You're on the run with a secret, and you end up exactly where you don't belong: with a broken blue-eyed outlaw who didn't expect someone like you in his life. Neither of you has a prayer of getting out unscathed by what's to come.
m/f smut | reader-oc | angst | romance | violence | not even close to a slow burn
300K words, 29/29 chapters, completed June 9, 2024
Accompanied by Acts, a series of smutty one-shots on the periphery of Redbird
Arcadia (formerly Afterlife) (ao3)
Book II of Redbird
m/f smut | reader-oc | canon expansion | romance | an honest life is never easy
58,000 words, 5/? chapters, updated November 30, 2025
Sweetbriar (modern music AU, ao3)
A musician struggling under pressure finds comfort when she meets Arthur, a man with a painful past who seems to understand her all too well, but their budding relationship is threatened by the return of a music legend.
Portrait of a Man Undone and companion piece Bittersweet
Lilacs in May
The Aftermath of Dreams
A Fine Predicament
Nectar
Wanted (on ao3)
Works in progress: several asks, chapter 6 of Arcadia, chapter 8 of Sweetbriar, and chapter 4 of Free Roam
for work-in-progress snippets and updates, my working blog is wipidek
the calm amidst all the chaos, sunny mornings in the april of 1883. some snippets from the daily life of the van der linde gang, back when they were younger, the sun was brighter and the bird songs sang a little louder over the valleys of the wild west
hello miss ari đȘ»đ§Ą for the wip tag game: can we get a little something from either arcadia or sweetbriar? begging on my hands AND knees đđŒ
with pleasure, friend! đȘ»đ§Ąhow about a little from both? i hope you're having a beautiful spring xoxo
[from chapter 6 of arcadia]
âDonât look behind you,â he says, with a peck on your cheek as he walks past. And so a bit perplexed you look ahead, where the unbroken surface of the lake reflects the world, the upside-down pines along the shore, the bluest sky, the knuckled boulders holding on at the waterâs edge, and the distant white walls and arched verandas of the mission obscured by the atmosphere and the pines and far enough away now that in its distance it already seems like a place you visited long ago.
âNow?â You startle at the nearby rattling call of a kingfisher in the low branches.
âNot yet.â His voice is farther away. In the shadow of the dock, a formation of minnows switches to and fro, and then bows inward at the intrusion in their midst of a small bluegill, and they scatter like a drip of dye curling and spreading in water.
âNow?â you call.Â
There is a pause. You almost turn. You want to turn and do not turn; the stories you know about turning too soon always end in tragedy. You wait. The minnows regather. The water laps the shore. The pines across the lake stand stalwart and their reflections point your way.Â
âOkay.â His voice now far away. You turn.
At your feet, in a pearly shell the size of a cupped hand, a small candle stands lit, like the ones in the hillside chapel. In fact the very ones.
Ten steps ahead, another flame sways in its halfshell, and another; a crooked strand of little glowing cups leads up the shaded path. Something alert and skittish arises inside like a ruffled songbird, a little flustered at this gesture as you follow this trail of stolen candles into the interior of the island, up the mossy path, and toward the small pillared structure there.Â
It is smaller than you expected. You donât know what you expected. It is tidier. The stone pillars are chipped from many seasons, and hold up the low roof. Three steps up to the porch, and through the open door. Inside, a bed. A worn and faded tufted chair. A small hearth. Candles lit and flickering in their shells.
You pass through the little room to the doors on the other side that open to the grove of the trees you suspected were there all along, in the late days of their flower, and petals falling, falling to the moss and stones underfoot.Â
When you turn, heâs leaning against the porch post, watching, and you feel like you havenât felt since the first days you knew him. When he would find you on the overlook, shedding his belts and his hat with a shine in his eyes like he had been polishing his thoughts of you until he could get there.Â
[and one from chapter 9 of sweetbriar]
From the hotel, he hails a cab - never could drive in this country. He can play left-handed on the fly but heâs discoordinated as a mad steer if he tries to drive on the opposite side of the road.
After half an hour, when the city turns to industry and then tight-packed houses gradually spreading farther apart, they eventually pass a rolling green field bordered by tall leafy plane trees and a stone wall, a hill in the distance.
âCan you let me off here?â
âHere? Itâs the middle of nowhere mate.â
âI know where Iâm at.â
He stands at the roadside without a coat or umbrella if it rains the way it wants to, and pretends to walk up the road until the cab is out of sight, and then he hops the wall and starts hiking across that impeccable field. A light mist clouds the air.
Thinking of a night in September.
âA cowboy in London, my my. Are you lost, cowboy?â
He stepped out of the way of a roadie pushing a stack of touring cases down the tunnel. âI must be.âÂ
She laughed with her friends.Â
When he gets to the stream, he follows it north, and through the mist he can eventually make out the verdigris roof of the orangerie in the distance, the vane on the stables. And finally the willows on the soft banks.Â
Under the largest one, a polished black granite stone stands, three feet by five feet. Not the mausoleum he fought against. She wouldâve hated it. It wouldâve terrified their boy. If they had to be here, let them feel the sunlight, rare as it was. In gold lettering,Â
Elizabeth Rose â Isaac Christopher
MORGAN
Memory was forever embedded in his hands. The warm, quivering heft of seven pounds six ounces â Support his head â as he kissed that wrinkly forehead again and again and again and smelled his baby hair.Â
And the true meaning of motionless. The hardness of a steel table.
Fuck, his chest hurts. He doesnât want to let himself forget it as if he would wake up one day to find them gone from his heart. Just breathe. Sit with them. On the ground.Â
So he sits, and haltingly leans against the cold granite, and combs his fingers through the grass like hair.
âFigured while Iâm here I oughta see you, try to get this right. I ain't moving on, just like nothin. Iâll never let you go.â He clears his throat. âBut I met someone. Who's makin me feel like it's alright to feel this againâŠin spite ofâŠeverything. And, uh, just to be honest with you, I think I love her back. If that means bein unable to stop wantin to be with someone. Sometimes I think I didn't know what it was, before. And if that's true, then I was never good enough for you, and Iâm sorry. You deserved better."
He can hardly get out the words.
"Kit, you were born loved, baby. You couldn't help it.â
Not a strangled breath later, there's a zip as his hair wisps off his forehead and a huge dart buries itself halfway up its shaft in the willow trunk. He whips around, holding his head âÂ
"The hell ââ
â before he sees the golf cart lumbering up the hill and the man inside, riding up in his silk bathrobe open and flowing, and pajama pants, and slippers, a cigarette in his lips and a crossbow propped on his thigh.
One minute, he was hauling a sack of corn feed out of a wagon. The next, he looked up and there they were - like ghosts coming out of the afternoon sun. Abigail and Jack walking down the worn wagon path, trailed by a dog.
John dropped the sack.
He didnât even notice it hit the ground.
âYouâŠyouâre -â
She didnât answer right away. She just set her suitcase down and looked at him like she wasnât sure if the place was real, or if he was.
John took one step, then another, Abigail mirroring his movements. They crashed into each other with the weight of the years between them as she leapt into his arms.
He stuttered and felt Abigailâs smile against his cheek. âYou always did have that fine way with words.âÂ
His arm looped around her, hers around his shoulders, not letting go. How many nights had it been since he was alone? How many nights had he thought that she had finally done the right thing and left his sorry ass? How many times had he written and rewritten that letter begging her to come back, that he was building the life she had always dreamed of?
How many times had he cursed himself, having taken her and his son for granted?Â
Jack stands tall behind his mother. John reached one arm out and placed it upon his head, âYou doing alright, son?â
Jack swallowed, eyes still on the house. âSure, pop. Can I go see the house?â
The âpopâ hit him square in the chest. For a second, he couldnât breathe around it.
âSure,â John managed.
Jack didnât need telling twice. He shot his mother a quick look, got a small nod, then took off at a run toward the porch, boots thudding on the steps. The dog bounded after him, claws scrabbling, tail flagging.
The screen door squealed as Jack shouldered it open.Â
Abigailâs shoulders dropped a fraction, some tightness easing there. âJust give him some time⊠heâll warm up,â she said quietly, eyes tracking the boyâs movement through the front windows. Then she looked back at John, really looked, her gaze traveling over the porch rail, visible past his shoulder. âItâs quite a place you got here.â
He swallowed, suddenly aware of every crooked board and scuffed plank. âItâs yours.â
Her eyes jumped back to his. Something flickered thereâsurprise, maybe, or hurt, or both. âOurs,â she corrected, and the way she said it made his chest ache. She glanced toward the doorway again. âI should see about that boy.â
She stepped past him, skirts brushing his leg, the familiar scent of herâdust and horse and soap and something underneath that was just Abigailâcurling around him for a moment before the breeze stole it away. Her hand brushed his arm, light, almost accidental, and then she was on the steps, following Jack inside.
The dog hesitated.
Heâd bounded up after Jack but stopped halfway, turning back to look at John with bright, assessing eyes. Then he padded down again, trotted over, and started circling him instead, sniffing at his boots, his jeans, the hem of his shirt. His tail swished thoughtfully. He let out a low, questioning woof.
John stared back at him. âWhoâs my new rival?â he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
From the doorway, Abigailâs voice answered, dry and amused. âOh, thatâs Rufus, heâs⊠loyal, dumb, and angry⊠so he reminded us of you.â
John blinked, dragging his eyes from the dog to her. She was leaning against the doorframe now, one hand braced high, watching him with a look that slipped somewhere between fondness and exasperation.
âThat your idea of a joke, miss?â he asked.
A corner of her mouth twitched. âI guess.â
The dogâRufusâgave an agreeing bark, as if heâd been personally consulted.
John reached down, fingers brushing over coarse fur as the dog shoved his head under his hand, demanding more. It was ridiculous, how fast the simple, eager weight of that head against his palm made something tight inside him loosen just a notch.
âCome on,â Jackâs voice called from inside, a little breathless. âMa! Rufus! Pop!â
The boy stood just inside the doorway, eyes bright now, pointing emphatically at something in the dim interior. Rufus whipped around at his name, nails scrabbling on the wood as he tore back up the steps.
Abigail pushed off the frame. She looked at John one more moment, something unreadable in her gaze.
âItâs a good start,â she said softly. âNow come show us the rest.â
â
The inside of the house smelled like cut wood and old smoke. For so long, âhomeâ had just meant dust and leather and the stink of horse next to wherever the tent was set up.
Now there was the faint iron scent of the stove that he had yet to use and the sun-warmed dust drifting through the air in thin, golden spears.
Abigailâs boot heels thudded quietly on the plank floor as she stepped in. Jack followed, eyes everywhere, head swiveling with every new thing.
âThis is the, uh⊠main room.â John cleared his throat. âFigure we can put more shelves up along that wall. Maybe a real table, someday. That oneâs⊠borrowed.â
The table was old, its legs a little uneven, but it held. Two mismatched chairs sat on either side. A chipped tin plate had been left out next to an old coffee tin of nails. A single pewter candlestick burned low near the center.
Jack drifted toward it, fingertips skimming the tableâs nicked surface. âWeâre gonna live here?â he asked, not quite looking at either of them.
âIf it suits your ma,â John said, keeping it light.
Abigailâs gaze flicked to him, something sharp passing behind her eyes. She walked instead toward the small iron stove against the far wall, running her hand along the edge. The stovepipe snaked up through the ceiling, patched with tin where heâd misjudged the fit the first time.
âYou fixed that?â she asked quietly.
âTook a few tries.â He scratched the back of his neck. âSmoked the whole damn place out first time. Thought the roofâd catch for sure.â
Her lips twitched, a ghost of the old wry amusement he used to live for. âYou always were impatient.â
âStill am,â he said, eyes on her hands. âJust⊠tryinâ to be impatient about different things now.â
She let that sit between them. Then she looked past him to the far doorway, where a rough frame hinted at another room. âAnd through there?â
He nodded. âBedroom. Yours. Ours. IfâŠâ Words failed him. He let them fall.
Abigail turned her head just enough to glance at Jack. âAnd whereâs his?â
âBack there.â John pointed to the short hallway heâd fought the damn boards over for two days. âGot him a bed. Ainât much, butââ
âCan I see?â Jack cut in, the first real excitement in his voice.
âGo on,â Abigail said, with a small smile. âCareful of the nails.â
The boy shot off, boots clomping down the hall.
They both watched him go. The sound of a door scraping against a rough floor, a muted exclamation of, âMa, thereâs a window!â drifted back.
Abigailâs shoulders sagged, just a fraction. Some of the road-weary tension eased out of her spine. She exhaled slowly, eyes closing for half a heartbeat.
âI wanted it right,â John said, quiet now. He wasnât sure if he was talking about the house or something else entirely.
She opened her eyes again, looking up at him. âYou did all this yourself?â
âCharles and Uncle. Mainly Charles. You know Uncle ainât doing any real work.â
That got a goggle out of her. He huffed a small, incredulous laugh in return. God, heâd missed this. Her. The way she cut right through nonsense and left him standing there with nothing but the truth.
From down the hall came the creak of bed slats and Jackâs delighted, âItâs soft!â
Abigailâs face eased in a way he hadnât seen in years. She didnât smile fully, not yet, but something loosened around her eyes.
âBedroom?â she asked.
He jerked his head toward the curtained doorway. âYeah. Uh. This way.â
â
The bedroom was small.
Not even a proper door yetâjust a curtain hung from nails. The mattress sat low to the ground on a frame heâd cobbled from leftover planks and scavenged boards. A rough wool blanket lay on top, the gray softened by wear. Boxes and crates lined the walls, half-unpacked, some still with old ranch brands stamped faintly into the wood.
A chipped-enamel basin sat on the windowsill, half full of water that had gone slightly cloudy with dust. A cracked mirror leaned against the far wall, catching the last of the light and splitting it down the center.
âItâs not much,â John muttered, suddenly seeing every flaw. âThe bedâs cobbled together. Floorâs still soft in the corner over there. Was gonna fix âem once Iââ
Abigail wasnât listening. She was already moving toward the window.
The holey curtain fluttered in the breeze that snuck in through the crooked frame. She caught it with two fingers and pushed it aside.
Outside, the land rolled away in scrub and dry grass, the fence line zigzagging like a scar through the field. Farther out, the ride flashed silver behind the low hill. The sky had tipped into that soft, bruised pink, the edges deepening into purple. Crickets and cicadas had begun their nightly din in the grass. A lone coyote yipped somewhere distant.
The first stars were pricking their way through the darkening blue, bright and cold and countless.
Abigailâs shoulders lifted and slowly dropped. She set one hand on the window frame like she needed to touch something solid.
John stepped up behind her almost without deciding to, drawn by some old, familiar pull. Close enough that he could see the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stir in the evening air. Close enough that the heat of her back seeped through his shirt.
He hovered there for a heartbeat, not quite touching.
âItâs all for you,â he mumbled near her ear, the words rough and rusty in his throat.
She didnât answer. Not right away. Her fingers slid along the warped sill, tracing the dent where heâd mis-hit with the hammer and cursed for an hour.
Then he heard it: that soft sound she made, half snort, half disbelieving breath. The one she saved for when she thought he was being particularly foolish.
âUs, John,â she corrected, turning in his arms.
Her front pressed to his chest now, close and warm. âItâs for us.â
Something in him lurched. Then she was moving, closing the last inch of space between them, throwing her arms around his neck like she meant to knock him over.
He staggered back a step, caught off guard by the force of her. She had always been like thatâmore than she looked. Stronger than she let on. When she wanted something, she didnât come softly.
She hadnât touched him like this in so long. Not since before she left. Before she packed up the boy and what little they owned and walked out of his life again, too tired of his ghosts, too worn down by his actions, his disappearing acts, the way he carried his lawlessness around like a second skin.
But now she was here, pressed against him, her fingers digging into the back of his neck. Clutching like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.
His arms came around her waist on instinct. He buried his face against her neck, into the familiar, dizzying mixture of sweat and road-dust and the faint scent of soap sheâd used. His eyes slid shut.
She was back.
God, she was back.
He didnât know if he deserved it. Any of it. The land, the house, the boy down the hall. The woman in his arms. He didnât know how a man like him got handed so many chances when so many never did.
But heâd built it all with her in mind. Every damn plank and nail. Every fence post heâd driven into this stubborn dirt. Every acre heâd fought to claim with blood and sweat and the ache in his bones. All of it had her shadow on it. Her voice in his head.
âAbiâŠâ he whispered into the notch of her shoulder.
She made a quiet sound and pulled back just enough to see his face.
Her hands slid down his chest, fingers brushing over the sweat-stiff front of his leather vest. He watched her watching him, her gaze flicking over the new creases at the corners of his eyes, the rough stubble along his jaw, the scar near his collar where a bullet had grazed him before all this.
Then her eyes dropped.
Her brow furrowed faintly in thought, like sheâd come to some decision.
Slowly, carefully, she started to unbutton his vest.
His breath caught.
Her fingers were steady, despite the faint tremble along her bottom lip. She worked each button loose, the soft clink of it almost loud in the quiet room. The vest pulled a little where sweat had dried, and she had to tug.
John didnât move. Didnât dare.
He just watched her.
There was something reverent in it. Like she was unwrapping a memory sheâd kept folded away somewhere she didnât look too often.
When she reached the last button, she eased the leather off his shoulders. It slid down his arms with a whisper and dropped to the floor in a soft, heavy heap.
He stood there like a foolâboots still on. Shirt half-unbuttoned from the heat. Hair a tangled, sweat-damp mess around his face. Her eyes moved over him like she was reading him line by line, looking for where the words had changed.
He opened his mouth, intending to say somethingâanything.
He never got the chance.
He moved instead.
He kicked his boots off with a graceless grunt, one heel thumping off the frame of the bed. His fingers fumbled at his belt, clumsy and all thumbs now that she was this close, smelling like dust and road and the faintest hint of the perfume she saved for when she felt like remembering what it was to be wanted.
But she was already stepping into him again, closing the space. Her hands flattened on his chest, right over his racing heart. She pushed up on her toes, and her mouth found his before he could say another word.
The kiss was slow. Deep. Not tentativeâthere was nothing tentative about Abigailâbut careful in a way that made his throat burn. Her lips were warm and sure against his, moving with the same stubborn focus she brought to every damn thing in her life. Her fingers slid up, into his hair, threading through the tangled strands at the nape of his neck.
Heat rushed through him, fierce and sudden. His knees felt a little loose.
He felt twenty-two again. Felt like some fool-boy in her tent, boots still on, hat nervously twisting in his hands, staring at the girl on the cot, whoâd told him her name was Abigail, but he could call her Abi if he wanted. A girl that Uncle had fetched from a brothel in town to live amongst them.
Heâd gone back to her, week after week, burning through what little money he had. Sheâd taken it with a practiced hand and a neutral face. Heâd given it freely anyway. Half-aware, even then, that it wasnât just the sex. It was the way she sometimes smiled at him without meaning to. The way sheâd laugh, sudden and bright, when he said something stupid. The way her eyes sharpened when she looked at him like she could see everything he wasnât saying.
Heâd never really known how much money had gone into her coin purse, never tracked it proper. He just knew that every time he walked out of her tent, he felt both emptier and more full than he ever had in his life.
Abigail pulled away only long enough to drag in a ragged breath. Her hands slid down his chest, catching the edges of his shirt. Then, in one smooth motion, she took her blouse by the hem and tugged it over her head.
She shook her hair free and let the blouse drop onto the bed. Her skin was flushed from the ride, a faint line of dust marking where her collar had lain. The chemise beneath was thin from wear, the swell of her breasts visible in the low light.
His mouth went dry.
She reached for his shirt next, fingers deft on the buttons. He let her undo them one by one, his chest heaving under her touch. When she had them all, she pushed the fabric off his shoulders. It snagged at his wrists; he shook free.
Their mouths crashed together again, this time less careful, more desperate. They stumbled toward the bed, bumping shins and catching toes, neither of them truly caring.
He caught her around the waist when she tripped on a loose board, his hand sliding up the smooth span of her back beneath her chemise. Her skin was hot and damp with sweat, her spine a familiar, perfect curve under his palm.
âJohn,â she breathed against his mouth, the sound breaking on the edges of his name.
He didnât remember getting his belt undone. Didnât remember his trousers hitting the floor. Everything blurred. The scrape of fabric, the thud of boots shoving aside, the soft rip of a thread giving way.
He remembered her hands, though.
The way they moved over him like sheâd never forgotten a single inch. Callused now from honest workâlaundry, scrubbing, haulingâbut still softer than his. Her fingers traced the ridge of his ribs, the old scar along his side, the place on his bicep where a bullet had once lain deep.
She sat back on the bed and tugged her skirt up, then off, kicking it aside. Stockings followed, rolled down, and tossed into the vague direction of the crates. She peeled her chemise over her head last, leaving her bare in front of him, the lamplight painting shadows in the hollow of her throat.
He stopped breathing.
âAbiâŠâ he said again, a little helplessly.
âDonât you start apologizing now,â she said, voice rough but steady. âYou can do that in the morninâ.. Right now I just want you toââ
He cut her off with another kiss, less neat this time. His hands found her hips and pulled her toward him, fingers sinking into warm, familiar flesh. She parted her thighs without prompting, knees bracketing his hips as he climbed onto the mattress.
The rough wool scratched his knees. The bed frame creaked under their weight but held.
He cupped her breast in one hand, thumb sliding over the peaked, flushed nipple. She gasped into his mouth, her back arching, pressing herself more firmly into his palm. He kissed down her jaw, along the column of her throat, tasting salt and dust and something underneath that was just her.
He grazed his teeth along the tender tendon where neck met shoulder. She sucked in a sharp breath, fingers tightening in his hair.
âYou remember,â she said, half-accusation, half-delight.
âI remember every damn thing,â he muttered against her skin.
He dragged his mouth lower, over the swell of one breast, then the other, circling her nipple with his tongue before closing his lips around it. She made a sound thenâa low, broken sigh that went straight to his gut. He sucked gently, then harder, his hand kneading the other breast.
Her legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into his lower back to haul him closer. He could feel the heat of her through the last barrier of cloth between them, could feel how she shifted and rolled her hips, seeking friction.
âJohn,â she breathed. âPlease.â
He didnât want to rush. God knew, theyâd rushed enough in their lives. But he was only a man. And she was Abigail. And she was beneath him, real and warm and wanting.
He slid his hand down, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her stomach, the softness of the hair between her thighs. He found her slick and ready, heat pulsing against his fingertips.
She jolted when he stroked her, eyes flying open. âOh.â
He couldnât help the groan that escaped him. âJesus, Abi.â
She caught his wrist, not to stop him but to guide him, urging him a little higher, a little firmer. He obeyed, pressing his thumb where she was most sensitive and working her with slow, careful circles. Her head tipped back, neck baring, lips parting on a soft, helpless moan.
âJohn, IâJack,â she gasped suddenly, eyes snapping open, some habit of caution flaring. âThe boyââ
âAsleep,â he panted. âRoomâs down the hall. Doorâs shut. Weâll be quiet.â
She let out a choked laugh. âYou ainât never been quiet a day in your life.â
He grinned, teeth flashing, and leaned in to kiss her again, swallowing the next sound she made as his finger slipped inside her. She clenched around him, wet and hot, and his whole body shuddered.
âAbi,â he rasped against her mouth, âif you keep doinâ that I ainât gonna make it.â
âThen donât,â she said, words slurring against his lips.
She pushed at his shoulder, urging him onto his back. Surprised, he let her. The mattress creaked as he settled, hair fanning out on the thin pillow. She swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. For a second, she just sat there, breathing hard, eyes roaming his face, chest, stomach, as if cataloguing each new scar carved into him since sheâd last had him like this.
Her hand slid down between them, fingers curling around him, firm and sure. He swore, hips jerking up. She held him steady, the head of his cock nudging against her slick folds.
Their eyes locked.
âAbi,â he said, because he didnât know what else there was.
âJohn,â she answered, voice soft but fierce. âShut up.â
She sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.
The sound he made was not fit for any church. His fingers shot out, gripping her hips so hard he knew heâd leave bruises. Heat wrapped around him, tight and wet and perfect, her body stretching to take him in.
She exhaled like sheâd been holding her breath for years.
The sound she madeâlow, rough, relief and need and grief and love all tangled togetherâbroke right in his ear. It reached inside him and pulled something loose. He stayed still, jaw clenched, every muscle locked, letting her adjust. Her hands planted on his chest, fingers splayed wide, feeling the frantic drum of his heart beneath her palms.
After a moment, she rolled her hips.
His vision went white around the edges.
âShit, Abigailââ he choked, voice harsh. âIâm gonnaââ
Her thighs tightened around him. She ground down again, slower this time, savoring the drag of him inside her. âGood.â
Heâd wanted to make this lastâwanted to take her apart piece by piece like he used to, learn every new way her body liked to be touched now that time and life had carved more into both of them.
But his body had never learned patience when it came to her.
His shoulders began to heave, breaths punching out of him in ragged bursts. The tight pull in his gut coiled sharp and fast, like a looped rope dragged too quickly through callused hands. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, guiding her movements without meaning to.
She leaned down as he started to come undone, bracing her hands on either side of his head. Her hair fell around them in a dark curtain, shutting out the rest of the world.Â
He buried his face against her neck to muffle the groan tearing out of his chest, his hips jerking up into her with a rough, helpless rhythm.
She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yankedâhard.
Just like she used to in those early days, when thereâd been no illusions of anything like love on either side. When he was still paying and she was still pretending he didnât mean more to her than any of the others did.
âJohnâŠâ she gasped, his name cracking apart in the middle.
That was it.
That was the end of him.
He slammed up into her once, twice, and then he was gone, coming with a low, guttural sound that he couldnât have stopped if someone had held a gun to his head.
Pleasure ripped through him in hot, blinding pulses. He felt himself spill inside her, each thick surge dragging a broken groan from the back of his throat. His hands flew up her back, holding her to him like he thought she might fly apart if he let go.
Her thighs trembled around his hips. Her breaths hitched, then stuttered. He felt the shift in her, the way her body tightened all at once, heat flaring almost painfully around him. She shuddered, a desperate mewl breaking free as her own release rolled through her. Her inner muscles clenched, milking every last drop from him.
She buried her face in his neck as she shook, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to hurt. He welcomed the sting. It meant she was there. It meant this was real.
The room slowly came back into focusâthe creak of the bedframe, the wind brushing at the curtain, the faint chorus of crickets just outside the thin walls.
And stillâhe stayed inside her.
He didnât pull out. Didnât even think to.
There had been a time when he wouldâve. A time when every touch between them was measured by practicality and fear and the knowledge that their world didnât exactly reward softness.
He was so goddamn tired of fear.
He wrapped his arms around her and rolled carefully, bringing her under him without losing their connection. The bed protested, but held. She made a faint sound of surprise, then a small, wry noise that was almost a laugh.
He settled his weight on his forearms so he wouldnât crush her, his chest rising and falling against hers, their hearts beating too fast in tandem.
He didnât want a barrier between them. Not anymore.
Let the world burn down.
He was home.
His head dropped to her shoulder, forehead pressing into the sweat-damp skin there. He felt the steady thud of her pulse against his lips.
For a few long moments, neither of them moved. Their breaths gradually slowed, syncing, the frantic thunder in his chest easing into something slower, steadier.
Her fingers slid up into his hair again. This time, they were gentle. She pushed the sweaty strands from his face, tucking them back behind his ears. They fell loose again almost immediately.
She did it a second time anyway.
He didnât speak. Couldnât, just yet. His throat felt too tight for words.
But she did.
âI missed you, John,â she said quietly.
There was no drama in it. No accusation. Just simple truth, laid bare between them like everything else.
He drew in a long, grateful breath against her neck before lifting his head. Their foreheads touched lightly, noses almost bumping. Up close like this, he could see every fleck of gold in her brown eyes, every tired line life had carved into her face.
She was smiling.
It wasnât big, not the wild grin she sometimes let slip when Jack did something unexpectedly funny, or when the world surprised her in some small kindness. But it was real. And it was for him.
He almost cried.
âChrist, Abiâ darlinâ,â he whispered, voice rough. âI ainât nothinâ without you.â
Her smile softened at the corners. âStop your silliness,â she chided, the familiar phrase rolling easily off her tongue.
But he saw it. The way her lip trembled for half a second. The way her eyes went wet again, tears catching on her lashes before she blinked them back.
She ran her fingers through his hair once more, smoothing it back. It immediately fell forward again over his brow. She huffed a fond, exasperated little breath.
âGonna have to cut this,â she murmured.
âYou always say that,â he said. âNever could deny you when you came at me with them scissors.â
She snorted softly. âThatâs âcause you turn into a big baby soon as I nick your ear.â
âOnly got two of âem,â he protested mildly. âFigure I oughta keep âem.â
Her hand drifted down, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck. She let her palm rest flat over his heart, feeling the steady beat there.
Their son was asleep down the hall in the room John had built with his own blistered hands. A boy who deserved far better than the man heâd been given. A boy John finally wantedâmore than anythingâto be good enough for.
She was beneath him, warm and spent, their bodies still joined, his softening cock still nestled inside her, the last evidence of what they'd just done slowly easing into a sweet, sticky warmth between them.
The curtain stirred in a faint breeze, the edge of it brushing against his bare calf. Outside, a coyote called again, farther away this time. The house held around them, walls solid, roof intact.
He didnât know how heâd gotten so lucky. Didnât know how he hadnât ruined it beyond repair. Heâd done everything in his power to destroy himself, and somehow, somehow, she was still here. In his house. In their bed.
âJohn,â she said after a while, her voice low. âYou gonna fall asleep on top of me?â
He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. âThinkinâ about it.â
âMm.â Her fingers traced idle circles on his chest. âJackâs gonna come lookinâ in the morninâ.â
âHe can find us,â John said. âAinât runninâ no more.â
She studied him, eyes searching. âYou say that now.â
âI mean it,â he said, more fiercely than he intended. âI ainât goinâ back to what I was. Ainât leavinâ this land, this house. You. Him.â He swallowed. âNot unless someone drags my cold body off it.â
Abigailâs eyes softened in that way that made his chest ache. âDonât talk like that.â
âItâs the only way I know how to say it,â he admitted. âAinât good with pretty words, Abby. Never was. But I built this place thinkinâ of you. Every damn day. Got up swinginâ a hammer with your voice in my head tellinâ me the boards werenât square. Went to sleep on the floor imagininâ you complaininâ âbout how cold it was, how drafty.â
She smiled, small but bright. âWas I very loud in your head?â
âAlways have been,â he said. âHope you never shut up.â
She laughed then, a quiet, breathless little thing. She leaned up to brush her lips against his, soft, chaste after everything theyâd just done.
âYou ainât gotta be perfect,â she murmured. âJust gotta stay. Do the work. Be here when the boy wakes up.â
âI can do that,â he said. âI swear to you, Abigail. I can do that.â
âWeâll see,â she said, but there was no real doubt in her voice. Only tired hope.
She shifted beneath him, and he finally, reluctantly, eased out of her. The loss of her warmth around him made him shiver. She hissed softly at the sensation, then exhaled, legs relaxing.
He rolled to his side, gathering her against him, pulling the blanket up over them both. She came easily, fitting her body to his like she always had, back to his chest, his arm snug around her waist.
He pressed a kiss into the unruly hair at the back of her head.
âSleep,â she murmured, already halfway there. âWeâll talk more tomorrow.â
Tomorrow.
For the first time in a long time, the word didnât feel like a threat.
beautiful, friend - I love that scene so much in the epilogue, and what you've done here to expand it and deepen their complicated relationship is so real and earthy and true to them. the little jabs in their dialogue that are familiar but not unkind, evolving into something truly loving, if a bit circumspect - she's been stung before, and he has a lot of trust to build, but being together in this place is home, unlike what they've ever had. and of course the smut is achingly hot and passionate as only you can do. the last part will possibly break my heart, but that's another reason i love them and how you're setting this upđ
Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous and tag as many people as you have WIPs. People send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then you post a snippet or tell them something about it!
delighted to be tagged here in outer space, @twola and @appalachiancowboy99. your works are magnetic đ
so if anyone is interested in a snippet or wants to know more, shoot me an ask anytime and i'll send something back. my current WIP list:
â Arcadia - part ii of Redbird, chapters 6-20 (um so far)
â Acts/Free Roam - oneshots and sidesmuts forever. currently, "visiting hours" and one i can't stop calling "only one thrust" despite my best efforts
â Sweetbriar - chapters 8 and 9 of my modern music AU longfic
â Responses to requests - i am unforgivably slow, atoning smuttily
all 18+ and nsfw per ushe
tagging @arthurmorganist, @a-court-of-valkyries @shootybangbang, @reddeaddufus, and anyone here who would like to join in and post what you've got in the works. looking forward to any and everything, with love đ
Below is a portrait of Arthur, both in color and the original sketch đ
(I'm partial to the original sketch, myself, but lemme know what you think!)
I can't quite find the link to the reference, so until I do, I will refrain from posting it so that I can give the proper credit!
Anywho, thank y'all so much for taking the time to support me and show me love. It baffles me that yâall give me such kindness- itâs something Iâll forever be grateful for đ€đ
Sending love, as always and Happy Holidays! - M. đđ
oh these are BEAUTIFUL, M! I love them both so much. his expression is so full of his thoughts. and i'm so excited to read A Cure for the Common Cold when youre ready to share with us đ
Omg I feel like for end of summer maybe Arthur x f!reader are watching fireworks (modern or regular universe I guess!) and wow it's just so romantic and suddenly my hand is in his pants woops how did that happen? Not really public though, so maybe the fireworks are really far in the distance, they're either camping somewhere together or brought a truck to an empty field typa thing. <3 <3 <3
Ooops I was supposed to do this in August SORRY.
Firework
Arthur Morgan x F!Reader
Smut (18+), MDNI, Modern AU
His truck is old and beat up, the kind of Chevy that rattles when you roll down the window and smells like pine air freshener, motor oil, and the Marlboros the man chain smokes. That warm, leathery scent you swear clings to your skin after he has held you too long.
The two of you parked just outside of town, far enough that the lights fade and the grass swallows sound. The field hums with crickets and cicadas and low country wind, the truck bed cushioned with old flannel blankets and a couple of pillows stolen off his couch. Arthurâs got one arm behind his head, the other curled lazily around your waist as you lie across his chest, the rise and fall of him steady beneath your cheek. His fingers trail soft, absentminded circles against your lower back, occasionally slipping under the hem of your tank top.
Above you, the sky flashes â the first firework goes off with a low whump, a golden burst that lights up his stubble-shadowed jaw.
âYou see that one?â he murmurs, voice low and lazy.
You hum against him, tilting your head back so you can catch his smirk. âYou askinâ like Iâve got my eyes closed or something.â
Arthur chuckles. âWell, youâre lyinâ on me like Iâm a goddamn mattress. Thought maybe you fell asleep.â
You draw a slow circle with your finger on his chest, right over his t-shirt â a worn grey one, clinging just enough to let you feel the muscle underneath. âYouâre the one breathinâ like an old dog in the sun.â
âOlâ dog, huh?â He raises a brow, catching your hand with his. âYouâre feelinâ real bold tonight.â
âMight be,â you say, and wiggle a little closer.
Another firework booms, this one a bouquet of blue and green, and it lights up the side of his face just long enough for you to see the glint in his eye. His beaten-up old ball cap is pushed back behind his head, and the tips of his hair that escape are tousled from your fingers already. He looks too good under an open sky like this. That golden boy grin, those thick arms, the veins on his forearms flexing every time he shifts to hold you tighter.
âYou smell like motor oil and sweat,â you tease softly.
He shrugs. âAinât that what gets you goinâ?â
You grin. âYou think a greasy mechanic with a bad attitude and a busted truck is my type?â
âDonât think you got much room to deny it.â
You tilt your head up and kiss him â slow and warm, a little smirking thing that deepens the second his mouth parts for yours. He makes a low noise, something like a growl, and his hand slides down your back, fingers flexing on your hip. He kisses you like he has all night and no rush to get there. Lazy and full.
Another firework cracks the silence, and you jump just slightly. Arthur smirks against your lips. âAw, you scared?â
You murmur against his jaw, âNot scared. Just distracted.â
âBy me?â
You donât answer. Instead, you let your hand drift. From his chest, to his stomach â slow, teasing â fingers brushing the edge of his jeans, feeling that warm line of skin just beneath his shirt. He goes still under you.
âOh,â he says, a little breathless now, âyouâre up to no good, ainât you?â
You keep your voice soft. âThought you liked when I was trouble.â
Heâs already hardening under your hand â not full yet, but getting there. You kiss down the side of his neck, feeling that pulse hammer under your lips. His fingers tighten at your waist.
âJesus,â he mutters, âyou donât waste time.â
You prop yourself up just enough to look at him, smirking. âShould I stop?â
âHell no,â he growls, pupils blown and suddenly darker than the sky.
You grin and undo the top button of his jeans, real slow, watching his face the whole time. He watches you right back, jaw tight, chest rising with every breath. The fireworks keep going - a red one, then gold, then blue again, and the color flashes over both of you in waves.
You ease the zipper down and slide your hand inside. Arthur hisses through his teeth.
âGoddamn,â he mutters.
You tug him out, slow and deliberate, until youâve got him in your hand. Already thick and twitching under your palm. You stroke him gently at first, just enough to make him buck his hips once, then still, like heâs trying to behave.
But heâs not good at behaving. Not when itâs you.
Your voice is like honey when you lean down and whisper in his ear. âYou always this hard just layinâ with me?â
He groans. âYou always this mean?â
âNot mean,â you say, wrapping your hand tighter around him. âJust like seeinâ you lose that rough cowboy act.â
âAinât no cowboy,â he grits out, though heâs already panting. âYouâre the one makinâ me act up.â
You lean in and kiss him again â deeper now, teeth dragging his bottom lip â and your hand keeps working him in slow strokes that twist just right. He lets out a strangled sound into your mouth, hips shifting under you.
Then you feel his hand slide down, gripping your ass tight, fingers digging in. âGoddamn tease,â he growls.
âYou like it,â you whisper.
âYeah,â he pants, âI like it. Like that little hand of yours on my cock. Like that mouth talkinâ dirty in my ear.â
You kiss him again, let your teeth graze his neck. âYou gonna be good and let me finish you?â
âYou keep talkinâ like that,â he grunts, âainât got much of a choice.â
Another firework goes off â a massive gold burst â and it lights up the sweat on his brow, the flushed red climbing down his neck. You keep stroking him, wrist twisting just so, thumb teasing the head. Heâs a mess now. Groaning softly, head tipped back, thighs twitching.
âYou look so good like this,â you whisper. âAll worked up, begginâ me.â
âI ainât begginâ-â he tries, but you tighten your grip, stroke him faster, and he chokes on the rest.
âOh, youâre gonna,â you purr. âYou want it that bad, donât you?â
He growls low. âGod, youâre filthy.â
âYou love it.â
âI do,â he gasps. âFuck, I do.â
You kiss him again, hard and wet, hand working him faster now. He bucks into your touch with a groan, grabbing your ass with both hands now like he needs something to hold onto, or he is gonna fly apart.
âCâmon, baby,â you whisper against his ear. âWanna feel you lose it. Right here. Under the fireworks. Just like this.â
Heâs panting now. âYou -fuck, you keep doinâ that-â
âYou gonna come for me?â you tease, squeezing just right. âGonna make a mess all over my hand?â
You donât. You stroke him faster, twisting at the top, eyes locked on his face. Heâs beautiful like this - all flushed and wrecked, gasping your name, begging without even realizing he is.
Another explosion lights up the sky, a roaring finale, and under it, Arthur groans deep in his chest, hips jerking as he spills hot into your hand.
You stroke him through it, slow and gentle again, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear while his body shakes beneath you. Heâs cussing low, breath hitching, hand still clamped tight to your hip like he needs to ground himself.
When itâs over, he collapses back against the blanket with a ragged sigh, chest heaving.
âGod damn,â he mutters, voice wrecked.
You grin down at him, wiping your hand on the edge of the blanket. âBetter than fireworks?â
He cracks one eye open and smiles that lazy, ruined smile. âDarlinâ, youâre better than anythinâ they could put in the sky.â
You roll your eyes, then stretch out beside him again, tucking your head against his chest. He pulls you in tighter, kisses the top of your head, still catching his breath.
You lay there together, watching the last few sparks fade into the sky, his hand stroking lazy patterns on your hip.
I don't know how I missed this, but Arthur in a cable sweater is so perfect and completely lighting my campfire rn, Pine - this is amazing. his expression and the little flips of his hair?? đ
