𖹭eve𖹭

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ welcome ꒰˶  - ˕ -꒱ ⌒)ᦱ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ eve · seventeen · isfp · multifandom ₊˚⊹⋆

multifandom (ish) sfw blog. copying, modifying, or reposting my writing/art is not permitted.

Have a nice day !! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა ~ 🩷

Other socials:

Tiktok -- @theloveliestofbugs (art) + @loveliestofbugs2 (rdr2 content)

RIP diva, you would've loved judging your peers on facebook.

(Please do not slate me for this. This is just my opinion. You are entitled to your own.)

Okay, yes I support it.

But also, we really should be holding people accountable for how they handle topics such as csa.

Of course, you can write about those topics (as long as it's done respectfully). But to write smut about it is, at the very, very least, odd.

I can't believe this is controversial to say, but you should not under any circumstances fantasise about children. Even if they're fictional.

And no, that doesn't make me a "puritan" or "pro-censorship."

Guys, you really don't know who's reading/posting things like that. Anyone can access the archive.

WHUMPTOBER 2025

PROMPT: BLINDED.

Summary: Arthur Morgan has been kidnapped by O'Driscolls. One of Colm's men comes down to taunt him.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence & behaviours.

Word count: 485

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

Arthur knew it was a setup, but he hadn't expected this...

He hung upside down from the ceiling, blinded by an executioners hood. The rope cut tightly into his ankles, and every little movement caused him to sway. All he could do was listen to his own quick and ragged breaths, staying as still as possible so he didn't hit off of anything. His body was sore enough as is...

There was a metallic taste in his mouth– possibly blood. He tried to piece the moment together: where he was, who he last spoke to– but the answers never came. All he knew was the sound of his breath and the ache he felt all over.

His arms tingled and his head throbbed from the blood that rushed to them, but he felt so cold... had he been stripped as well? Or was this room just that freezing...

Suddenly, he heard a door open. Light footsteps, coming down the stairs. Someone was coming down.

"Relax, Morgan..." someone sneered. A man, from Ireland. An O'Driscoll, no doubt.

"Just came down to have a look at ya."

His boots made their way across the floor in a way that felt cruel, not in any rush.

"You're just as big as I imagined you to be."

"Is that so...?" Arthur replied, flatly.

"It is," He sneered "But in your current state...?" He laughed wickedly, hitting Arthur straight in the stomach.

"Argh!"

"...You may as well be something I could squash under my shoe."

"You're...lucky I'm tied up... Mister..."

The O'Driscoll took a knife from his pocket and sliced open the hood over Arthur's head, nicking his nose in the process.

He glanced around, taking in where he was. A dimly lit basement with cobbled walls... the air stank of mildew and whiskey.

"There we go... that's better." The O'Driscoll said, crouching down to look him in the eye.

Arthur could see he was as thin as a waif with a gaunt face. His eyes were cruel and smug, like the smirk on his face.

"God, you're an ugly thing, aren't ya?" The O'Driscoll sneered, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust.

"Well, look who's talkin'."

"You're a prick, y'know that? Hope he kills ya."

"That doesn't sound too bad, right about now..." Arthur mumbled. "Who we talkin' 'bout, anyway?"

"Who do you think, Arthur?" He replied flatly.

"...Colm, I'm guessin'."

"At least you aren't entirely stupid... Yeah, Colm's coming down to talk to you."

"Well, tell him I ain't interested."

"Funny fucker, aren't ya. Try talking to him like that and you'll see how it goes."

The man turned on his feet, thudding up the stairs.

He turned to look at Arthur once more, halfway up the stairs: "Don't go anywhere."

"Couldn't if I tried." He laughed dryly.

WHUMPTOBER 2025

PROMPT: GUNSHOT WOUND

Summary: Arthur Morgan is recovering from a gunshot wound post "Blessed Are The Peacemakers", and John, afraid he may die, briefly visits him in his tent.

Warnings: None really apply for this one!

Word count: 479

Author's notes: This isn't as whumpy as I intended it to be, I'm sorry 😭

Also I'd like to say that this is strictly familial, and is not meant to be intended as romantic.

Enjoy!!

"You're safe now, Arthur."

"That's pretty Dutch, real pretty..."

"Miss Grimshaw, will you sit with him awhile?"

"Of course..."

***

John lingered a few steps from Arthur's dimly lit tent, wondering if he should go inside or not.

He and Arthur hadn't been on the best of terms lately... still, John could see that something had been softening between the two of them ever since that train robbery back in New Hanover. It was progress, at least.

He wasn't sure if Arthur was asleep or drugged. He seemed to go between the two almost frequently since he got injured. They pumped morphine into him as soon as he woke up to ease the pain, as he couldn't be taken to a doctor in his current state. They knew immediately when it was wearing off, once they could hear the sound of pained moans or howls coming from his tent.

John hadn't even seen Arthur's wound, but it must've been bad. He even heard Reverend Swanson muttering something about "last rites" to Dutch.

And Dutch replying, low and uncertain, about whether or not they'd be digging a grave come morning.

It was then that John knew he'd have to talk with Arthur, even if only for a moment. After all, this could be his last chance. He'd never forgive himself if he didn't.

Finally, he got the courage to pop his head in and say hello.

"Arthur? You awake?"

From the bed came a slurred mumble: "Whaddya want, Marston...?"

Arthur's voice drawled, heavy with morphine "Y'here to get back at me for what I said about you in Colter...?" He said with a lopsided smirk. John wasn't sure if this was a joke or a jab at him. These days, he rarely could.

"Nah, Arthur... I ain't interested in that... I came by to see how you're feeling." John muttered, shifting awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.

Arthur blinked, surprised. "...Y' did?"

" 'Course I did, Arthur..." John replied, softer than before.

"So? How y' feelin'?"

"Been better... as I'm sure you can tell." Arthur replied sarcastically, still having some wit under the haze.

John couldn't help but laugh. "I can see that..."

He paused for a moment, glancing around the tent. "Y' need anything?"

"Nah... I think I'm good. Unless you wanna finish the job for me." He snickered.

"I'd... rather not..."

John felt a little uncomfortable hearing this, especially when Arthur dying was still in the realm of possiblity.

Did he know that, though?

Arthur gave a weak chuckle, then let his head rest back onto the cot he slept on. "Didn't think you had it in you, anyway..." He murmured slowly, his eyes shut.

"Get some rest, Arthur." He said softly. "You need it."

"Love ya, kid." Arthur murmured softly, opening his eyes to look at him.

"...sorry?"

"Nothin'..."

"...Love you too, Arthur." John nodded curtly before leaving.

WHUMPTOBER 2025

PROMPT: "Please, Don't Cry"

Summary: Sean Maguire is dead, and Arthur is struggling with his grief towards him. No one notices Arthur's isolation, save for Hosea, who always notices.

Word count: 767

Author's notes: Hi everyone! I'm following @maximoff_wanda's prompt list this year, so full credits to them!! This is a little bit rushed, I'm sorry if there's any mistakes or issues with conciseness.

(AO3 version is up!)

It's been 3 days since they fled Rhodes, packing up and leaving without another word.

Three days since little Jack was kidnapped by the Brontes.

Three days since the bullet went straight through Sean Maguire's head.

Arthur, for the first time in days, slowed down and hung around camp, burying himself in chores. Chopping wood for the fireplace... bringing bales to the horses... anything he could do to busy himself.

This wasn't unusual in normal circumstances, Arthur worked himself to the bone almost daily.

When he wasn't out on a job, he was doing chores. When he had no chores to do himself, he was urging others to do theirs.

But today seemed different.

Quiet.

No 'hello's, no 'how are you's.

Hell, he hadn't even uttered a snarky comment.

Just silence.

No one really noticed his isolation, except for Hosea.

He knew him all too well.

He approached quietly, walking alongside Arthur before gently reaching for Arthur's arm "Y' holdin' up, son?" Hosea asked quietly, his eyes kind and filled with concern.

"I'm alright... just..." Arthur sighed, holding tongue.

"Tired. Didn't sleep well."

"Y' don't seem tired to me..."

Arthur pulled his arm back. "Hosea, just... lemme be, alright...? Im fine."

A pause. Then Hosea, quieter than before: "...If you say so."

With that, he left Arthur to his own devices.

***

Evening came. dinner was ready.

Chunks of unknown game meat and slightly spoiled carrot swam in a watery dark broth. A stew – same as every evening. (save for times when there was nothing to eat at all.) Just another part of their dull, monotonous camp routine.

Arthur found a place to sit on his own, away from the others. Hunched over the tin bowl, he stared at its contents. He had very little interest in eating right now.

How could he have interest in eating when only three days ago, he seen a bullet go straight through Sean's head?

The initial anger had worn off, and now Arthur felt utterly dismal.

Arthur looked down at his jacket, only now noticing slight flecks of crimson scattered along waxed canvas near his shoulder. They were subtle, which is probably why no one had pointed them out to him. It was clear they travelled from a large spurt of-

Oh, Sean... What a mess we've made of things...

He shakily touched the stain on his jacket, feeling tears suddenly well in his eyes. He abruptly stood up, ignoring the half-curious looks from the others and made his way into the woods with his head hung.

"The hell's gotten into him...?" Bill, who was sitting a few feet away, asked incredulously.

Hosea set his spoon down, grimacing slightly. "I'll see..." He replied, getting up to follow him.

***

Arthur leaned against a tree, his palm flat against the bark as he tried to pull himself together... He bit his knuckle, teeth leaving marks. A couple stray tears rolled down his cheek, which he quickly wiped away.

Hosea grimaced at the scene, watching silently for a moment before intervening.

"Arthur?"

Arthur didn't speak or turn around, but slowly straightened up.

Hosea's hand reached for Arthur, but fell to his side. He wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do... hell, he hadn't seen Arthur cry since he was practically a kid...

Arthur finally responded... though still faced away from him. "...yeah?"

"Turn around for me, will you?"

Arthur hesitated, but obliged. His eyes and lashes were wet... tear streaks glistened on his face. He was trying to make a neutral expression, but Hosea wasn't a fool.

Arthur's lip quivered, and without thinking, Hosea pulled him in close, making Arthur freeze.

"This isn't your fault, Arthur. We were all fools..." Hosea whispered quietly, hiding the wobble in his voice.

Arthur came undone, clutching him like a man drowning. He buried his head in Hosea's shoulder, choking on violent sobs.

"Please don't cry, Arthur... there's nothing you could've done... they played us..."

"But–"

"Shhh..." Hosea gently patted his back.

"I just wish... I could've been nicer to him, Hosea... He was a good kid..." he said between sobs that violently shook him. "I liked him... a lot more than I ever let on..."

"I know you did, Arthur... and I'm sure Sean knew, too. He really admired you, y'know..."

"I ain't much to admire..." He laughed once, bitterly, before stepping back and wiping his face. "I'm gettin' real sick of this life, Hosea..."

"Then go make something else of yourself as soon as you can... You're still young yet, Arthur. There's still time."

"Do you really think so?"