreciate your help."
"Wish I could've offered more."
"You've given me somewhere to start."
He nodded, though the thoughtful look never quite left his face.
As you settled your boot into the stirrup, he cleared his throat.
"Deputy."
You paused, glancing back over your shoulder.
"That poster..." He motioned toward your saddlebag with a small tilt of his chin. "Makes him sound like the devil himself."
A smile tugged faintly at your lips.
"Isn't he?"
The old man didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned both hands against the porch railing, looking out over his land as though the answer was somewhere beyond the pasture.
"Ain't my place to tell another lawman how to do her job."
His voice was calm.
Patient.
"But I'll say this."
He looked back at you.
"There're meaner men than Arthur Morgan."
You frowned.
"You've met him?"
"Once."
"And?"
"He bought supplies."
"...That's it?"
"That's it."
"No threats?"
He shook his head.
"No stealing?"
Another shake.
"No trouble?"
The corners of his mouth finally turned upward.
"No."
You stared at him for a moment, waiting for the rest of the story.
"Didn't smile much, neither."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
"Well..." You pulled yourself the rest of the way into the saddle. "I'll be sure not to hold that against him."
The rancher chuckled quietly.
"Seems only fair."
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The breeze stirred through the trees surrounding the farmhouse, carrying with it the scent of fresh hay and warm earth. It was peaceful enough that, if not for the folded wanted poster tucked into your saddlebag, you could've forgotten why you'd come.
"Take care of yourself," the rancher said at last.
Something in the way he said it made you study him a little more closely.
Not polite.
Not casual.
Sincere.
"I plan to."
"I hope you do."
You gave him a small nod before turning your horse toward the trail. As you rode away, you caught one last glimpse of the old man standing on his porch, one hand resting on the railing as he watched you disappear over the hill.
The ranch disappeared behind you as the trail followed the river south, winding between cottonwoods that whispered softly in the evening breeze. Hoofbeats settled into an easy rhythm beneath you, giving your thoughts far too much room to wander.
"There're meaner men than Arthur Morgan."
You weren't sure you believed that.
It wasn't the sort of bounty a man earned for stealing a few horses or skipping town without paying his tab. Men worth that much money had left bodies behind them. They robbed banks, held up trains, shot lawmen.
At least...
That's what you'd always been told.
Still, the old rancher hadn't spoken about Arthur Morgan like he'd met a monster.
He'd spoken about him like he'd met a man.
With a quiet sigh, you reached into your saddlebag and unfolded the worn poster once more, letting your eyes drift over the familiar charcoal sketch.
The artist hadn't wasted ink on kindness.
A broad-brimmed hat shadowed hard eyes, rough stubble framed a weathered jaw, and every line seemed determined to make him look larger than life. Dangerous.
Wanted.
You studied the face for another moment before folding the paper closed again.
"If you're half the trouble they say you are," you muttered to yourself, sliding the poster back into your bag, "I hope you're easier to find tomorrow."
Your horse flicked an ear back at the sound of your voice before continuing toward the river as though he'd been making the decisions all day.
"Not talkin' to you."
He snorted anyway.
"Smart mouth."
The river curved gently through the valley just ahead, shaded by a stand of cottonwoods whose leaves shimmered silver in the fading light. After a full day's ride, it looked too inviting to pass by. There was fresh water, enough grass for your horse, and an old fire ring tucked beneath the trees that suggested other travelers had thought the same.
"Home for the night," you said, patting your horse's neck as you slipped from the saddle.
He barely waited for the reins to leave your hand before making a determined march toward the water.
"I know where I stand."
You laughed quietly to yourself and got to work.
While your horse busied himself with water and the patch of grass he'd apparently deemed acceptable, you finished unpacking camp.
The old fire ring only needed a little attention before it was usable again. A handful of dry branches, a bit of kindling gathered from beneath the cottonwoods, and before long a small fire crackled comfortably against the growing evening chill.
You set the coffee pot over the flames and dusted your hands together.
"See?" you called toward the river. "Some of us are pullin' our weight."
Your horse didn't even bother looking up.
"Thought so."
Dinner wasn't much. A strip of jerky, the last of yesterday's bread, and a piece of cheese wrapped in cloth. Not exactly a feast, but after a day in the saddle, it was enough.
You ate slowly, watching the flames dance between the stones while the valley settled around you. The sun slipped below the trees, taking the warmth with it, and one by one the sounds of the day gave way to the quiet chorus of night.
The rancher's words found their way back into your thoughts.
You leaned back against your saddle with your coffee warming your hands, letting your eyes wander toward the river.
"If you're out there," you muttered to nobody in particular, "I'd appreciate it if you quit makin' me chase you."
The fire popped.
The river rolled on.
And somewhere in the darkness beyond the trees...
Clink.
Every muscle in your body went still.
Your head lifted.
Not loud.
Not close enough to place.
Just the unmistakable sound of metal brushing metal.
Your hand settled on the grip of your revolver as you listened.
Nothing.
The river continued over its rocks.
Leaves rustled overhead.
Your horse paused long enough to lift his head toward the opposite bank before deciding whatever he'd heard wasn't worth interrupting his dinner.
You waited another minute.
Then another.
When nothing else came, you slowly let out the breath you'd been holding.
"Probably my imagination."
You weren't entirely convinced.
Even after banking the fire and settling beneath your blanket, sleep took a little longer to find you than you'd expected.Â
Itâs been a while since January when Missy got lost in another century. She managed to stop sleepwalking and came to the conclusion that it was something in Mr. Pearsonâs stew. At the scouting âcamp fireâ, Missy learned to make her own food. She also caught a lot of fish since she knew how to fish well. Occasionally, she would get chicken eggs to make herself something special. And now, it was the middle of February.
Missy hadnât seen much of Arthur in the past few weeks. It seemed as if he might be avoiding her or maybe not. When she saw Mac he became her friend, he was always overly friendly but in a boy likes girl kinda fashion. She once had to tell him she was flattered by his intentions, but nothing could happen between them. Mac, tired to play it off as he wasnât hurt by that. But he would never admit that he was secretly hurt by her not having or feeling the same way as he. He decided to continue being the caring friend she needed. Missy continued to be a valuable helper to Dutchâs gang. She never demanded much, and she was always allowed to fish for her food. She also always shared whatever she brought back to camp. Life seemed to pass differently here. She was still a bit confused about why she was in this situation. She missed 1999 a little, but she discovered that she preferred the tranquility of this place and time.
It was now February 28th, 1899, and Missy had grown very close to Mac Callander. Despite her attempts to remain aloof and avoid romantic involvement with the gang members, she couldnât help but feel drawn to Mac and she had told herself time and time again no she couldnât get involved romantically. Over time, he became her closest friend, and she found herself spending a lot of time with him and his brother Davey. Both brothers were very protective of Missy, and one time, Tilly asked if she was interested in one of them. Missy chuckled at the question, looked at Mac, and then in the direction of Arthur, who was talking with Hosea at the dominoâs table. She spoke up to answer Tillyâs question, not realizing that Tilly had noticed her gaze.
I donât think I can. It isnât such a good idea to get involved with any of the men in this gang. I eventually have to find my place in this world alone, with no family anymore. I am grateful for Dutchâs help really I am, and his support. But I donât think I could give any man here the wrong intentions, I mean truthfully I find myself attacked to two individual men. But with one, he is too closed off when it comes to relationships or romantic feelings. And the other, well he kinda became to close in a best friend relationship type of situation, and he is also to much of a womanâs man. What I mean is Mac, isnât relationship material he seems to be happy with having more than one woman to himself as Davey puts it. ďżź
Tilly sits there for quite some time before finally speaking up. The question then arises: Missy, is the other man Arthur Morgan? Missy gazes at Tilly, sighing and pondering whether she has an answer to that question. Yes, but heâs very closed-minded Tilly. Abigail once told me a month or so ago that I shouldnât waste my heart or time on Arthur because he was heartbroken over a past relationship with a woman named Mary Gillis, who is now Mrs. Linton.
Tilly nods in understanding, but she wasnât convinced that Missy was aware of the deep emotions both men were harboring for her. However, Missy, you must be aware that both Arthur and Mac have strong feelings for you, donât you? Missy gazes at Tilly, unsure of how to handle this unexpected revelation. I had a hunch that Mac harbored such feelings, but not Arthur.
Tilly looked at Missy with a bit of surprise, well thatâs strange. Arthur isnât very good with expressing such feelings, but in his own weird way he has been showing his true intentions but not doing so well. Tilly continues explaining that Arthur is definitely a closed-minded fool. He has been gone for a long time with business and stuff, and it might explain why you canât see or even believe that he likes you, let alone his intentions.
Look Tilly, I ainât even sure how long I am staying with you all. Hosea did say that I was free to go someday if I had money or a way to make it back to Denver Colorado. Tilly gazes at Missy and lets out a sigh. Are you certain you want to return to Denver, where thereâs nothing but emptiness? This gang, we may not be perfect, but we strive to survive in the best way we can.
Missy, looking down at her hands, says to Tilly, âLook, I really like all of you, well, maybe not everyone. Honestly, I canât stand Micah Bell! He doesnât deserve that name. The Micah in the Bible was more relevant and respected than this ridiculous man, Mr. Bell.â
Eventually, I aspire to have a family and fall in love someday. However, it doesnât seem improbable or even normal for gang members who are likely constantly on the run to be romantically involved with anyone. I donât feel like I belong here either. I am as innocent as a deer, one would wonder how I ended up with you all. Itâs not saying I donât care about you all, itâs just that I donât feel like I fit in.
Well, I suppose you could say that youâre not the only innocent woman in this gang. Molly OâShea is merely Dutchâs girlfriend or whatever her relationship with him is. You two are essentially the high society ladies. Tilly expressed her concern that her words might have crossed a boundary.
Missy, I understand that we share that similarity. However, I donât have any money or wealth, so itâs more accurate to describe me as poor and homeless. I suspect Molly still has family members back in Ireland.
Missy and Tilly continued their conversation throughout the day. When dinner or stew was served, Missy followed Tilly over to the food, but she remembered she shouldnât be eating Mr. Pearsonâs stew. Tilly gave Missy a strange look and asked, âWhatâs wrong?â Missy replied, âI shouldnât be eating Mr. Pearsonâs stew. Thereâs something in it that causes me to sleepwalk.â Tilly then realized, âOh, thatâs right.â Tilly frowned and asked, âSo, what are you going to eat?â Missy thought for a moment and decided to ask Mac or Charles to accompany her to the Upper Montana river for fishing. But before she could walk away to find either of them, Tilly interrupted her. What about Arthur? Missy looks at Tilly, questioning her. What about Arthur? Tilly speaks up again. Well, you seem to be avoiding him too. Why not ask him to escort you?
I suppose so, but where is Arthur? Tilly searches for him. She points her finger in the direction where Hosea was sitting. There, Arthur is sitting with Hosea. Suddenly, Missy looks in the direction of Hosea and Arthur. They werenât eating; it seemed like they were discussing their work or jobs.
Missy sighs. I suppose, but I donât think itâs a good idea to bother them or Arthur, period. Tilly smirks at Miss Davis, saying, âLook, you should stop lying to yourself, Missy. The way you act or behave around Arthur Morgan is a clear sign that youâre likely in love.â Oh please no Tilly⌠Missy blushes but responds defensively, âNo!â No way he is to caught up with his outlaw life, and you know darn well heâll just respond the same old thing that he isnât a good man.
Tilly inquires about Missy Davisâs feelings, expressing her confusion and disbelief at Missyâs reaction. Missy Davis appears embarrassed and frightened, as she is attracted to a man who is indifferent and fails to reciprocate her feelings.
Tilly! I just donât believe Iâm interesting enough for him. Heâs also quite difficult to read most of the time. The last time I was so close to him, he and I were riding his beloved horse, and I felt this strange connection between us.
I simply donât want to pressure a man who isnât interested. Even if there is a possibility he has feelings for me. Tilly interjects, âOh my goodness, Miss Davis! Youâre just asking him to take you fishing at the Upper Montana River so you can catch some fish. Why are you making it seem like a problem or a big deal?â Because it isnât or do you think it is? Missy sighs, I feel like I always blush around Arthur Morgan! I donât honestly do that with Mac Callander; heâs become more of my best friend than a romantic type relationship for me.
Tilly shakes her head, fine do what you want Missy. But you canât hide from your feelings towards Arthur forever!
Missy, determined to walk over to Mac and request his escort to the Upper Montana River, she is abruptly stopped by Arthur. His enigmatic gaze leaves her bewildered. Arthur Morgan, a man of few words, presents a challenge to Missyâs understanding. She looks up at him, her curiosity piqued. âDo you need something, Mr. Morgan?â she asks, her tone laced with a hint of defensiveness. This is her way of expressing her feelings towards him, a reflection of her own tendency to build walls around her emotions. We all know that Mr. Arthur Morgan is guarded, and sheâs known to be equally adept at doing the same with her own feelings. Consequently, she often appears snooty or snappy in her interactions, particularly with her emotions towards men like Arthur.
Arthur is taken aback by her attitude. He simply stares at her, trying to comprehend the reason behind her behavior. Missy looks back at Arthur, feeling a pang of embarrassment for her behavior. Sheâs embarrassed by her behavior, tries to walk away from Arthur. However, his stubbornness prevents her from escaping. Despite her attempts to pull away, she finds herself unable to break free from his grasp; he is stronger than she anticipated. âLet Go Arthur!â What do you want me for?
Arthur is determined to comprehend her peculiar behavior. He loosens his hold and pleads with her through his intense gaze, attempting to prevent her from fleeing and to engage in conversation with him. Please release me, she demands.
Arthur finally, letâs go, but he stands there with his arms crossed, waiting for her to speak. She looks at him. What do you want? I was on my way over to Mac. I was going to ask him to escort me over to the Upper Montana River so I can fish for dinner tonight. You know I only eat fish and eggs. I donât eat Mr. Pearsonâs stew.
Arthur forgot why she stopped eating the stew in the camp, so he had a funny looking stare on his face about why she doesnât eat like everyone else. Missy, looks at him. Did you forget that I sleepwalk? Thereâs something in his stew that might be causing it. It always happens after Iâve eaten his foodâmaybe the meat he uses or the vegetables I donât know.
Arthur finally speaks up after staring at her with a peculiar expression of concern and bewilderment.
Look, Arthur! I was on my way over to Mac to ask him to accompany me to go fishing at the Upper Montana River. Before you ask, Iâll explain why I didnât ask you. I donât see how thatâs possible with you always preoccupied with your business with Hosea. Arthur was taken aback by her honesty and the fact that she was right. So please just let me go, I am sorry for being so rude or mean sounding.
Missy, walks away from Arthur, towards Mac and Davey.
Arthur was left stunned as she walked away.
PERSONAL NOTES ďżź
I AM STILL TRYING TO WRITE THIS STORY, BUT IT HAS BEEN A LITTLE BIT OVERWHELMING TO CONTINUE WITH GETTING INSPIRATION. ďżź
THIS PARTICULAR STORY WILL BE. (âTO BE CONTINUEDâ)FOR NOW UNTIL I CAN GET MORE INSPIRATION WHO KNEW PUTTING TIME TRAVEL WITH RED DEAD STORY WOULD BE A BIT OF A STRUGGLE FOR ONE LIKE ME. I HAVE OTHER STORIES IN MY BRAIN. IâLL PROBABLY COME BACK TO THIS ONE AT A LATER TIME. ďżźďżźďżźďżź
Hi, if itâs possible can you please write headcanons about Arthur as girls dad? Love your works!đ
Firstly, Iâd like to apologise for taking so long to reply to this request; I had a lot of work to finish. Secondly, thank you very much for your lovely request, as I was really looking forward to writing to Arthur as girl's dad âĄ.
PAIRING: arthur morgan x bonnie ray (f!oc)
WARNING/TAGS: light angst (arthur remembers Isaac), domestic fluff
ŕ¨ŕ§ â When Bonnie told him she was pregnant, Arthur didnât whoop, he crumpled. Tears came fast and hot; he kept whispering, âI donât deserve this, I canât⌠Bonnie, I canât lose another one,â was all he could choke out over and over until Bonnie cupped his face and made him look at her. âYou do deserve this, Arthurâ she said. âWe both do.â
ŕ¨ŕ§ â The night they told the gang, Dutchâs boom of âA LEGACY!â could be heard across the camp. He immediately declared a party, ordered the best whisky in camp and, for once, Bill paid without a single grumble. Bonnie danced with everyone âa very emotional Hosea, Javier, even a blushing Billâ while Arthur hovered two steps behind, one hand half-raised like a shield. When Dutch spun her a little too wide, Arthur barked, âEasy, Dutch,â earning a wink and an unapologetic, âSheâs carrying precious cargo, son. Iâm careful.â
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Arthurâs decision to leave the outlaw life was quiet but ironclad. He told Dutch and Hosea first; both men nodded without argument. âOur little fox already risked enough for us,â Hosea said. Dutch simply clasped Arthurâs shoulder and murmured, âKeep them safe, son. Thatâs the only job that matters now.â
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Arthur chose the name Daisy because those were the flowers Bonnie always picked and tucked behind her ear when they were courting.Â
related scene
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Daisy is the spitting image of Bonnie: same green eyes, same wild dark-brown strands, same scatter of freckles across her nose. Arthur sometimes catches himself staring at her like heâs seeing a ghost of the woman he loves in miniature form. It wrecks him in the best way.
ŕ¨ŕ§ â The first time Daisy copies one of Bonnieâs mannerismsâtilting her head exactly the way Bonnie does when sheâs listening... Arthur has to sit down. He just watches this tiny person replicate the exact gesture and realizes heâs in trouble for the rest of his life.
ŕ¨ŕ§ â He teaches her to ride before she can properly walk. He puts her in the saddle in front of him, one huge hand steadying her, and talks to her the whole time in that low, patient voice he only uses for horses and his girls. âThatâs it, little daisy. Sit tall. Horseâll know if youâre scared.â
ŕ¨ŕ§ â He keeps a pressed daisy in his journal next to a sketch of Bonnie holding Daisy.  In the corner, in his careful, blocky handwriting, he wrote: âMy girls.â The page is worn from how often he opens it.
ŕ¨ŕ§ â He teaches her to recognize flowers before she can say their names. He points out the white-and-yellow blooms in the meadow and tells her, âThose are for your mama. Thatâs why youâre here.â
ŕ¨ŕ§ âHe calls her his "little fawn" when it's just the three of them. It started when she was learning to walk, all wobbly knees and wide, startled eyes and he murmured, "Look at you, stumble-footin' like a little fawn," his voice rough with awe. The name stuck. In public, it's "Daisy" or "sweetheart," but in the quiet of their cabin or whispered against her hair at bedtime, she's always his fawn. Bonnie teases that he's getting soft; he just grunts and pulls them both closer.
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Dutch and Hoseaâs visits are the highlight of Daisyâs week. She toddles to the door the second she hears hooves, shouting âUnca Dutch! Unca Hosea!â Dutch sweeps her up with theatrical flair; Hosea brings her little carved animals, books for âher educationâ and lets her âhelpâ with whatever task heâs pretending to do. He tells long, embellished stories where Daisy is always the princess. Dutch brings extravagant, impractical gifts and holds her on his knee, telling her about âthe grand designâ. Arthur watches from the porch, arms crossed, "Don't be fillin' her head with nonsense, Dutch."
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Arthur, Bonnie and Daisy visits the camp often. Jack is instantly besotted, following Daisy around like a tiny, serious guardian. Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen coo over her, braiding her hair with wildflowers. The toughest to win over is Bill, until Daisy, fascinated by his shaggy beard âit reminds her of her Paâsâ, toddles over and gives it an experimental tug. Bill freezes, his usual bluster evaporating. "Hey now, you little bandit" he grumbles, but he makes no move to stop her, even letting her "pat" the beard until she giggles. Javierâs heart is won when he sits her on his lap as he tunes his guitar. She smacks the strings, babbling along in her own musical language.
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Arthur, who can sleep through a thunderstorm, becomes a light sleeper the second Daisy makes the tiniest whimper. Heâll get up to check on her, adjusting her blanket with hands that seem too big and rough for the task. Sometimes he just stands in the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, as if committing the proof of her safety to memory.
ŕ¨ŕ§ â He may not know how to buy pretty dolls, but he is an expert at fixing them. A loose button eye becomes a meticulous stitching project. A leg pulled off by rough play is carefully re-attached.
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Bonnie sings Daisy sweet, clear lullabies. Arthurâs contribution is the low, off-key humming of old camp songs and cowboy ballads. His voice is gravelly and terrible, but Daisy will settle against his chest, her little fist curled in his shirt, and drift off to the rumble of it. He feels like heâs giving her a piece of his own history, the softer parts of the trail.
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Arthurâs coat pockets are no longer just for bullets and tobacco. They are repositories for Daisyâs world: a perfectly round river stone, a fallen blue jay feather, a pinecone she insisted was "special." He never empties them, even when the feathers get crushed and the pinecone sheds
ŕ¨ŕ§ â He is fiercely, secretly proud of every new word she says, correcting the gang with a grumble. "Ain't no 'horsey,' Bill. It's a horse. She's learnin'." He reads to her from the few books they have, stumbling over the big words, pointing at the pictures. "That's a⌠elk. Bigger'n a deer. And that there's a steam engine. Loud damn thing."
ŕ¨ŕ§ â The first time Daisy takes a real tumble and scrapes her knee, Arthur is a mess of quiet panic. He cleans the cut with a tenderness that borders on reverence, his own rough hands trembling. When sheâs bandaged and brave, having only shed a few tears, he holds her and says into her hair, "You're tougher'n you look, little fawn."
ŕ¨ŕ§ â Arthur Morgan, who once believed his only legacy would be a gravestone in a forgotten place, now finds his purpose in the smell of Daisyâs hair after her bath, in the weight of her asleep on his chest, in the way she shouts âPa!â and runs to him with arms wide. He still has nightmares. He still feels the ghost of the gun in his hand. But when he comes home âhome, a word he never thought heâd ownâ and sees Bonnie ânow as his wifeâ by the hearth and Daisy playing at her feet, the world settles. He is not a good man, he knows this. But for them, he will try every day to be a better one. He is an outlaw no longer. He is Arthur Morgan, Daisy's dad, Bonnie's husband. And they're the only titles that has ever truly mattered.
âââââă NAVI ă
main m.list ⧠arthur m.list ⧠dutch m.list ⧠hosea m.list ⧠bonnie m.list
credits: dividers by @pixopix
Pairing: Estranged Husband! Arthur Morgan x F!Reader
WC: 4.1K
Summary: A fender-bender forces Arthur back into your life, temporarily.
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, oral sex, premature ejaculation, mutual masturbation, marriage, divorce, fingering, arthur is very pathetic, reader is implied to be a lawyer but can be any legal job, or ngo. mommy issues, fluff, angst, hospitals, injuries, car accidents
photo credits: the supremely talented @colterblues
Shapsara's masterlist
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A/N: Title is taken from a poem called Negative Space by Luljeta Lleshanaku. Took a teensy much-needed break from writing but have come back to edit and post this. I'm having so much fun with this little series. Milly was my best friend's dog who sadly passed last year. She was a sweetheart and is forever remembered in this fic. I still need to name this series, so do let me know if you have any ideas! I'm awful at coming up with titles. Thank you to lovely Meghan for chatting about this series with me; it would not be possible without you. I am giving you the most affectionate cat forehead bonk. I hope you enjoy and consider letting me know what you think. xx
You do not even see the car when it hits yours.
It is early, as it always is. The leather of your shoes bites into your heels, and the coffee you've ladled into your thermos is too bitter despite those expensive coffee beans you get. You are not thinking of much other than the long day ahead. Letters, swimming on a page, stories full to the brim with gore and tragedy. It has been three months since Arthur left your apartment. You have sent him letters from your lawyers, a polite text message, even an email. Nothing.
When the car hits yours, you are thinking about the cookware. You don't need all those plates and dishes and forks with fancy handles; you work far too much for dinner parties. Besides, it is just you in that apartment. Arthur can have the dish sets; he has the Martsons. Dutch, Hosea. All that family he has forged from nothing; you only have the family that you were born with. Even they do not visit often enough to need fancy dishes.
The car hits yours with a colossal shatter. Glass and the faltering engine. The horrified shout of the driver. Then, there is nothing save a strange blur. Someone shrieks in the background, and you smell disinfectant, latex.
You wake to the chirp of machines and an ache that extends to the tips of your fingers and toes. You shift and find that you cannot; a thick cast covers your right wrist and your ankle. You reach with your left hand and a warm, wide palm catches yours. You blink. Blue eyes peer into yours anxiously.
"Hey," Arthur murmurs, his fingers closing over yours. "Hospital called me." He says. "You weren'tâyou hit your head."
"It hurts." The voice comes out frightened, hoarse.
"I know. You got pretty banged up."
"My car?"
"Gone."
"Am I going to die?" You muse foolishly.
Arthur laughs, a soft, relieved sound that echoes comfortingly in the far corners of your mind.
"Nah. Your ankles broke, and your wrist. They had to sedate you; you were talkin' crazy." His hand comes to cradle the top of your head. "But it ain't too bad. You'll be alright."
"Why are you here?" You mumble.
"Told you. I'm your emergency contact."
"Will you call my mom?"
Arthur grimaces.
"Already did, sweetheart. She ain't gonna make it this week."
"Oh."
"She said she'll try and make it when you're home."
"Home." You whisper. The red door and wind chimes, the sagging velvet couch. Arthur's sketches on the fridge and the old grandfather clock.
"Yeah. They just gotta run a few more tests and see how you're feelin', and then I'll take you to your place."
"Thank you," You whisper, shutting your eyes.
"For what?" He smooths your hair back.
By the time you can think of an answer, the doctor comes in. She has a kind face and asks you insane questions and to follow her finger with your eyes. Your name, the date and Arthur's name are all asked, and you find you can answer. She leaves, finally, and you can shut your eyes.
The three more days you spend in the hospital are quiet ones. To your immense surprise, Arthur stays with you despite your repeated insistence that you can call a friend. He gets you the vanilla yoghurt pots from the cafeteria and watches you eat them. He does not complain once, despite the violet cast under his eyes and the scraggly stubble that creeps up his jaw and chin. You are irritable with him, falling into an age-old familiarity. But he does not snipe back; he is only quietly amused at your indignation being kept on an IV line or, having blood taken. When you are discharged, he wheels you into the parking lot and pauses when you get to his old car.
"Will you be okay in a car?"
"No, Arthur. Have you got a horse?"
"Nice to see you're feeling better." He mutters as he slips an arm under your knees to lift you into the passenger seat of the car. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rearview mirror. Your face and jaw are bruised, your lip is split, and your hair is wild. The laceration on your temple has scabbed over and darkened under it's stitches/
"You lookâ" Arthur pauses, "You look like you got hit by a car."
A laugh bubbles in the back of your sore throat. You wince as a giggle spills out, and his face relaxes into a smile and then a twin reel of laughter. It is a good few minutes before Arthur can compose himself enough to drive.
When you reach your apartment, he helps you through the door and deposits you on the couch.
"You want something to eat? Or drink?"
"You should go home."
"Tea?"
"What about your dog?"
"John's got her. Should have some sugar in it. You ain't had much to eat in the past couple days."
"You never responded."
"To what?" He passes the mug, steadying it in your hand.
"My list."
"Christ. Is that what that was?"
"Yes. My itemised list. You said we'd do this the easy way."
"Let up. We'll sort it out after you're feeling better."
"I am feeling better." You say, sipping the tea. "Well enough to read a list."
"I've slept five hours in the last three days. I ain't well enough."
"Well, go home and rest then." You say irritably,
"Who's gonna make sure you don't die gettin' into the shower?"
"Chelsea."
"Chelsea's 4 feet." He scoffs. "She couldn't lift a feather."
"We'll be fine. I can manage."
Arthur ignores this and sits beside you on the couch, pulling the throw on the back of it and spreading it over your lap.
"Want to switch on a movie?"
When you glare at him, he scowls right back at you.
"So we ain't gotta talk to each other."
"Fine. A movie."
Flicking through the assortment of action movies with blaring trailers and a western romance involving some destined-for-death cowboy and working girl, you settle on one. A black-and-white film with paper sets and hair that defies all laws of gravity. The day passes with little conversation; Arthur dozes on the couch and jerks awake at your every shift. The movie is quiet, all soft-spoken confessions and foggy landscapes. The afternoon sun pours through the windows, making your eyelids droop. You find yourself, curled against Arthur. That old familiarity of watching a movie together. Murmuring, he puts an arm around your shoulders, and you are too tired and sore to chide him for it. You bury your nose in the collar of his t-shirt.
"You smell." You mumble, without moving.
"You don't smell too fresh either." His lips brush your forehead.
You wake later that evening, your ankle propped on a cushion and tucked into the throw. Arthur emerges from the kitchen; he's changed and showered.
"Went home to get clothes." He says quietly. "You wanna do somethin' about your hair?"
You reach up with your uninjured hand to the mess of braids plastered against your skull.
Arthur helps you up, your hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. You lean against the sink and try fruitlessly to undo the ties of your sweatpants. He kneels on the bathroom floor and undoes them for you.
"Can turn around."
"Nothing you haven't seen before."
"I know. I just figured you mightâ"
You stare at him. Arthur hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants, and you look down at the mottled expanse of your stomach and legs.
"Sore?"
"Yeah." You bite your lip.
"Think you can lift your foot?"
Bracing a hand on his shoulder, you do, and the sweatpants come in a heap at your feet.
"Raise your arms." And he lifts your loose, sweaty t-shirt over your head. Keeping his eyes fixed on your face, he helps you into the tub. He adjusts your limbs so your wrist and ankle are clear of water.
"Comfortable?"
"Mm."
Carefully, he pulls the ties holding your hair in its braids and loosens them with his fingers.
"Don't pull so hard." You snap, as one jerks free.
"Ain't pulling on purpose." He fires back.
"Feels like you are."
Finally, when they are more or less free, he pulls the showerhead from the side of the bath and runs it over his hand.
"Tell me if the water's too hot."
He runs water over your head and the hot water feels good.
"Do you rememberâ" Arthur pauses. "âwhen you used to work at that firm?"
"Which one?"
"The real shitty one. It was in likeâa basement, and you was comin' home at like eightânine o'clock?"
"Ison Anderson?"
"Yeah. That was it." He works his fingers through your dripping hair. "You were always so tired after. Used to ask me to do this all the time."
"That was when we first started dating." You say, in surprise. "I'd forgotten about that place. I was only thereâwhat? 6 months?"
"'Cause you hated it."
"God. Yeah, I did."
"You was always too good for that place."
"You sound like my mom."
"Says that a lot, does she?" His hand stills in your hair.
"She's mellowed out." You look at him beseechingly.
"Sure. 'Bout as mellow as a wildfire."
"Arthur." You chide. "She just cares about me."
"That's why she's here."
"She's coming soon. She messaged me." You say quietly. "Jerry isn't well."
"Right. What's he got this time? A cold?" Arthur overturns the bottle of shampoo into his palm and pours what can only be described as a lake of raspberry shampoo into his palms.
"The flu." You mutter. "He's got the flu."
Arthur snorts and rubs his palms together in the motion you taught him. You have to emulsify the shampoo, Arthur. Not just plop it on. Emulsify. He makes such a thorough job of it when he opens his palms; they are covered in pale pink foam. Arthur shampoos your hair, seething quietly at the thought of Jerry's sinuses. You shiver and try to ignore the truth in his voice. Why isn't she here? You've been independent of her so long: college, first job. Marriage, now divorce. But those few groggy moments when you'd woken up in Saint Agnes, you'd felt newly made, a child in pain. In need of a mother. Arthur has stopped, you realise, and his hand rests on your shoulder.
"You okay?" He says, bending his head so he is eye level with you. "Not dizzy? The water's hot."
"I'm okay."
"Good," Arthur says, his face softening. "I'm sure she wants to be here. She's just busy."
You nod.
Next, he conditions your hair without you asking him to, working the thick globs of it through the ends of your hair, just like you'd taught him years ago. The pain medication and the hot water, his presence make you sleepy, and when Arthur gathers you in his arms and towells you off, you are mostly asleep. It is an odd feeling, to be immobile in this way. You exist in the circle of his arms and the steadying rhythm of his breaths. Lifting you into bed, he props your ankle up on a pillow and tucks the duvet around your shoulders. The apartment is far too cold, and you are barely aware of the kiss pressed to your hair. You open your mouth to say you are cold and ask where he will sleep. But he is gone; the door clicked shut behind him. You lie awake for some time, listening to him shuffle around your living room and kitchen, waiting for the buzz of the elevator that will tell you he is leaving. It never comes.
When you wake, you find your crutch and limp into the living room. Arthur is already up.
"Did you sleep on the couch?"
"Yeah. Thought I'd stick around a few days. Till you're back on your feet."
"I don't need you to do that."
"At least until your mom gets here."
You bite your lip.
. . .
Arthur's habits have changed over the year you've been separated. The smell of cigarettes that used to hang around him is gone, replaced with the constant tic of his jaw chewing nicotine gum and the patches you see under the frayed collars of his shirts. He's tidier too, living out of a worn old backpack he must have taken from his brief trips back to the house. He sleeps less; you often wake to the sound of his pacing in the living room or kitchen. And oftenâyou must remind yourself that you cannot go outside and cajole him into bed like you once could. And you findâyou want to. You want to drag your aching limbs outside and run your hand up his belly and say: Arthur, baby. I'm cold. Come back to bed. Sometimes you cannot sleep until you hear the telltale thump of his body on the couch. In the day, he makes you the simple food that he must be used to eating on his own. Eggs, porridge, cut fruit, potatoes cooked in the oven.
The third week, it becomes like routine. You can limp around the house and work in short stints. Arthur hunches over your laptop and dutifully types out emails. And forms that you dictate to him. He drives you to the appointment to take out the stitches in your temple and lets you squeeze his hand as they do it. The nurse coos over the two of you. Arthur brings over his dog. A dopey, golden-haired dog called Milly. She zooms around the apartmentâtoo big paws slipping off the leather couch. Eventually, she tires herself enough to watch a couple of episodes of Real Housewives with you while Arthur shouts at John about some construction fuck-up. For the first time in years, you are immobilised by illness or injury. You, the person who would never let a cold or stomach bug keep you from work, or a divorce make you take time off. It is nice to rest.
Tonight, though, you are restless. Your leg itches in the cast, and the uselessness of your wrist irks you. You sit up. Slipping out of bed, you limp to the living room. The TV is on, low volume, some sports game playing. Arthur is slumped on the couch, his torso bare and wearing the drawstringed pyjama pants he's had as long as you've known him.
"The hell you walkin' around for?"
You find your way to the couch before your legs give out from under you.
"I can't sleep."
He looks sympathetic.
"Have some water and try again."
"What's this?" You point to the television.
"Croquet. It'll send you off alright."
He's warm, his body radiating heat beside you. He's filled out a bit, working more. It's more obvious with his chest bare. His stomach is softer too, probably the drinking you'd hated so much.
"Thank you for looking after me." You say quietly. "You've done a lot."
"Don't thank me." He mutters, and even in the glow of the TV, you can see him flush.
"I appreciate it. I don't want this to be bitter."
"Bitter." He repeats. "No. We wouldn't want that."
Arthur looks at you, and you squirm under the gaze.
"C'mon. I'll help you back to bed."
You balance your good hand on his arm, and he helps you into the bed. He lifts your ankle onto a pillow.
"You want a hot drink or something? Might help."
"I'm justâI don't know. Itchy."
"Itchy?"
"Yes. My wrist and my leg and everything. My skin feels too tight." You finish helplessly.
"That ain't a thing that happens."
"It's happening to me." You say crossly.
"Right. Diagnosis is that your skin is too tight and itchy."
"It's not funny."
"Jesus. Where's your sense of humour gone?"
"That's itchy too." You groan.
"Try to relax."
"I wish I'd thought of that." You snap. "Thank you, Dr Morgan."
"Close your eyes." He says soothingly. "Think of aâŚof a lake."
"A lake."
"Shut your eyes." He says sternly. "A lake with fish. You're fishin'"
"Are you putting yourself to sleep or me?"
"There's sturgeon and bluegill andâ" He goes on dreamily.
"Stop it. I hate fish."
"That used to help you." He says indignantly.
"It was back when I liked the sound of your voice."
"Some thanks that is," Arthur grumbles. "You liked it fine when you was having those nightmares about that case. Where that man got gutted."
"Disembowelled. He was disembowelled."
"Yeah, yeah. Same thing."
"Fish get gutted. Men get disembowelled." You shift uncomfortably.
"Right. What would help, then?"
"I don't know." You say miserably.
"Aw." He touches your arm, and it sends an odd bolt of heat through you.
"Fuck me." You say suddenly.
"Must've really hit your head." Arthur rolls his eyes and turns away from you, the freckled muscles in his back shifting.
"No. It used to help me sleep. I always slept after."
"I ain't doin' that. Last timeâthat was a mistake."
"We didn't even sleep together."
"Came pretty damn close." He says sharply. "It ain't good for us."
"We aren't even divorced yet."
"I thought you wanted a clean break?" He says fiercely. "You said that was the last time."
"This can be the last time," You say recklessly. "Arthurâplease. I haven't been able to sleep in days."
"Take your pills." He says firmly. "You'll fall asleep."
"They don't work. I don't want them. I want you."
"No. You don't. You're bored."
"Arthur. Please. I'd take care of it myself if I could." You raise your splinted wrist.
Arthur looks pained.
"Please." You repeat, softening your voice, raising your eyes to him beseechingly.
"Jesus. Fine. Ain't gonna fuck you though."
"Why not?"
"'Cause you got hit by a car. I don't feel right about it."
"You can be gentle." You chirp, the knot in your chest easing. Arthur will fix it; he always does.
"You're already pushing it."
"Fine. Fine. I'll be good. Just help me sleep."
"Lie down, then."
You obey, slumping back against the pillows. Arthur comes to sit beside you, on the edge of the bed. He's still for a moment. Just looking at you, his gaze flickering to the hard peaks of your nipples under your sleep shirt.
"You said you missed me." You say, looking up at him.
"I did." He sighs. "I miss you all the time, but this ain't good for us."
Arthur settles a big hand on your stomach, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. It creeps lower, slipping into the waistband of your sleep shorts.
"You wanna take these off?"
You nod and try to lift your hips to claw them off yourself; he pushes you back down with a firm hand.
"Slow."
"Don't be like that." You groan as he removes the shorts gently, leaving you bare.
"Jesus Christ." He mutters as he sees the glistening fluid leaking from your cunt. "Been walkin' around with no underwear."
"Limping." You are sure he can feel the heat radiating from your cunt, the sticky noise it makes when he reaches to spread it apart in his fingers.
Slowly, he eases the tip of his finger into the opening. You gasp, arching upwards, and he tuts softly.
"Quit. We'll do this my way." He murmurs, a glint of humour in his eyes.
"Alright, Arthur. But pleaseâdon'tâdon't tease."
"Relax. I won't. I ain't like you."
"What doesâohâthat mean?" Arthur grins as he crooks his index finger inside of you, making you grab his wrist clumsily.
"Means I ain't a sadist," Arthur says smugly, ignoring your tiny whines.
"I'm not." You grit your teeth.
"That little performance last time was sadistic." He says, and brings another finger to the entrance of your cunt. "Callin' me was sadistic. Lettin' me in to your house was sadistic. Lettin' me eat you out was sadistic."
"You begged." You say, temper flaring, and he slides the second finger in, using one huge hand to press down on your stomach.
"Sure. I did." He leans over you, the scent of toothpaste and soap and skin filling your senses. "Shh. It's alright. I said I ain't like you. Don't get yourself all twist up."
Another finger, and the slippery, squelching sound it makes; your skin burns hot, desire winds around your ribs, lives in the lining of your skin. You missed him. You missed him so much, and how can you tell him now? When he thinks so poorly of you.
In, and out. He sets a steady rhythm, applying the softest pressure to your clit. The gentle movement of his thumb circling it, the soothing noises he makes as you clutch at his bicep weakly, fingernails making indents in his freckled skin.
"ArthurâI think. I'm going toâ"
"Nah. Not yet. Ask nicely."
"Why are youâ?" He releases the delicious pressure on your clit, and you flail a little. Arching your back, you search for that friction again.
"Just wanna hear you ask. That's all." He says, all gentle-like.
Before you can think, your mouth fits itself around the word "Please."
"Arthur, please. Please. Let me come. I missed you so muchâand I'm so sleepy." Your breath hitches as he presses down on your clit again, your cunt pulses.
"Tell me you missed me again," Arthur says, his voice hoarse. "Then you can come."
"I missed you. I think about you all the time. I miss your cock inside of my mouth and my pussy," You sound ridicoulous, a dribble of vulgar truths slipping from your lips. They are truthsânot the brief flashes of loneliness when you come to your apartment, the half-asleep pull to another body, the empty side of the bed. Truths. You missed him. "I missed you so much. I couldn't sleep orâ"
"Shh. Alright. It's alright. I'm here now." He leans over you again, his chapped lips brushing your cheek and hair. "You can come."
You come on his fingers, grinding up into the heel of his palm. But he does not stop; he keeps them inside of you, a slow movement that makes you tighten around him weakly.
"Arthur, what are youâ?" You whimper as he picks up the pace again. "It's too much I can'tâ"
"You can. Relax."
"No. No, I'llâ" You cover your mouth with your palm, biting into the soft meat of it. "It's too muchâ"
"Let me see your face." He reaches up, prying your fingers away from your face. "Think you can give me another?"
"Arthur. It's soâit, I can't." You mumble, beads of sweat and tears coursing down your temple.
You come and your eyesight blurs, the blue of his eyes melting into green and the low light of the lamp setting the whole room ablaze. Arthur sighs somewhere in the distance, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him guiltily press his fingers to his mouth. Then, you are very sleepy and briefly aware of a warm cloth on your thighs and a sheet being tucked over you. You reach out, and a warm hand catches yours.
"You okay?" Arthur says, sitting back down; the mattress dips with his weight.
"Mm."
"Wasn'tâwasn't too much, was it?"
"No." You mumble and press your cheek to the pillow.
"Alright. Well, I'll leave you to rest."
"Stay." You murmur. "Stay. Couch is bad for your back."
"I reckon I'll be alright another night on the couch." Arthur says, a hint of laughter in his voice. Guilt pierces through the sleepy haze.
"I want you to stay. Please."
He does not answer, but rises from the bed. Your heart sinks when he disappears into the bathroom. But he comes around the other side of the bed and fits himself against your spine. The touch is tentative, at first, but his hands are warm as they creep up your stomach.
"Rest, now." He says softly, and you are about to question the hardness of his cock against your lower back, but a yawn stoppers it, and you sleep.
Arthur's face, drained of its colour, peers over you the next morning. You sit up in bed. His hair is combed, beard clipped, and his shirt is tucked in to one of those awful belt buckles that you were always on him to get rid of.
plot: Arthur fears the worst after finding out that f!reader has been kidnapped by a rival gang
this is part 2 of Rapture, so if you haven't, read this first!
tw: canon typical violence, otherwise just angst ending in fluff
low honor!arthur, established situationship? (idk), set during chapter 1
wc: 1.2k
It took Arthur, John, and Bill some time to take out the outpost of the Irish gang, although most of the sorry fools had fled the scene by the time they realized there was no winning this fight. Arthur sent his two companions to look for any valuables in the camp while he made his way to the cabin the prisoner had told him to search. It took him longer to reach than he would have liked â he had been hit in the leg, making it impossible to move any faster than walking speed.
Slowly, he moved towards the cabin door, hand trembling in fear of what he might find. Before he could open it, the wood crashed into him, sending him down onto the front porch.
He heard a maniacal laugh and the cock of a gun and prepared for the worst â but it never came. Behind him, Kieran had shot the final remaining member at Six Point Cabin before the man could fire his own gun, saving Arthur's life.
He barely found the time to utter a quick thank you before storming into the cabin, shotgun drawn. There was no sight of you, but a rug that was haphazardly draped across what seemed like a wooden trap door made him suspicious. He found it unlocked and pushed aside the fabric, not hesitating to step down the stairs as quickly as his leg allowed him to.
The sight of you, bruised and bloody, helplessly tied against the wooden column made him sick to his stomach.
"You!" he barked up to Kieran, who wore a guilty look on his face. He straightened up immediately after being addressed, nodding eagerly. He wanted to help. "Get Bill and John down here, now!"
Arthur cut you from your restraints as softly as he could and took off his winter coat to shield you from the cold. Even while asleep, you were shivering. His heart broke at the thought of what you had had to endure. Out of every member of the gang, why did they have to go for you?
He realized that, with his leg, he wouldn't be able to carry you up the stairs and all the way home, so he resorted to holding you in his arms and pressing soft kisses into your hair until the other two men arrived. While scanning the room for something to dress your wounds, a familiar brown leather journal caught his eye. He reached for it, you still laying in his arms. When he saw the opened pages, his stomach dropped and he flung it across the room as though it had burnt him.
So that was how they knew.
Guilt and shame flooded him. Was this how you found out about his feelings for you? Would you blame him when you woke up?
He certainly blamed himself.
Bill and John came rushing down the stairs, urgency in their steps. When they reached the pair of you, an unsettling feeling overcame them; they weren't used to seeing Arthur so beaten down, especially not during missions like this. He never lost his cool like they did, his eyes were always on the objective. But not this time. Their friend looked up at them, revealing your face which had been obscured by his.
"Jesus Christ." John was the first to find his voice again. "You gonna let us take her, Arthur?" He asked, softly. The younger man hadnât known about the two of you, but was smart enough to put two and two together when he saw the opened journal and his brother's broken state.
"We'll get her home safe. Ain't that right, Bill?"
The man in question nodded eagerly, kneeling down beside Arthur and carefully urging him to let you go. "You just stay with us, we'll take care of the rest."
"John, you take the girl." Arthur muttered quietly, too tired to argue. He glanced towards Kieran, who was still cowering atop the stairs.
"Bill, bring the O'Driscoll home with us. He saved my life." The latter grumbled in protest, but was not foolish enough to not comply.
Everyone was quick to gather around the group when they returned home to Horseshoe Overlook. You had been in and out of consciousness throughout the ride and could now barely make out the busy voices, rushing to your aid. You felt a cool sensation that relieved some of the pounding in your head and barely felt the needle threading string along your cheekbone as Ms. Grimshaw stitched you up. All you could do was mumble thank you's and let them take care of you like you usually did for them.
Next to you, Arthur seemed to be enduring the same treatment; every now and then, you heard him hissing in pain from numerous procedures you had thankfully been spared from.
The first time you awoke without a headache and fully conscious, night had already fallen over camp. You slowly propped yourself up on your elbows, a weak, involuntary groan falling from your lips. Tilly, who had been keeping watch, immediately darted up and towards you, camomile tea in one hand and saltine crackers in the other.
"How are you feeling, miss?" Her soft voice would have been enough to lull you back to sleep if you weren't so anxious to speak to a certain someone.
"Where's Arthur?" you asked her, disregarding her question. She gave you a knowing smile and got up, straightening her skirt. "I'll go get him for you."
It felt like an eternity before you heard the familiar, heavy footsteps in front of the tent. You saw his outline through the canvas walls, pacing back and forth before he finally made up his mind and entered. Your heart stopped at the sight; his eyes were framed with dark circles and a wide bandage covered his thigh, but it was Arthur nonetheless. You smiled at him softly.
"You wanted to see me?" His voice was deep and raspy, he sounded unsure of himself. He didn't dare to look at you.
"I didn't think you'd come for me." You admitted to him truthfully, not accusing. "Thank you."
His eyes darted up now, anger flashing within them. A pang of hurt stabbed at your heart. Did he know about the journal?
"There ain't no reason for you to be thankin' me when it's my own fault you were there in the first place." The words seemed to physically hurt him when he spoke them.
"Should've gone back for that damn journal. I knew I'd left it there. I just didn't think-" He choked on his words, then. Tears glistened in his eyes.
"Arthur, look at me." You urged him and he complied, just like he said he would on paper.
"What matters is that you came." His blue eyes, usually cold and hard as steel, seemed softer now, like stained glass reflecting the sunlight. "I just wish you would've said something to me. You must have know what I feel for you."
He looked at you intently, the fact that you had spoken in present tense had not go unnoticed by him. You loved him, still?
"My face'll heal, Arthur. The scars will fade. But I'll never forget that you came back for me."
The man found himself lured in by your soft voice once again, his resolves breaking with every step towards you. He knew it was wrong. He knew he was not good. But for you, he'd try. For you, he'd do anything.
plot: Arthur fears the worst after finding out that f!reader has been kidnapped by a rival gang
this was originally going to be only one part, but i split it into two since i felt it was quite long! part 2 is here!
tw: canon typical language & violence, mentions of SA but does not actually occur, a generally dark tone - proceed with caution!
low honor!arthur, established situationship? (idk), set during chapter 1
wc: 1.8k
The first thing you noticed when you awoke was endless darkness, followed by a pounding headache akin to a volcano erupting from your right temple. Your mouth was dry and you shivered, wearing nothing but the underskirts and thin blouse you remembered falling asleep in. Barefooted, hair still in two messy braids â as if you had never left your tent. But this wasn't home; the ground was of cold, hard stone, and there was no blanket, no canvas protecting you from the biting winds that whistled down from the grizzlies. Where were you?
You attempted to get up, trying to warm up your frozen limbs in any way you could, but you found that both of your hands were tied around a wooden pole. Wherever you were, and whoever had put you here, it was made sure that you wouldn't be able to leave any time soon â not on your own terms, that was. Your chest tightened at the thought, but you had no time to wallow in self pity when a sudden bang of metal on wood shook you to your core. Your eyes darted to the heavy oak door shielding you from the outside. You knew that, if you were to look through the keyhole, the eye of your captor would stare back at you.
Meanwhile, not far from where you were trapped, Arthur Morgan was seething. He had been looking for you all night and he still was, now that the sun had risen, bringing little warmth to the cool morning air. Fear and anger, mixed with the unsettling feeling that he had no idea what had happened to you drove him to lengths he never thought he would go to. Not that anyone was even trying to get in his way; your disappearance had rattled the whole camp, including none other than Dutch van der Linde himself. The two of them, along with Bill Williamson stepped towards the O'Driscoll they had captured in large strides. He was tied against a tree, droopy eyes filled with tears and widened in fear as he saw the three men approach. There was no ounce of empathy in Arthur's heart, not while you were missing.
"Whenâs this going to endâŚ" He heard the dark-haired man mutter to himself, bracing for the conversation he was bound to have.
"You got some speaking to do of your own⌠about that old gang of yours." The anger in Arthur's voice was evident.
"I said⌠I told you⌠I donât know nothing." Kieran Duffy pleaded, but his cries fell to deaf ears. He knew what was at stake â he had seen Arthur stalk through camp all night and, admittedly, had some suspicions about his former associates having to do with your disappearance. He swallowed thickly at the sight of the men whom he knew as Bill and Dutch.
"Thatâs what I thought." Arthur grumbled, looking over to the raven-haired man behind him. Kieran's knees gave out on him and he fell slack against the tree in fear.
"Whoa, hold your horses there⌠it seems the cat has got our friend hereâs tongue. I was thinking Mr. Williamson could have a word." Dutch roared and gave word to the third man.
"You ready to talk, boy?" The tone of Bill's voice made the young man cry out in terror.
Kieran tried his luck once again, but to no avail. "I told you mister⌠I told all of you. I donât know nothing, okay? They-They ainât no friends of mine. I just been riding with them for a while."
Arthur watched his companions taunt the younger man impatiently, he had no time for Dutch's stupid games when your life was at stake. He shut his eyes, lost in thought about where it had all gone wrong.
He felt sick to his stomach thinking of how he had treated you. Taking advantage of your kindness, your soft heart and silvery laugh. Sneaking into your tent late at night when he was sure everyone else was asleep. He reveled in your touch â the delicate kisses you placed on his chest, or when you tugged at his hair and bit your soft lips to keep quiet, just the way he had told you to. A rare feeling of guilt pooled in his chest when he thought of the many conversations you had tried to initiate during the day, the ones he always dismissed. He felt a knot form in his throat.
"Okay! Listen. I know where OâDriscollâs holed up⌠and youâre right⌠he donât like you any more than you like him. I- I think they took her to Six Point Cabin." The small voice coming from their prisoner ripped Arthur from his wandering mind. "Iâll take you there⌠I donât like him. I mean, I like him even less than I like you. No offense."
There was no time to waste now. "Okay then, partner. Why donât you take a few of us up there⌠right now." Despite his inner turmoil, his tone left no room for discussion. "I got this, Dutch. Should be fun. Alright you⌠come on⌠letâs go." Arthur pushed past Dutch and Bill, untying Kieran and harshly pulling him up by his arm.
Your heart was pounding against your chest so hard you thought it might give out before you even got the chance to escape. Now that it was morning, sunlight was shyly creeping into the small room you were trapped in. All you could see from the barred window was dewy grass and rocks, leading you to believe that you had been locked in a basement for god knows how long. Another bang against the door made you flinch and cry out â the noise erupting from your throat didn't even sound like your voice. It was raspy and weak and it filled you with fear.
"Oi, boss!" A man's voice cried out, he sounded young. "I think Morgan's girl's awake now. Come look."
If the situation weren't so dire, you would have laughed. Was this what this was about? Getting Arthur Morgan here, using you as bait? You lost all hope then and there; if they thought taking you would move even an inch in the gunslinger's heart, they were duly mistaken. In fact, you had no idea where they had even gotten the information that you had any sort of worth for him, given that he barely spoke to you during the day. You weren't given the opportunity to dwell on your thoughts any further, however; footsteps were inching closer and closer towards the door. The boss had apparently decided to pay you a visit.
"There she is, then." You recognized the Irish accent and green scarf immediately, terror flooding your lungs. "Pretty little thing, aren't you?" The man stepped into the room now, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't Colm O'Driscoll himself, that much you knew, but it did little to calm your racing heart. There was no doubt he was equally as dangerous.
The stranger sauntered towards you with a sly smile you wished you could wipe off with a hammer to his head. You were scared for your life, but did your best to settle with an angry scowl as you looked up at him. He wasn't going to get the tears he wanted from you.
"Yeah, I can see why he likes you," He let out a humorless, dry laugh before kneeling down in front of you and cupping your chin. "Looks like my boys gave you quite a beating, didn't they?" His fingers moved to your temple, pressing into the wound. You hissed in pain and pulled away instinctively, making him chuckle again.
"What do you want from me?" You regretted asking before you even finished the question. At least your voice was steadier now.
"You've done your job, lass." He gave you a crooked, awful smile. "You see, your guys have taken one of mine. So it's only fair we did the same. We're hoping for an exchange of prisoners." You found it hard to believe that this was all about Kieran Duffy, but more a trap to lure Arthur into their territory. The man you captured back in Colter hardly seemed like an important member to the gang.
"You've got the wrong woman." You admitted truthfully. There was no way Van der Linde's right hand man was going to come to your rescue unless you were sitting inside of a bank vault.
"Is that so?" The man grinned, showing you what he had been hiding behind his back: Arthur's notebook. He must have lost it when they rescued Sadie.
He opened the book and showed you its' contents, turning page after page; there you were, doing the laundry, washing dishes, pulling John's stitches. Your face must have reflected your bewildered state of mind, because he gave you a satisfied grin.
"Wrong woman, huh?" he asked dryly, not waiting for an answer. He began studying the page showing a sketch of you chasing after Jack. He read out your name, as if it weren't obvious who Arthur was referring to in the pages. You felt humiliated. "I'm a goddamn fool when it comes to her. I don't know what she does to me, but I know damn well I don't want her doin' it to anyone else. She could tell me to set all of Valentine on fire and hell, I probably would." He licked his finger to turn the page as a tear you had so desperately tried to fight ran down your cheeks.
"Please stop." You looked at him through blurry eyes. "He's not gonna come."
"Oh yes he will. I'm quite sure." The man tossed the journal into a dusty corner of the room, having made his point.
"But while we wait, why don't the two of us have some fun?" Bile rose in your throat at the implication and you responded to in the only way you could with your hands tied; you spat in his face. Anger was painted on the mans face now as he wiped your saliva from his mouth. He promptly got up and gave you a filthy look.
"You really thought you were gonna get away with that?" He leaned down once more and struck you right across the face. A blinding pain shot through your left cheek and nose and you felt a wet, warm sensation dripping into your mouth. You had a hard time staying conscious as your mouth filled with blood and your heart with fear.
"You think I'm not just gonna take whatever I want from you, girl?" The O'Driscoll seemed to move in slow-motion as he was disappearing and reappearing in and out of your sight. A dizziness overcame you, together with an overwhelming fatigue you could no longer fight. The last thing you could make out was gunshots and incoherent orders being barked before the darkness took you.
It starts with a name everyone thinks they understand. A reputation that reaches town long before the man himself ever does.
But men like Arthur Morgan arenât always what the posters say.
And sometimes, all it takes is one bad assignment to turn a deputy into the very thing she was sworn to hunt.
Take your time with this one.
Neither of them knows where the road is leading yet.
And heâs not in a hurry.
ââ đĽ
Chapter 1 - The Poster
The sheriff didn't look up when he called your name.
He sat behind his desk with one elbow resting on the worn wood, pen scratching steadily across a sheet of paper. The office smelled the way it always did, like old tobacco, drying ink, and dust that no amount of sweeping ever seemed to chase away.
You stopped a few feet from his desk, folding your hands behind your back out of habit. It was the posture he'd insisted on when you first started helping around the office. Stand like a deputy, he'd told you. If you look like you belong here, folks will start believing you do.
It hadn't happened yet.
Most days you were still fetching paperwork, organizing reports, or running errands through town while the other deputies rode out to do the work you'd spent months asking to learn.
"You wanted to prove you're useful," the sheriff said, finally setting his pen down. "Here's your chance."
Only then did he look up.
Around the room, the conversations had gone quiet. You hadn't noticed it at first, but every deputy in the office had found something to occupy themselves with while keeping one eye on the sheriff's desk.
One leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.
Another rested against the window, staring outside without really looking.
A third let out a quiet snort through his nose.
"This oughta be interesting," someone muttered.
The sheriff ignored them. He blew lightly across the page he'd been writing on before sliding a folded piece of paper toward you.
It stopped just short of the edge of the desk.
You stepped forward and picked it up.
A wanted poster.
The paper was still stiff, the ink just dry enough not to smear beneath your thumb. A weathered face stared back at you beneath the brim of a dark hat.
You didn't need to read the name to know who it was.
Still, your eyes found it anyway.
Arthur Morgan.
The bounty printed beneath his name was enough to make your stomach tighten.
You looked back at the sheriff.
"You want me to bring him in."
It wasn't a question.
One of the deputies laughed.
"Good luck."
Another shook his head.
"Hell, I'd sooner wrestle a grizzly."
A few quiet chuckles followed, though they didn't last long.
The sheriff raised a hand, and the room settled again.
"I thought you wanted to be treated like every other deputy."
"I do."
His eyes stayed on you for another moment, searching your face for something you couldn't quite place.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
"Then consider yourself deputized."
The words should have felt like everything you'd been working toward.
Instead, they settled in your chest with a weight you couldn't explain.
Outside, a wagon rattled down the street. Someone across town shouted after a runaway mule, followed by a string of curses that drifted through the open window. The piano from the saloon stumbled through another familiar tune, carrying faintly into the office.
Inside, no one moved.
No one offered to ride with you.
No one suggested where Morgan had last been seen.
They just watched.
Waiting to see what you'd do.
You folded the wanted poster carefully and slipped it inside your coat.
"I'll bring him back."
For just a moment, the sheriff's expression almost softened.
Then it was gone.
"Sure you will."
You turned before anyone could read the uncertainty creeping into your own face and headed for the door.
The afternoon sun hit you the moment you stepped outside, warm enough to make you squint after the dim light of the office. Your horse waited patiently at the hitching post, flicking an ear as you approached. You rested a hand against her neck while pulling yourself into the saddle, taking one last glance at the courthouse behind you.
The wanted poster seemed heavier tucked inside your coat than it had in your hand.
Arthur Morgan.
You'd never met the man.
Only heard the stories.
Train robberies.
Shootouts.
Lawmen who never made it home.
If even half of those stories were true... the men inside that office hadn't sent you after an outlaw.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 6/9
Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, John Marston & Charles Smith, John Marston & Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston
Characters: Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption), Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston, Mother Superior CalderĂłn (Red Dead Redemption), surprise minor appearances by some other people
Additional Tags: Zombies, Pre-Relationship, written as gen but could be seen as Charthur, Red Dead Nightmare, John Marston & Arthur Morgan are Siblings, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt John Marston, Hurt Charles Smith, everyone gets hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Alternate Universe - Zombies, BAMF Arthur Morgan, BAMF John Marston, BAMF Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption), badassery ensues, no AI, ai is awful
Summary:
A strange, violent plague has swept the country. Charles and John team up to find a cure and save as many as they can. Fortunately for them, they find some unexpected help from an old friend.
Undead Nightmare! Now with 100% More Charles and Arthur!
Isabella Hunter was rescued by Dutch van der Linde and Hosea Matthews at thirteen, only a year after they had taken in Arthur Morgan. They grew up together. Fought together, became best friends, spent their lives together and fell in love. Ten years ago, a terrible event happened, and Isabella was lost to the gang. Now they've found her again, and she needs to learn to relive as part of the family that had once been everything to her. As well as finding a way to be around the man she once loved and the man whose heart she broke.
Masterlist
The final reckoning
AO3 LINK
Arthur, every so often whistled for Florence to follow him closely, he had no idea where the hell Isabella was. All he could hope was that sheâd maybe gone back to camp, because at least that meant she hadnât been arrested.
There were still some people there that she could be with, he just prayed she hadnât let the rope holding her rage snap and let the warrior inside her take control against Dutch. He dreaded returning to dead bodies because he didnât know whose they would be, and that was soul-wrenchingly terrifying.
As he finally reached camp, he noticed how empty it physically was, yet it felt so busy with panic. He dismounted Valour and speed-walked into the middle, spotting Tilly holding Jack close.
 âWhat the hell has happened?â He questioned before anyone else could speak, his own fear showing in his tone, but he didn't push it down. âThey took Abigail, we hid, but they took her, and Dutch heâs saying, well.â Her voice broke as she held Jack closer to herself, unable to vocalise their leader's words. âWhat, what are you saying, Dutch?â
Instead of his mentor speaking, however, Micah stepped forward. âWe gotta cut her loose, sheâs getting hung. Who knows where John is? Right now, we need to focus on getting out of here.â His words were so damn cruel that they made Arthur feel sick.
But heâs looking at Dutch again, azure eyes filled with such belief but also such paranoia that Dutch could be thinking similarly, and that was confirmed by the expression of resolution the older man held. âHeâs right, Arthur, we canât go chasing after someone who is already dead. I love Abigail, I do, but we ainât got time to help. We need to get out of here.â His voice was so cold, it hit Arthur like daggers of ice against his face.
âYou what? Who are you, Dutch? Who the hell are you? Because I donât goddamn know you anymore.â He shouted, anger surging up inside him, setting his soul alight, mixed with hurt from the night before of watching Dutch walk away, spreading through his entire body.
His heart twisted with pure, unbridled pain and wrath, it hurt more than anything had ever hurt him, more than any gun, knife, or fist had affected him in the past. His disbelief that the man he had always looked up to could be acting so cruel, so callous, so unlike how he had ever seen before. He felt his heart break in half right there and then.
Heâd given this man everything, heâd split so much blood for him, they all had. They had killed and beaten people on his command, they had given their lives to him, and he no longer cared, if he ever had.
As he stared at Dutch, there was such pain behind Arthur's eyes, the anger a shield for it, terrified for Abigail, terrified for Isabella, for the life they had lived for so long. His never-ending loyalty and trust he had for the man had finally dropped, being replaced by soul-consuming feelings of disappointment and abandonment.
He wanted to scream, loud enough for the whole damn country to hear the rage that had been building deep inside, but instead, all he could do was stare at the group with betrayal in his aquamarines before he spoke once more.
âWe donât leave people, and if you stopped listening to this fucking little maggot for one goddamn second, youâd see that!â He didnât let anyone get another word in, instead, he turned to return to Valour. There was no way he was going to let someone who was family die.
Whether Dutch liked it or not, he was keeping his family safe and alive. He swung his leg up to climb onto his horse, hearing Sadie call from behind him. "We only need the two of us anyway." Arthur nodded but didn't speak. Without a second of hesitation, he just dug his heel into his stallionâs side and pushed him into a gallop, because if he stopped, he honestly was scared of what he'd do.Â
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Isabella let out a groan at the pounding in her head. What the hell had happened? One minute, sheâd been walking back to her and Arthurâs hotel room. And the next thing she knew, she was waking up in an unknown place, her limbs pushed close to her with a rope. She felt someone behind her and attempted to turn her head.
âAbigail?â In the corner of her eye, she could see the dishevelled black locks. âWhere the hell are we?â Trying to figure it out by their surroundings, but she didnât know the building. âThe Pinkertons,â Abigail answered, her voice hoarse as if sheâd had the air knocked out of her.
âWhat about the Pinkertons?â Trying to pull against the tight ropes as she questioned the woman. Her further words ceased, however, when heavy boots walked along the floor, and Isabellaâs emerald eyes focused on the pockmarked face of Agent Milton.
âWell, Mrs Greyson, we Pinkertonâs finally caught up with the two of you.â His arrogant voice made Isabella grit her teeth, forcing her hands against the side of her gun belt, searching for any assistance with her freedom, finding sharpness against her fingertips, and not hesitating for a moment.
âYou see, your camp was easy to find once we were, letâs say, informed, and then we also got the nice little bit of news of you being in Van Horn.â The man continued, staring down at Isabella.
âWhat do you mean by information?â The woman growled. âWell, let's just say that every man has a price, especially when it means they get to avoid the rope." He waved his arms around, overdramatically as he spoke, so very proud of his actions.
âWhat shit are you talking about now, you damn fool. Spit out whatever you are trying to spin into some sort of tale and stop acting like you are some performing in a fucking stage play.â Isabella shouted, her voice so loud it echoed around the room.
âSo aggressive,â Agent Milton tutted, but he bent down to Isabellaâs level. âSee, when you guys got off that island, we picked up a certain Mr Bell. And that man was ready to sing like a damn carny long before we even pushed him a single inch.â He grinned at her as if heâd won an award, as if heâd just saved the goddam world.
âWhat?â She spat, that fury burning throughout every inch of her being, the red surge of anger lighting the flames of wrath deep inside.
 âYou see, your friend Mr Bell has been, shall we say, very helpful, and he was more than willing to keep us up to date with what you scum were doing. And it meant not only could we capture Miss Roberts here, but also you. And soon we are going to be able to get the rest of you, finally, after all this time. The people will see the infamous Dutch Van Der Linde group hanged. Beginning with you and Miss Roberts.â
Isabellaâs mind raced, bile rising to her throat, and her heart beating so hard she was pretty sure it was going to burst out of her chest. Micah had joined up with the Pinkertons? Ready to turn them all over for his freedom, no wonder heâd been a snake in Dutchâs ear. Heâd been spinning him some web that had led to a total fallout, to Dutch turning against them all, turning against who she believed he was for so long.
That uncontrollable anger she knew well grew within her, the monster of her wrath gnawing its way out, clawing at her throat and biting her insides. So before he could speak again, she tilted her head back, smashing it forward into the man's. Feeling a satisfying crack of his nose breaking beneath her force.
The man stumbled back, grabbing his now bleeding nose. âYou bitch!â He grunted. âI wanted to see you hang, but maybe a bullet first will teach you some damn respect.â
But before he could raise his gun, the door crashed open, and Isabella focused on the figure who was holding a gun towards Agent Milton. The figure of a damn mountain of a man, who would burn the world down for who he loved, her saviour, her best friend, the love of her damn life.
âYou touch a single hair on her head, and I will have you in the ground before you can even blink,â Arthur growled, his own temper flooding through him, an uncontrollable rage that would poison the world if he let it, the violence he was ready to release was almost terrifying.
This man had taken not just Abigail but Isabella as well, his girl and he was ready to cause this man pain like he'd never felt before, ready to burn down the whole damn world.
His eyes dropped to Isabella for just a second too long, because he hadnât noticed that Milton had stepped forward. Grabbing his gun and throwing it aside, the Pinkerton aimed his own gun at him.
âArthur!â Isabella screamed, her voice breaking with emotion, pulling with all her might against the ropes an almost inhuman amount of strength as she did, pure adrenaline fuelling her, the flash of silver from her hand moving faster. Her anger was so powerful, but what was more powerful than anything was her need to protect the love of her life, and she would stop at nothing to help him.
Arthur held his hands up, knowing this was likely it, that he was about to face the cool steel of a bullet in his head. He just hoped in his last moments heâd helped Isabella escape somehow, that she'd be able to live because of him.
âWe will see you hang, we will see you all hang. But you, Mr Morgan, I think we shall dispatch of you first.â Cocking his gun as he stared down at Arthur. He didn't get a chance to fire however, instead there was the echo of a gunshot around the building, and Agent Milton dropped like a ton of bricks.
Arthur turned to see Isabella standing there, free from the rope, hands bloody from escaping, in one of them her own revolver. They really should have taken her guns away from her, as always, she was a damn force to be reckoned with. The woman whom he loved more than life itself, they stood for a second just staring at each other, chests heaving and silence settling in the bare room.
Before Isabella stepped forward, all but running into Arthurâs arms, holding him so tight that his breath was stolen, his own arms wrapping around her just as tightly. He could feel the blood from her hands and wrists against his back. She seemed to have ripped her limbs from the rope that contained her, all but skinning her hands. A knife that was stained in her blood lay beside her chair next to the ripped-apart rope.
âItâs Micah, Arthur,â Isabella said between gritted teeth. âWhat?â The manâs confusion was written all over his face. Sadie had now arrived and was already undoing Abigailâs restraints.
âHeâs the rat, he was the one talking to the Pinkertons, since Gurma, not Molly. Heâs been telling them everything. Milton knew where the camp was cause of him, he knew where we were, cause of that asshole he knew fucking everything.â Arthur just frowned, his fury making him shake.
Not only had Micah destroyed the family, not only had he also put them into more danger than they had ever faced before. But he'd been the reason Isabella had almost died, that man might as well have put a bullet into Arthur himself. Because thatâs what heâd done, without a moment of remorse, heâd driven Dutch against Arthur, against Isabella, against their family and their dreams of freedom. Pushed his paranoia and delusion to the heights of ugliness that it was now at.
âWe gotta get back, Arthur, we need to warn the others. Otherwise, everybody will die.â Sadie muttered as she reached to help Abigail up. Only now did Isabella see the womanâs face, it was bruised, marked with injuries. Obviously, sheâd been beaten by the Pinkertons, and it looked like sheâd fought like hell, making Isabella feel pride for the younger woman.
They needed to move, they needed to save the others, even if it ended in their death. They needed to save the ones they loved.
ďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďšďš
Isabella clung to Arthur like he was her only source of life as they rushed towards the camp, the thundering of Valour and Bobâs hooves the only sound. What was there even left to say? Because of Micah, Dutch had left Arthur to die, heâd left Abigail to die, and without knowing, he had also left Isabella to die.
Arthurâs body was stiff, like it always was before they rode into a fight, when they were ready to fight for the safety of the gang. They knew that this was not a fight for that anymore, this was a confrontation that had been coming for a long time. And it was finally coming to a head.
When they finally returned to camp, there was almost no one there, all the women, save Sadie, Abigail and Isabella, were gone. There were many of the men left, but Pearson, Swanson, and Straus were also not on the grounds any longer.
John was standing by his tent, looking completely lost. When the four outlaws climbed off their horses, John frowned. âWait, where have you been?â Spotting how bruised Abigail was, his face fell, reaching for her straight away.
âDid the scumbag Micah not tell you, the Pinkertons took her, took me and set us up to hang.â Isabella stepped forward, staring daggers at the other group of men. âBut thatâs not all heâs done, is it, Micah? Care to explain how they found the camp, how they found me?â Her words were hissed as she made her way over to the group of men.
âWhat do you mean by that, Isabella?â Dutch asked, standing up from where he was sitting. âTurns out your suspicions were right, Dutch, there was a rat, but it ainât one of us, it wasnât Molly. It was Micah, or as Milton so warmly called him before he died, Mr Bell.â Arthur growled as he stood beside Isabella, the two of them showing so much threat that it was like a gust of freeze from a blizzard.
âSeems like you know a lot about Agent Milton.â Micah sneered, âAnd coming in accusing me, just after saying you have chatted to him, doesnât look the best, does it?â His faux confidence was radiating.
âThatâs cause when he had me tied to a damn chair, and had a gun to my head, he told me everything.â Isabella's words were out between clenched teeth, bleeding fists clenching despite the pain in them.
âDutch,â Arthur said, his voice weak, his fury had given way to the overwhelming ache of betrayal, this man whom he had seen as a father. Whom he had spent his whole life trying to prove himself to had let some stranger turn him into someone he didnât recognise.
âYou gotta believe us, you canât trust him, you never have been able to trust him. You were blinded by him, but heâs gonna be the reason we will all die.â He explained. Watching as Dutchâs face got darker and darker, the inner battle of his choices and where heâd laid his trust was obvious.
âHow can I know you're telling the truth, since sheâs returned, youâve been changing. Doubting me, sheâs pushed you away from me. She fell into bed with you, and straight away you started to doubt me.â Dutchâs tone was accusatory as he now stared down at Isabella, a look of suspicion on his face that sheâd never seen before.
Heâd always looked at her with mutual respect, heâd raised her, now it was like she was a damn stranger.
âAre you actually fucking kidding me!â Isabella screamed, fists flexing and her face fixed in pure boiling rage. She watched as Micah pulled out his gun, and in response, Arthur, Isabella, John, and Sadie raised their own.
âThis is it, pick your damn side, you wanna stay with this snake, then you can. But Iâm done.â Arthur grunted. None of the ones who had already raised their guns moved. But Micah and his two cronies moved closer to Dutchâs side.
Miss Grimshaw stepped from her tent. âYou're gonna abandon your family for him, for Micah?â Susan had once loved Dutch, but these were her children and knowing he could side with someone else, somebody like Micah, over them, that didnât sit right with her.
The standoff didnât last long, however, because Javierâs thundering footsteps came in. âThe Pinkertons are coming.â His voice was breathless. Micah used the distraction to shoot out one bullet, right into Miss Grimshawâs middle, causing her to grunt and fall to the ground.
Isabella and Arthur looked at each other, the loss of someone theyâd known and loved for so long hitting heavy, but they couldnât dwell on it, not when their situation was so dire. Dutch pulled his own guns out. âFine, who is with me and who is against me, decide now.â He bellowed, the only two who stood by him, apart from Micah and his friends, were Bill and Javier.
And that felt like another damn knife in Arthurâs heart, two men heâd seen as brothers were choosing greed and disloyalty over years of family. âBill and Javier, just think for your goddamn selves for one minute, this ainât right,â Arthur yelled.
âPut your guns down!â They heard a shout as a bullet flew past them. âThis is Agent Ross from the Pinkerton detective agency. Put your guns down, you are surrounded.â All the gang members dropped behind covers, already ready to fight their way out.
âWe gotta go!â Isabella heard Dutch call out and saw them run towards the woods. âGoddamn snakes!â Isabella roared but didnât stop shooting. They needed to clear a way to get out, at least get Abigail, John and Sadie out.
âInto the caves quick,â John yelled over the gunfire, and nobody hesitated for a second, all sprinting towards them. It felt like they ran through the caves for hours, until they finally found an opening, shooting behind them every time they heard footsteps near them.
The minute they reached fresh air again, they were already whistling for their horses and then mounting up. âSadie, take Abigail and get outta here, go join Jack and Tilly.â Arthur roared, his voice held such authority that there was no room for argument.
Sadie gave a curse about not being able to help, but didnât say anything further, instead racing off in the other direction. At the end of the day, they needed to get the mother and son reunited.
The three outlaws who had grown up together, the two who had fallen in love and the one who had always been their best friend, their brother. All rode like hell, not stopping for a second, even as bullets raced past them.
Horses didnât halt until Arthur heard a cry below him and felt himself bucked off Valour, eyes wide as he realised exactly why. The Stallion had been hit in the side, blood already pouring onto the ground as the horse collapsed.
Arthur didnât move a step, dropping to his knees and running his hand over the dying horseâs mane. Isabella and John had jumped off their own horses. Standing beside Arthur to shoot anybody near, this was not a moment theyâd take away from him.
After all, he loved Valour, he was Arthurâs best friend, they shared a bond only a horse and their owner could share, and they both knew how much it crushed someone to lose their horse. âThank you, boy, thank you.â Heâs whispering to Valour as the animal drew his last breath with a soft whiny.
For a moment, Arthur didnât move, but then he felt Isabellaâs hand on his shoulder, looking up so emeralds met aquamarine, and he knew it was time. Wiping a rough sleeve across his face, to try to force the tears that threatened to fall to stay at bay.
They had to move, if they were going to live, they had to keep going. Climbing up the unsteady hills behind them, boots slipping on the uneven ground, but none of them stopped. Even when their lungs were on fire, and their limbs protested for them to take a break. After what felt like an eternity of climbing, they managed to reach solid ground near the middle of the mountain.
The older outlaw looked around. âI think we lost them.â For now, at least, maybe there was still hope, maybe just maybe they could all live.
Then Arthur caught the noise of the echo of a knife entering someone and a cry from Isabella, and he spun on his heel. Just in time to spot Micah with one arm tightly around Isabellaâs shoulder, pulling her back close to him, his gun against her temple. The wound from his knife in her stomach was already causing blood to run down her torso.
âWhat the hell are you doing, Micah, you goddamn rat?â Johnâs raspy voice came from beside Arthur, who was all but rooted to the ground, his eyes on Isabellaâs wound. âI ainât a rat, I'm a goddamn survivor, and Iâve won,â He roared back.
âDrop your damn weapons, or Iâm putting a bullet in this whoreâs head.â Arthurâs eyes met Isabellaâs, and she shook her head âGo for it, if you need to,â Isabella spat. Even if her energy was starting to fade from blood loss, her anger was keeping her upright. Letting out a groaning laugh, which was accompanied by a breathless gasp of agony from her wound.
âBut you ainât won, you ainât ever gonna win.â Pushing against his arms, despite knowing her attempts were futile. âYou wanna die bitch, Iâm gonna kill you, and then Iâm gonna kill these two.â Micah snarled his breath hot and stinking against her ear, making acid rise to Isabellaâs throat in response.
Hearing footsteps beside them, they all turned, just to see Dutch walk into eyesight, his own gun raised. âStop it.â His words were strained, focusing on all of them, his sons, the woman heâd raised, and the man whom he had chosen to trust over them.
âCome on, Dutch, kill these two, we gotta go.â Micahâs spitting, âAll those years, Dutch, we gave you everything, we would have killed and died for you. But you took his side, this goddamn snake.â Arthur grunted through gritted teeth, eyes unmoving from Isabella.
Dutch stood, looking like he was going to say something, but then he turned and walked away. Leaving the three people heâd raised, the ones heâd turned his back on, for the man who was currently holding onto Isabella so tight she could feel each breath getting harder to take in.
âDutch! Dutch!â She heard Micah call from behind her. But the older man had already left. Micahâs hold on Isabella loosened, only slightly, but enough that Isabella could move to grab the knife that was in her stomach and spin around.
Using the little energy she had left, to drive the knife straight into Micahâs shoulder, who cried out in pain but dragged her back until they were at the corner of the cliff. Pushing her to the ground before he ran onto the tiny path there.
John started to run after him, but Arthur grabbed him. âStop, John, we need toâŚâ He much like John, wanted to throw Micah off the side of the cliff. But his eyes didnât move from Isabella as she moaned on the ground, her hands pressed against the weeping wound on her stomach.
âBelle!â Arthur screamed, running towards her, his hands pushing with hers onto her stomach, trying to quell the blood that would not stop flowing. âOh, Arthur,â Isabella was starting to feel unsteady with the blood loss. âItâs over, but thatâs okay, because you two will live.â One of her bloody hands left her stomach to cradle his cheek.
Feeling her blood mixing with the tears that were falling down his cheeks. âI love you, Arthur, and I always will. Itâs okay to let me go, itâs finally time to do so.â She whimpered, feeling herself fading, her breathing shallowing, and her eyelids fluttering.
For so long she hadnât been afraid to die, then sheâd found a reason to live, and now she knew that reason was alive, would live, and that was all that mattered. She was ready to let go and finally succumb to the peace of death.
After all these years, it was her time, and she was ready to let go of the pain that haunted her every second and just be gone. Finally, be gone.
Tag list - (please let me know if you'd like to be added) @arthursdodobird, @photo1030
So, the fandom has unfortunately dealt with a great deal of racism, but one bit that Iâm not sure people think about is how Lenny and Tilly are treated.
Neither person is widely represented in the fandom. The fandom talks about how much they love them, but where is the proof? Where is the representation? For one, Lenny is obnoxiously whittled down to Ynnel.
Seriously? The arguably most intelligent person in the game is STILL reduced to that? Someone so kind and so bright, a man who could accomplish anything if he lived a different life, and the tragedy of his life being cut so brutally short. He was selfless, teaching Sean to read and knew how to navigate the sometimes tense moments in camp with the more racist members. (because he had to, sadly.) He's able to outsmart Dutch and shut him up about Evelyn Miller!!!! That is a huge satisfying accomplishment. Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea have all praised him.
Yet I hardly ever see him represented on tumblr (or in general, to be fair.) beyond the meme.
I hardly ever see him included in fanfics and almost never on headcanons. We need to do better.
Tilly is treated slightly better, but so many people infantilize her; itâs disgusting. Sheâs a grown woman who has endured so much horror and tragedy like Lenny. The woman can defend herself. I do believe we see her shooting a gun at some point. Her being kidnapped doesnât mean she canât defend herself other times. Abigail and Arthur were both also kidnapped. Tilly was able to plan a heist by herself while dealing with Bill Williamson successfully and she is able to get a lot of leads in towns. Sheâs kind, even trying to befriend Molly. She saved Jackâs life. I think she would have cared for Jack if Abigail and John died. Her kindness is not a weakness, and she is fully capable of standing up for herself. She is one of the most moral people in the gang. (I would say that Lenny is also pretty moral-based? Iâm not sure if he is the most moral man outside of Charles in the gang. He was definitely against unnecessary bloodshed and such.)
I will say that artists have done (what I think) is a great job representing Tilly when there is representation. There are so many beautiful pieces of art of her, and I often see her included with Mary-Beth and Karen. However, I think there should be more pieces of just her standing on her own. Unfortunately, Tilly is rarely written about as well. I would say sheâs written about the least out of the young women.
And one of my biggest gripes is - how come almost every woman is shipped with people, but Tilly isnât? Yes, Tilly is shipped with Javier sometimes, but thatâs rarely discussed and sheâs overall not shipped with many people. She should be able to have some romantic ships like everyone else. Tilly is NOT the youngest member of the gang as some people have said. I have a dear friend who has done the math and believes that Tilly is older than Abigail. (I know this can be debated, though.) My point is, sheâs not a child. If you feel like thereâs someone she could be shipped with, whether in the gang or not, go for it!
Now, I am a white person, and I can only speak as an outsider looking in. I have heard some of my POC friends ' frustrations with Tilly, and this is one of the reasons that Iâm writing this, along with my own frustration with how some of the POC characters are treated.
We need to listen to what POC people say about representation in the fandom. (More importantly, we as a fandom need to confront the fact that so many POC voices and creators have been chased away by the racists in this fandom just for posting the smallest thing.)
Tilly is my third most written-about character, and I sadly donât have much for her. Iâm an Abigail-centric blog, so thatâs who I write about most, followed by Molly and now Tilly. I have some writing that Iâll hopefully post soon, and I admit I worry that I am representing her well, but I want to try anyway. I'm not saying this to say I'm better or anything. Just that I think itâs important to try to branch out and figure out how to represent others even if it's hard or you mess up. There are sensitivity readers out there that can help. If so many white people can write for Charles and Javier, then do the same for Tilly and Lenny. They deserve better.
This turned out to be wayyyy too long, but I always write long posts, and I wanted to get my points across. Tagging everyone mentioned in this post for visibility.
Thank you if youâre still reading this, and if anyone has anything they want to add, Iâd love to read it.
â°A/N: I didnât think I would add on to the original oneshot, but here we are. (Like I said, anything to get out of doing my stats work) Thank you @photo1030 for giving me drive to write more on this story :)
Arthur pic is mine :)
â° Summary: You invite your estranged husband into your home and have the conversation that shouldâve happened years ago.
â° Tags: Major character death, Arthur Morgan x female reader, angst, small comfort as a treat, ambiguous honor level until end, high honor ending, Arthur Morgan has TB, no smut, unhealthy relationship
You helped him to his feet. His hands in yours, holding on like you were an angel sent just for him.
Guiding him inside your home. Your little pocket in the world. Your space, your sanctuary.
You were unsure what broke you, but you couldnât turn him away now. You would always wonder for the rest of your life what would happen otherwise.
âSit.â You muttered as he walked with you to the couch.
He obliged, catching his breath. Blood on his lips.
Retreating to your kitchen, you found a cloth he could hold on to while he was here.
Handing it to him gingerly, you watched Arthur collect himself.
ââŚThank you.â He muttered. For what, you didnât know.
A nod as you moved to sit across from him.
His eyes wandered the small interior of your home. The fireplace, the kitchenette, the portraits hanging on the wall, the gorgeous flowers from your garden resting in vases, every little detail that gave your house personality. All of it traced back to you and your love for it all.
Everything was clean, well-kept, and well loved. Even down to how you stitched up the rips in your couch cushions was done with care and skill.
He loved that about you. How much you cared about things, no matter how small.
His eyes found you again, taking in your expression and how you held yourself.
Always so proud. So sure of what you were doing. Your expression gave nothing away, but he saw the idling in your hands.
The overhanging questions were loud in both of your heads.
So, he began first.
ââŚWhy did you leave, sweetheart?â
You knew it was coming. How many times have you rehearsed this conversation in your head?
Because I donât want you.
Because I wanted better.
I had to leave for my sanity.
Would you have stayed if you were in my shoes?
So many justifications and explanations left your lips in practice, but it felt like none of them held water in his judgment.
ââŚI didnât know what else to do. I couldnât stay,âI-I wouldnât. I know I didnât deserveââ
âMe?â
âShut up and let me speak, please, Arthur,â You huffed. âJust this once. You know I hate when you do that.â
He closed his lips and sighed.
âIâm sorryâŚYou were saying?â He folded his hands in his lap, fidgeting with the bloodied cloth.
You began again.
ââŚI didnât deserve being treated like that. I know that now. Being left alone for days, weeks, months without end and sometime without any notice, wondering if you were even alive or dead until you came backâŚand then arguing about every little thing in the worldâŚI couldnât do it anymoreâŚno matter how much I love you and wanted things to be different...â
He wanted to defend himself. Preach again about his obligations. The people who depend on him, his loyalty, and everything you said to him the night you left.
Your continuation stopped him.
ââŚWe ended things horribly. IâŚoften regret what I said to you. I donâtâŚhate you, Arthur. I canât. I donât want to, and I certainlyâŚâ
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly feeling like closing.
ââŚdonât wish death on you.â
A budding thought began in your mind, that his illness came from your words to him that night. That somehow, you cursed him in your anger.
He avoided your gaze, something he usually did when confronted with emotions. You saw his eyes were glossier than moments ago.
ââŚThank you.â He tried to cover the voice crack at the end with a cough.
ââŚI never meant to push you away. Make you think IâŚshoved you aside.â
ââŚYou kind of did, Arthur.â
He exhaled a long sigh, hand reaching back to rest on his neck.
ââŚYeah. But I swear, I never meant to. There was a reason I did what I did.â
A flicker of frustration lit in your chest. It sounded like he was going to try and justify himself again, like the whole conversation you just had meant nothing.
ââŚI understand your commitment to Dutch and everyone, I just wish IâŚgot some of your time too. More than just obligatory visits.â The bite began to chew its way back into your tone, something he picked up on quickly.
âI donât know what you mean with âobligatory visitsâ, but you know I always came home when I could and had the time.â
ââŚCouldnât make any more time?â
âWellâŚno. They need meââ
The scrape of the couch against the wood floors surprised him for a moment as you abruptly stood and threw up your arms.
âItâs like you werenât even fucking listening to me,â you hissed.
âDonâtââHe followed, lunging to catch your arm before you strayed too far.
He caught your hand as you spun around and swung at him again, stuck in another stalemate.
His grip was binding, but not rough as you struggled against him. Trying to writhe yourself free. But dealing with people struggling against him his whole life gave him the upper hand.
âEnough, woman! Stop.â
âFuck you!â
Pushing him off to strike again, but he caught both your hands just in time and tugged you closer.
âListen to me,â He gritted.
You managed to free your wrists again, but he was quick to adjust his grip in a matter of moments.
Enraged, the outburst began.
âI needed you!â You cried out, startling him just enough to slip from his grip. Taking a gasping breath, you grasped his arms tightly.
âDoesnât that matter?? Didnât I matter? Didnât you care?!â
His hands held your face with love, but his grip was strong. He shook as he spoke.
âI care,â
Offended at the very thought otherwise.
âHow could you even ask thatâŚ?â
His thumb gently wiped a stray tear from your cheek.
ââŚMy wifeâŚyouâre my wife. Why would I marry you if I didnât care about you..? Iââ
âThat means nothing to me now.â You shook your head and pried his hands from your face. Trying to stop the pained look on his face from burning into your memory.
âI was never your first priority. You never cared enough to say âNoâ to Dutch, but always to me.â
âBaby, Iââ
âI know! You had to live by your code and your godforsaken loyalty! I know!â You exclaimed. âEvery time I come to you with real hurt, that was always your answer!â
âItâs the truth.â He stood his ground.
âDoesnât mean I have to accept it.â
âYou are acting like a child.â He replied.
âUgh! Just go, Arthur. Clearly we canât talk about anything. This was pointless.â
âNo. Weâre talking about this, you are not shutting me out.â
âEvery time we do talk, it turns into this.â You motioned between the two of you. âIt only gets worse!â
âThen weâll try something else.â
The conversation died as he stepped closer and took you in his arms. Snaking around your torso and pulling you to him. His hand found the back of your head, his fingers threaded through your hair, holding your ear to his beating heart.
ââŚJustâŚbreathe with me. Alright?â
Reflexively, you tensed. Unsure of what to do, or if you even wanted this.
You wanted to keep talking.
Keep driving home your point, trying to get him to see it.
To convince him to see the faults in his actions.
Instead, your mind zeroed in on how his body was behaving.
With him holding you so close, you could perfectly hear his heart and lungs. The thumping of his beating heart, the feeling of the rise and fall of his chest against your ear.
You could audibly hear his body struggling to keep him alive.
The rasp in his breath, the exertion in his lungs, sounding like they were minutes from collapse.
You knew he was only trying to help, but hearing the turmoil in his lungs was too much. The strength it took for him to take just a single breathâŚ
Finally, you gave in and hugged him back. Nails digging into his skin, trying to hide your tears in his shirt.
ââŚOh, my god, ArthurâŚâ You wept. Grip tightening on the back of his shirt. âI donât want you to die.â
He fought hard to stop his own tears. He hasnât cried since the night you left, but this was a breaking point for him.
He was only trying to make you feel better.
ââŚI donât want to die either.â He confessed.
He buried his face in your hair as your sobs continued, swallowing back his own.
âI donât want you to die thinking I hated youâŚOr that I didnât want anything to do with you anymore,â you whimpered.
âI know you donât, baby. I know. I never wanted you to think I didnât care about you. NeverâŚâ
âI knew you did, I justâŚâ
âListen to me. I need you to know this,â He began.
âEvery single score I had since we were married, I saved some for you. For us. Kept it tucked away so nobody would steal itâŚso we could live good one day, just you and me. Away from all this. You could live goodâŚThe way you deserved.â
He never mentioned this before. You had no ideaâŚ
He took a breath and held your eyes.
ââŚI wouldnât have done that if I didnât care, right?â
You nodded, his hand cupping your cheek with the utmost care. Unshed tears glittered in his eyes, reflecting the bloodshot color.
âThats my girl. Donât ever think I stopped caring, alright?â
You nodded again, drooping your head against his chest again.
His hand came up to cradle you there, holding and resting in the quiet moment.
His heart was still thumping, unchanging from moments prior. The pulsing quickly became a comfort, keeping you in the reality where he was still here. Still alive and still with you.
An idea crossed your mind. Fleeting, stupid, but worth a shot.
You carefully lifted your head to meet his again.
âPleaseâŚArthur. Stay with me.â You begged.
Your hands slid to his collar, gripping the open cloth.
âPleaseâŚcome home. Just this once.â
He wanted to close the distance so bad.
Say yes and stay with you. Be the husband you deserved while he still could.
His will waived, but he couldnât do it.
Canât subject you to this life again, no matter how short itâll be.
ââŚIâm still wanted, sweetheartâ, He whispered. âItâs worse than before.â
His hands found their rightful place on your waist.
Your eyes dropped to his lips.
âThe people cominâ after me, theyâre killers. I canâtââ
Silenced as you met his mouth with yours.
The world went quiet for a moment.
For just a second, you were together again. The routine of kissing him when he came home returned, and for just a moment, he forgot.
He deepened the kiss with renewed intensity. Your hands rising to hold his cheeks.
Keep him here.
Keep him with you.
It began slow. His grip on your waist never faltered, only strengthened in hold as he found his way home again in your warmth.
He nipped your bottom lip in question, asking for entry.
A gasp escaped your throat and the flood began.
Memories he tried to bury, all the times in your shared bed. The old house, the old sheets, the old blankets, how he used to make you cry out for him.
The pretty soundsâŚ
The red nail marks down his backâŚ
The fire low in his gut as it all came to a climaxâŚ
He could have it again.
But as soon as the thought came, it left with the urgency of realization.
He gripped your arms. Hard. And pulled you back.
Fear in his eyes. Utter horror and disbelief.
âWhy would you do that?â
You couldnât hear him.
âWhy would you do that??â
He shook you with fervor.
You felt such whiplash.
âDo you understand what you just did, woman??â He roared.
You swallowed.
You didnât know.
âWhat are youââ
He shoved you off. Hands covering his face as he began to pace your living room.
âI donât understand,â you began.
âIt spread.â He spoke so quickly, you almost misheard him.
âWhat is?â
âTuberculosis, you goddamn-â He bit back his outburst with a growl.
A shuttering revelation. A chill up your spine, followed by stomach-dropping fear.
âItâs spread by saliva, woman.â His hands dragged down his face, looking at you again with something you couldnât name.
Your thoughts raced like wildfire.
You canât take it back.
Its done.
Youâve damned yourself to the same fate as him.
All because you wanted his love.
ââŚI didnât know.â You trembled.
How could you? What prior knowledge could you have possibly had about this disease?
âWell, we canât do shit about it now. Itâs already in you.â It was unclear if the frustration in his tone was for you or him.
He couldnât even imagine it. The mere thought of you wilting like he was, hacking up a lung and slowly fading into death. Losing your strength so quickly. The pain, the tormentâŚit was too much.
He wanted a drink. To kill something. Anything to relieve the growing guilt in his chest and to hide from the way you looked at him.
You wanted to die on the spot. This was it. Youâve just signed your life away, condemned yourself to an untimely death, and he was the one freaking out.
Your heart beat rapidly in your chest.
ââŚArthur, what do I do?â The panic in your voice was palpable.
âGo see a doctor. Now.â
âCome with me.â
âAbsolutely not.â
Your already racing heart dropped straight into hell. He wouldnâtâŚ
ââŚDonât you dare leave like this. Not now. I need you.â
Not when you needed him the most.
âAll Iâve done is ruin you. Mess up you and your life. You were right to leave me, now get going.â
âYou donât get to run away again! Itâs all you do when things get tough.â
âYouâre one to talk.â He sounded so resigned.
âDonât speak to me like that!â
âEnough, for christâs sake!â He yelled. Silencing you with a rough hold on your shoulders.
He turned as the coughing returned, wracking his body and making him bend. He swallowed back the mucus to keep it off your floors.
âIâm not leaving. Not yet. Iâll give you enough cash to get a treatment, get your favorite foods and maybe even live somewhere warmer. Itâs easier to manage in hot weather.â
âBut youâre not coming with me.â
He paused, catching a breath.
ââŚI canât watch you die.â
âOh, but I have to watch you do it instead??â
âI canât do this with you anymore.â He exhaled in utter surrender.
From his satchel, he pulled out the money he mentioned. More than reasonable. Tossed it to the table and nodded in goodbye.
âArthur...â You began, feeling your heart rip in half.
Donât you dare leave me like this.
He moved to the front door.
âArthur.â Your voice raised.
You canât do this to me.
âI love you.â He called behind him.
Opened it the door,
âArthur!â You yelled.
And he left. Just like that. Gone as soon as he came. The wood shutting behind him.
Your hand slammed against the door.
âYou son of a bitch!â You screamed out.
Tears welled in your eyes and overflowed as his footsteps disappeared.
Years worth of memories, pain, longing and the finality if it all, overflowed like a broken damn as your legs gave out beneath you. Gripping the doorknob to try and stay up was futile.
Sinking down to the cold, wooden floor as he mounted his horse and left.
Just like always.
He never changed.
He never will.
You wanted to curse him. Kill him. Hold him. Tie him to a chair to keep him here.
But you didnât move. Couldnât.
The dawning realization that you kissed him, and for just a few wonderful seconds, you got to feel it again. His passion and desire to show you how much he missed you was a flicker of happiness in a crashing world.
You were going to get it now too.
The sickness.
Youâve damned yourself to dying alone, coughing and spitting up your own lungs without him beside you.
Withering away until your lungs finally give out. Just like him.
You donât remember how long you were stuck on the ground. Choking on residual tears and his final words.
To you. His wife. His heart, and his world now destroyed.
You spent so long preparing for it. Arranged your will, where you wanted to be buried and even the funeral location.
But nothing happened.
Days, weeks, months, even up to one year since he left, you waited every day for it.
Nothing.
Maybe it was a cruel twist of fate.
You visited the Valentine doctor like clockwork. Checking your health constantly, but he always told you the same thing. You were perfectly healthy.
âŚYou got the dormant strain.
It wasnât fair.
He shouldâve had it.
Maybe he did, and it somehow decided to active.
You donât know. Itâs not like you could ask him.
You saw the headline in the paper. Grieved. Screamed. Cried until your eyes were as red as his were.
So blurry, so full of love.
You got lucky and received a letter from a Mr. Charles Smith who told you where he was buried. It seems Arthur told at least someone about you.
You made the trip as soon as you finished reading.
All the way up that godforsaken mountain, just to see him again.
The cruelest part of your mind began to hope that this was just part of a scam. A con. A stupid, long joke. A way to fake his death so he could finally be free and come home to you.
And when you finally reached the top, he would be standing there. Healthy. Strong. Just as you remembered.
But instead, reality met you.
And that wooden headstone.
Carved with love, grief and the celebration of his life.
Flowers adorned the grave. His name etched in the wood, and a saying that stuck with you.
âBlessed Are Those Who Hunger And Thirst For Righteousness.â
It seems in his time left, he became better.
Did better.
Was better.
But not for you.
The realization stung.
If he was here, you undoubtedly wouldâve argued. Bickered, bitched, the whole ordeal.
But for the first time, you were met with calmness to your anger.
The breeze. The sway of nearby trees. Birds. Squirrels. The world moving on.
His silence.
Time blurred while you were up there. It felt like an eternity.
You, staring at the headstone. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.
Your mindâs eye conjured impossible scenarios.
His voice calling you, hidden in the wind.
Finding him behind you with an outstretched hand and the promise of running away.
Bounty hunters, facing you with weapons drawn. Taking you in Arthurâs place.
Van Der Linde himself, here to try and sway you to join the fray.
Arthur, bursting from the ground, undead and rotting. Lunging at youâ
ââŚMrs. Morgan?â
You startled, the low voice pulling you from your thoughts. You expected to be alone with your thoughts here, not with visiting company.
Nobody had called you that in years.
Who could it be? The law? An associate of Arthurâs? Maybe even a loverâŚ
You finally turned to see the man behind you.
You were met with a face youâve never seen before.
A kinder face.
He looked at you with something akin to pity.
âMissâŚ?â
âYes. Iâm sorry. Lost in thought.â You cleared your throat, clasping your hands in front of you.â
âAnd you are, sir?â
âCharles Smith, maâam. Arthur, heâŚtalked about you a lot.â
âDid he?â
Charles nodded.
ââŚYeah. Very often in his final days. One of our last rides together, he asked me to deliver something to you. Iâve been making the ride here since he passed, hoping to run into you.â
Your head tilted. More money, maybe? But you didnât need it. Didnât want it. You wanted him back more than anything.
From Charlesâ pocket, he held out a small wooden box. Crude, made in a rush.
ââŚHe left this for you.â
You already knew what was inside.
You took the box with utmost care. Holding the weight in your hands like it was made of glass.
A heart was carved on the top, complete with an arrow piercing through. Below it, your initials and his together.
A little hard to make out, but you knew.
Inside was exactly as you hoped.
His wedding ring.
The band glinting in the sun like a greeting.
He thought about you.
Even in his final moments.
Your lips pulled back into frown.
âOhâŚâ
Your hands shook as you slipped it on over your thumb. Tracing it with your other finger.
ââŚThank you, Mr. Smith.â
It took years to come to terms with grieving your husband longer than you knew him.
But you managed.
Charles visited you once a month. Checking in, fixing what you couldnât and being a stable presence in the solitude of your home.
You often wondered if Arthur asked him to do it, but maybe Charles was just like that. Thoughtful, considerate,âŚkind in ways Arthur couldnât be.
Who knows?
For now, Arthur ring rested on a chain over your heart. Where he never left, and where heâd always stay.
Wow 𤯠That is NOT how I thought that would go. Thatâs what I love about fic writing-I had a whole other scenario in my head but this is absolutely fantastic. So âArthurâ (Iâm so glad i talked you into doing a part 2 đ)
I love that you let them both be angry yet still fueled by love. So much emotional turmoil churning about.
At the end on the mountaintop when sheâs spiraling in her thoughts about who the stranger could be - Nice touch
Again, such a âArthurâ thing. Love and anger, touching moments and foolish actions, selfless acts wrapped up in selfish motives.
âYou know, Arthur, I never end up in a place by mistake,â Colm finally continued, his words slow, chosen carefully. âIâm not a wanderer, nor a lost soul looking to be saved nor am I trying to shape the world or whatever shit it is that Dutch pretends to do. I prefer certainty over chance and seizing opportunity whenever it strikes. I know exactly where and when to be to get what I want. If any man is to get ahead in this world, he needs to carve his own path because the world ainât going to do it for him.â
âNot sure I follow,â Arthur said quietly, scrutinizing his cards. He heard Colm chuckle.Â
âSure you do. Youâre smart enough. Thereâs a reason why Iâm here; and I canât but help wonder if itâs the same reason Dutch and them are here too.â
âAinât got no reason behind it,â Arthur sighed, folding as the pot was raised. âYou know how he is; ainât never gone in a straight line before.â
âNo,â Colm agreed, âbut sure is a rather strange coincidence, you lot showing up when you did. Been a year, more so, since we last ran together. Figured you boys were long gone and yet now youâre back, and I canât help but wonder, of all places, you fellas set up in this area. At the same time we did.â
Arthur knew that were paranoia talking. Heâd heard as much from Owen, just the day before. That Colm were focused on Dutch and to his reasonings as to why he were here. Never got him thinking as to why that paranoia existed, just the acknowledgment that it did, but now it set his mind racing, curious as to what were fueling it. Because that sort of thinking didnât come from nowhere. Were a reason he were so focused, acting as though it were an itch that couldnât be reached. Everything slow to come together, but the puzzle sorting itself out as Arthur watched him.Â
âDutch ainât chasing nothing but empty dreams,â he admitted, because it were true. The man ainât had nothing going for him now save for the art scheme, which were destined to fail. âBut something tells me that ainât true for yourself.â
Colm were quiet a moment, before carefully splaying out his cards in yet another win. âSo, heâs said nothing about a train?â
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