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Running from a toxic marriage, you found a sanctuary among the outlaws of the Van der Linde gang. For you and your young daughter, Daisy, the Van der Lindes became a home, anchored by a certain rough-around-the-edges cowboy, whose gruff exterior hides a strong, loyal heart. What starts as a late-night campfire kiss, quickly evolves into something much more dangerous when your past tracks you down. Faced with a looming threat to you and Daisy, Arthur promises to keep both of you safe.
Series Paring: Arthur Morgan x Single Mother reader
Series Themes: friends to lovers, slow burnish?, fluff, angst, smut. sexual themes, mentions of child death and grief. MDNI.
leon never says anything right away, always taking time to observe before reacting.
he watches the way you disappear into the bathroom before dates. the faint click of your makeup compacts, the hiss of the hairspray, the soft music you play while getting ready. by the time you step out, you’re smiling at him like it didn’t take you an hour deciding between two identical outfits.
but he notices.
notices the way your lipstick matches the blush on your cheeks. the special occasion earrings you wear only on dates. the perfume that lingers on his jackets, which change depending on the season (he likes the floral one best).
and, of course, the questions you always ask.
“does this look okay?
“is this shirt too bright?...or not bright enough?”
“will these heels match your shoes?”
leon thought it was ridiculous at first. as if there could ever be a version of you he wouldn’t look at like you hung the stars yourself.
it finally clicked one day while he was waiting outside your apartment. you were running late which was a rare occasion. when you finally appeared in front of him, you had an embarrassed smile while apologizing about redoing your makeup.
that night at dinner, he caught himself staring. you looked gorgeous, you always did. but he saw how clean your eyeliner was, how smooth your cheeks were, and how kissable your lips looked despite the plate of pasta you devoured.
the thought of you taking the time and effort to be so beautiful, just for him? that settled in his chest and followed him home.
the next morning, rather than just putting on the first shirt he sees, he pauses. his hand lingers over an old, loose academy shirt before reaching for a black fitted one instead. he remembers the way you gawked at him the first time he wore it, the memory making him chuckle.
he spends more time fixing his hair, but grows frustrated that it doesn’t move with his fingers dipped in water. that afternoon, he bought a new hair serum. one of the best, at least, that’s what the sales lady said.
he starts using moisturizer before bed and sunscreen in the morning.
he’s more generous with the cologne that made you bury your face in his neck for a second longer than usual.
even his workouts change. he still trains because he has to, but maybe he adds one more set. maybe he holds the plank a little longer. maaaaybe he does pushups before he comes to see you. you don’t seem to mind when the sleeves of his shirts began to fit tighter around his arms than they used to.
leon thought it was only fair, and he doesn’t mention any of it.
it wasn’t until one evening when you’re standing behind him in his kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist while he’s washing dishes. your fingers squeezed the taut muscle of his abdomen.
“have you been working out more?”
leon glances over his shoulder, pretending to think about it. “...maybe.”
“maybe?” you giggle, feeling his arms. “your shirts didn’t used to fit like this.”
he dries his hands before turning around to face you. he leans against the counter, pulling you close.
“you spend a lot of time getting pretty before you see me,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “figured I should put in some work too.”
you blinked. “for me?”
he could feel his ears heating up. “didn’t seem right letting you be the only one trying.”
the look on your face (and the kisses you smothered him in) made everything worth it.
BONUS
chris stared at leon from the bathroom doorway, watching as he dripped something onto his hand before combing his fingers through his hair.
“is that…hair oil?
leon didn’t even look up. “hair serum,” he corrected.
“alright, pretty boy, what’s next? face masks? cucumber slices over your eyes?”
“why? you wanna do some? I’ve got a few,” leon said, holding up a variety of sheet masks.
chris blinked. “...why do you have so many?”
“they’re moisturizing,” he shrugged. “my girl took all the brightening ones.”
leon said it so casually that chris had to stare at him for a second before breaking into a grin. leon gave him an annoyed look through the mirror. “what?” he scoffed.
“hair serum. moisturizer. lip balm,” chris pointed at the lineup on the bathroom counter. all the bottles were on a rotating caddy, courtesy of you, of course. he plucked a bottle from the shelf, squinting at the label. “cuticle oil? since when do you care about your cuticles?”
“since someone told me to take better care of my hands,” leon snatched the bottle away from him.
chris barked out a laugh. “ain’t no way.”
“you don’t have room to talk,” leon said, organizing his caddy.
chris frowned. “what does that mean?”
leon turned around, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. he eyed chris up and down.
“my hair’s healthier. my hands are softer,” he smirked. “and I dress better than you.”
chris looked at himself in the mirror. “this shirt’s fine,” he said firmly.
“shirt from ten years ago?”
“it’s cotton.”
leon chuckled beneath his breath.
“you know…jill might like it if you put in a little effort.”
that caught chris’s attention. “...you think so?”
“yeah,” leon shrugged. “my girl gives me something to look at, I might as well do the same.”
chris rubbed the back of his neck. “pass me the serum,” he said.
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Summary: A mission gone wrong leaves you poisoned and fighting to recover. As Zuko refuses to leave your side, he finds himself facing the terrifying thought of a future without you—and the promise he was already planning to make.
Author's Note: this was a request and i had a lot of fun writing it!! 😭 i really loved the idea of zuko being this intimidating, composed Fire Lord to everyone else, but completely losing it when it comes to the person he loves. this is definitely more soft than angsty (even though there is a little bit of hurt in there), because i just can't imagine putting zuko through all that and not giving him the sweetest ending possible haha. i hope you enjoy!! constructive criticism is always welcome :)
The poison hits your system like fire—which is ironic, considering the source.
You don't realize it at first. The tremor in your hands during training with Katara is easy enough to blame on exhaustion. The way colors seem to bleed at the edges of your vision? Dehydration. The creeping numbness climbing up your spine like skeletal fingers? You ignore it, push through, because you're a warrior and warriors don't complain about minor discomfort.
It's only when you collapse mid-sparring that anyone notices something is truly wrong.
Your vision swims as Katara catches you, her hands cool and panicked against your burning skin. You're burning—no, that's not right. You're freezing. Everything is wrong and fractured and you can't remember how to tell your body to listen to your mind anymore.
The last thing you hear before everything goes dark is someone screaming your name, and it sounds like it shatters something inside his chest.
When you wake, the world is muted.
Voices drift in and out like you're underwater. You recognize Katara's urgent tone, Sokka's worried rumble, Aang's panicked questions. There's another voice too, quieter but somehow the most violent of all—a low, dangerous whisper that makes your bones ache.
Zuko.
You try to open your eyes, but they feel weighted with lead. Your body isn't listening. The poison—because now you understand it was poison, some rare variant they're discussing in urgent, clinical tones—has settled deep into your nervous system. Shutting you down piece by piece.
"How long?" His voice is different when he's like this. Stripped of pretense, raw edges showing. The Fire Lord accent dissolves into something older, something that remembers being desperate.
"We don't know." Katara's response is careful, which means it's bad. "The compound is unusual. We've never seen anything quite like it."
"Who?" One word, lethal and low.
"We're still investigating, but whoever made this knew exactly what they were doing. It's designed to degrade slowly, to make it hard to trace—"
"I don't care about the academic breakdown, Katara. I care about—" He stops himself, but you hear the unspoken end of that sentence anyway. I care about her.
There's a rustling, and then warmth beside you. A hand finds yours in the darkness, and the touch is so unmistakably him—calloused fingers, the heat that radiates from his skin like a living thing, the way his thumb traces small circles against your palm—that your heart tries to remember how to beat faster.
"Stay with me," he whispers, and it's an order and a plea all twisted together. "Please. Just stay."
You want to. God, you want to. But your body is a prison and you're locked behind glass, watching the world continue without you.
The poison doesn't kill you, but it comes close enough that everyone learns about the secret anyway.
On the third day, you're still paralyzed. The healers work in shifts, trying everything—herbal remedies, gentle waterbending to flush your system, even some experimental firebending technique Zuko insists on attempting despite Katara's protests about causing more damage. Nothing works. The poison is patient. Methodical. It spreads like a slow-motion wildfire through your veins, and your body is the kindling.
On the fourth day, Zuko stops leaving your side.
It starts with small things. His hand never leaving yours, except when Katara forces him to eat. His voice, rough from disuse, telling you stories—about his childhood, about his travels, about the first moment he really saw you, saw you, not just another capable warrior in their ragtag group.
"You were arguing with Sokka about something stupid," he says into the darkness of the infirmary tent. His hand is warm against your hair, gentle in a way that burns worse than any fever. "And you were so angry, and you were so alive, and I couldn't stop watching you. I tried. For months, I tried."
It's intimate in a way that feels dangerous. You want to respond, want to tell him that you remember the exact moment too—three months ago, after a successful mission, when he'd touched your face with such careful reverence that you'd known, without a shadow of doubt, what this was becoming.
What it already was.
"The ring is in my quarters," he continues, his voice barely a whisper. "I was going to ask you properly. I was going to do this the right way, with flowers and—" He breaks off, and you hear the sound of him trying to breathe through something that isn't quite composed. "You can't die before I get to ask you properly."
On the fifth day, your fingers twitch.
It's small. Involuntary. But it's movement, and Zuko reacts like you've just defeated a hundred Fire Nation soldiers. He calls for Katara immediately, urgency cracking his careful composure. Within hours, the poison's grip loosens degree by degree. Your lungs remember how to breathe without prompting. Your eyes flutter open to find his golden gaze absolutely wrecked with relief.
"You came back," he says, and it's not quite a question.
You try to speak, but your throat is sandpaper. He brings water to your lips with steady hands, and you drink, and somewhere in the back of the tent, someone gasps.
"Oh my god," Sokka's voice carries the specific tone of someone who's just solved a puzzle he didn't know he was working on. "You two are—that's why he's been—oh my god, they're together."
There's a beat of silence. Then Aang laughs—a real laugh, surprised and delighted. "That's… actually kind of sweet? I mean, we figured something was up when he basically threatened to burn down the world if anyone couldn't save her, but—"
"Zuko," Katara says, and you can hear the smile in her voice despite the concern still threading through it. "You could have just told us."
Zuko's hand tightens around yours, and when you meet his eyes, you see the question there. The vulnerability. The absolute terror of having almost lost you before anyone even knew to be careful with what you meant to each other.
"We were taking it slow," he says quietly, though his eyes never leave your face. "We wanted to be sure before—" He stops, and something in him settles. Decides. "Before we told everyone that she's going to be Fire Lady."
There's a stunned silence.
Then Sokka whoops, and Aang is suddenly very interested in the exact details of when this started, and Katara is already planning something with the expression of someone who's been waiting years for good news like this.
But Zuko—beautiful, graceful, dangerous Zuko—just leans down and presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in like you're oxygen and he's been drowning.
"Still want to marry me?" he whispers. "Even after I let you get poisoned?"
You manage a small laugh. Your voice is wrecked, but it's there: "Especially after."
His smile against your skin is fire and home and everything you thought you'd never get to keep.
"Good," he murmurs. "Because I'm not waiting for the proper proposal anymore. The ring is in my quarters, and as soon as you can move, we're making this official. I don't care who has opinions about it."
"Very romantic, Zuko," you tease weakly.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his golden eyes are intense, steady, absolutely sure.
"You poisoned yourself and survived," he says simply. "You've already proven you can handle anything. I'm just trying to keep up."
And when he kisses you—soft and careful, like you're something precious and fragile—the whole tent erupts in chaos.
the heir to fire nation in his grasp. his child. his daughter. perched on his hip. her little arms waving around as zuko gazed.
round cheeked with his eyes and your nose.
her eyes pan over to you, where you stood to the side of your husband.
one hand fisting at the fire lords hair, unintentionally tugging— like babies do— as she looked around. her other hand, patting at his chest. she continued to stare at you, gummy smile appearing. she giggles. then looks to her father.
her smile drops just a little as she stares at dad. zuko glances at you. your eyes catch his.
a beat.
your daughter turns to you. eyes on yours before drifting back to zuko. her head tips.
his eye.
her chubby hand pats it. little fingers fiddling with the skin as she then turns to you again. her attention on the left side of your face before patting her own. assessing.
“I know. s’just me.” zuko says it softly. accepting. unashamed. a difference compared to how he used to think of it when he was younger.
Summary: Returning home from Spain, Leon struggles to adjust to the transition from mission to domestic life. Fortunately, his partner is there to welcome him home and remind him he is loved.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, lots of domestic fluff, GN Reader! no use of Y/n, established relationship, brief mentions of trauma, slight hurt/comfort, bad Leon jokes, cuddling and making breakfast for Leon.
Taglist: @princesssugarplumm
Note: Hopped up on DayQuil, so if this sucks, blame Procter and Gamble
The quietness of the apartment felt ominous as Leon walked through the threshold of his home. Every muscle in his body ached from overuse; every wound he had acquired throbbed. His body felt weak and worn down, and as he slipped off his boots and made his way toward the bedroom, his limbs moving like they were stuck in slow motion, he couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to never wake up.
Leon all but threw himself onto the bed, sinking into the plush comforter as his body melted into the warmth. A low groan left his lips as he closed his eyes.
A body shifted beside him, arms wrapping around his torso and pulling him close.
“Are you getting my sheets dirty?”
“Your sheets?” he huffed. “I bought them.”
“Semantics, Kennedy. Answer the question,” you say, peppering kisses along his cheek.
“I’ll do laundry in the morning,” he deflects.
You sigh dramatically, but even in the dim lighting of the room, Leon can see your mouth quirk in amusement.
For a moment, the pair of you lay in silence, entwined together in serenity. The gentle thrum of your heartbeat is the most peaceful sound he’s heard in days, and Leon finds himself adjusting his body so his head is pressed against your ribcage. On instinct, your hands fly up to his hair, your fingers gently combing through his dirtied blond locks, nails softly raking against his scalp. Leon can’t help the groan that rumbles in his chest, deep and guttural; the blissful, unfamiliar feeling of finally relaxing washes over him.
“Like that?” you ask.
“Uh-huh,” Leon manages to mumble back. “Feels good.”
He hears you hum in response, your fingers never letting up. He feels warm and tingly all over, his body heavy with exhaustion. It almost feels sinful to let himself relax after everything he had been through in Spain, days of wired, frantic survival, of witnessing ghosts from his past revisit and die. It was wrong to rest. Leon’s chest grows tight with guilt, his gloved hand slowly rising to yours as he gently grips it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“For what, honey?” you ask earnestly.
Leon doesn’t answer right away; he can’t bring himself to. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, tracing small circles against your skin. He stares at your hand resting in his, at the contrast between your clean fingers and his dirtied gloves, and suddenly he feels painfully aware of how little he deserves you.
“For everything,” he finally admits. “For dragging you into the mess that is my life.”
“Leon, you didn’t drag me into anything,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I love you, no matter what.”
Leon sucks in a shaky inhale, his grip tightening ever so slightly.
“You deserve someone who doesn’t disappear on you, someone you can rely on–”
You silence him with a kiss before he can finish.
“I chose you, Leon.” Another gentle kiss against his mouth. “All of you.”
Leon can’t help the whimper that rises in his throat. He holds you close against him, his mind reeling from the violence and depravity that had been the last few days of his life. He isn’t sure he’s slept more than an hour or two since leaving Spain, and his mind feels heavy, like it’s made of lead. Your fingers never stop moving through his hair, and the sheer, unconditional love you have given him leaves his head spinning. The quiet serenity of the moment lulls his tired mind, his eyelids growing heavy as he finally lets sleep take him.
Leon never dreams of nothing. Something is always haunting him, even in his sleep. He had told you this before—a warning when you had moved in. You can tell he’s having a nightmare. His eyelids twitch rapidly, fingers flexing against you as he whimpers into your chest. You’d never be able to understand the pain he’s been through, but at least you could try to help alleviate it. Slowly, you slip out from the bed, your heart clenching as he reaches for you in his sleep.
“Shhhh,” you whisper. “It’s okay, honey. I’m right here.”
You gently stroke his dirtied locks, his body relaxing under your touch. You smile sadly and move down his body. First, you remove his muddied boots, slowly sliding them off. God, you’re going to have to pressure wash the gunk off these things. Your nose crinkles as you set them aside, working your way back up as you remove his belt and holsters. Damn it, he left his guns in the holsters again. You toss the belt unceremoniously onto the floor, carefully placing the guns on his dresser to be dealt with tomorrow. To double-check, you pat down his pockets in case he left anything behind. Unsurprisingly, you find an array of bullets.
They’re dumped alongside the guns, and once you’re satisfied that his pockets aren’t full of anything that would poke his eye out in his sleep, you crawl back into bed next to him.
Leon senses your warmth immediately, rolling over to be closer to you, arms outstretched. You snuggle closer to him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. God, he stinks to high heaven, but you can look past the filth for tonight. At least he’s alright.
“Thank you for making it home,” you whisper to his unconscious form. “I can’t do this without you.”
Leon responds to your whispered admission with a grunt. You stifle a giggle as you silently thank the stars for bringing him back to you.
The late morning sun filters through the curtains as Leon finally opens his eyes. He squints, trying to adjust to the light as he sits up. It’s a jolting transition, one he always struggles to adapt to. The transition from survival to peace is always a rocky one.
“Morning,” you greet from the doorway, the scent of coffee following you.
Leon grunts in response, a sleepy smile on his face.
“Morning, gorgeous,” he rasps.
“Are you talking to me or the coffee?” you ask, handing him the mug.
“Hey, I can love two things.”
You laugh, shaking your head at his quip.
“You’re awful.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, taking a sip. “But you love me.”
“I do,” you admit. “Would love you more if you didn’t smell like literal death, though.”
Leon hesitates before sniffing at his shirt. You’re right. He smells atrocious.
“Can’t believe you even let me in the bed smelling like this,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“You did promise to do laundry.”
“I did,” he says, rising from the bed. He glances down, only to find the white sheets stained with grime.
“Perhaps burning them would be more sanitary.”
“Can’t argue with you there,” you agree solemnly.
Leon laughs, feeling some of the tension finally drain from his shoulders. Together, you strip the bed, tossing the filthy sheets into a pile with a promise to deal with them once he’s bathed.
“I’ll be out in a bit,” he says, resting a hand on your shoulder before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your cheek.
“By all means,” you tease, wrinkling your nose. “Take your time.” Despite the jab, you return the kiss, smiling against his skin.
Steam curls around him as hot water pounds against aching muscles, washing away layers of dried blood, dirt, and sweat. He scrubs until his skin turns pink, watching muddy water swirl toward the drain. He lathers shampoo into his hair once. Then twice, just to be certain. He lingers beneath the spray until the water gradually loses its warmth, his forehead resting against the cool tile.
The transition from missions to domesticity is always jarring. Leon closes his eyes, and he can see the abominations he faced. He can hear Ashley’s screams for help. He can smell the stench of gore. He takes a deep breath, only to be greeted with the soft smell of soap. He has to remind himself that he’s safe. He’s home now.
After putting a dent in the water bill, Leon finally shuts the shower off. He wraps himself in a fluffy towel and goes through the motions of getting ready. He sighs blissfully as he slips into his favorite pair of gray sweatpants, scrubbing his teeth until he’s positive you won’t be able to smell the raw fish and snakes he ate out on the field. Once he’s satisfied you won’t find him disgusting, Leon makes his way to the kitchen.
The smell of fresh coffee and pancakes drifts through the apartment, drawing a rumble from his stomach. He pauses in the doorway, quietly watching as you hum to yourself while flipping a pancake in the pan. You catch him out of the corner of your eye and smile.
“I just brewed a fresh pot,” you announce proudly. “And I think I actually managed not to ruin any pancakes this time!”
“Mmm, look at you,” he teases.
He slips an arm around your waist, drawing you in for a kiss. Your lips are soft against his, warm and familiar, and Leon can’t help but melt into the affection. When you pull away with a smile and return to the stove, he lingers for a moment, quietly admiring you. He’d do it all again if it meant coming home to you.
“Oh, can you grab the plates?” you ask.
“You got it.”
Leon maneuvers around you to retrieve the dishes before setting them on the counter. You shoo him to the dining room, smacking at his hand as he tries to steal a bite. A moment later, you follow with a plate stacked high with fluffy pancakes, butter slowly melting beneath a generous drizzle of syrup.
“Ta-da!” you declare, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Welcome home. Officially.”
“Thank you, honey.”
Leon feels his lips curl into a genuine smile as he looks up at you.
✘ ⠀⠀A masterlist! All of the fic here are in the same au. The Cowboy/Hellcat extended universe if you will ✘
⠀✘ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀65k words and counting yay
Arthur Morgan/F Reader (Female OC) ✘ Pre-game setting, modified canon later ✘ Mature 18+: canon-typical violence, slow burn, horny looking, Victorian yearning, eventual smut, there was only one bed tent, mid to high honour Arthur Morgan ✘ 2nd person POV ✘ ~47,000 words, ongoing
Bounty hunting: It's a hell of a way to make a living. Travel the country, see the sights, give rotten folk their just deserts- and the pay ain't half bad, either. Of course, when another bounty hunter shows up at your latest job, that's less than ideal.
Pre-canon: starting in 1897.
i ✘ ii ✘ iii ✘ iv ✘ v ✘ vi ✘ vii ✘ viii ✘ ix ✘ x ✘
One-Shots (Deadeye Drabbles! ha!)
Photograph : Arthur Morgan/F Reader ✘ Pre-game setting ✘ No warnings, it's just cute feelings
Idiots In Caves: You and Arthur hunt a bounty into the cave-riddled hillside of Mount Shann and lose him. Then, being fearsome bounty hunters, shenanigans occur. Arthur Morgan/F Reader ✘ Pre-game setting, 1898 ✘ Mature 18+: horniness, accidental touching oops, hide and seek in a cave, they are idiots but they are not stupid
All in Due Course: You're menstruating and Arthur is helpful about it ✘ Arthur Morgan/f reader who menstruates ✘ mature 18+ it's smut. It's smut with feelings. Which is all I do. But trust it is gratuitous
Prize Idiot: Arthur goes to buy some things to help you through your period and meets with some resistance ✘ Arthur Morgan/f reader who menstruates ✘ one-shot companion fic to All in Due Course ✘ sfw but mature I guess ✘ Arthur doing verbal murders is my favourite
Lavender & Rosemary: By the fire at camp in the wilderness, Arthur learns about one of your habits. ✘ Arthur Morgan & F Reader ✘ established relationship ✘ no warnings ✘ they are not together yet oooo
Through the Cracks in the Mirror: You wake from your least favourite recurring dream. ✘ Arthur Morgan &/ F Reader ✘ AU: Low Honor Arthur & Hellcat ✘ Mature 18+ ✘ short prose and headcanons, an unfinished thing I will someday come back to
Old and New: You are laundering your clothing when Susan Grimshaw wants a word. ✘ F Reader & Susan Grimshaw ✘ No warnings ✘ sfw
In Which the Merits of Being a Cowboy Are Considered, a Cast-Iron Tub is in Want of Replacement, & Other Adventures With Spurs: Arthur goes to Valentine to get away from the pressures of the Gang and have a nice, relaxing bath. You surprise him. ✘ Arthur Morgan/f reader ✘ Pre-game setting, modified canon ✘ Mature 18+: smut with feelings ✘ silly fun sexiness ✘
Cow(boy) Hitch : Sometimes you have to take an outlaw and tie him up for his own good. ✘ Arthur Morgan/F Reader ✘ Pre-game setting, canon-compliant ✘ Explicit 18+: s m u t, I mean technically there’s bondage, cunnilingus, p-i-v, fluff, feelings, it’s very soft really, established relationship ✘ ~6000 words, one-shot ✘
Schofield Shambolics : One of these days Micah Bell is going to push you too far and find out why Arthur calls you Hellcat ✘ Arthur Morgan/ F Reader ✘ Chapter 2, Canon Divergent ✘ Mature 18+ ✘ Mid-High Honour Arthur Morgan ✘ 2000 words ✘ one shot ✘
Deluge : What else are they going to do when caught out in the wilderness in a storm? Smut with feelings. Arthur actually wants to hear a compliment for once. Immediately rethinks it, but Hellcat doesn't let him. ✘ Arthur Morgan/ F Reader ✘ Explicit 18+: smut with feelings, no major warnings, check fic tags for content ✘ mid-high honor Arthur Morgan ✘✘ ~5k words, one-shot
Inktober 2025 drabbles
The plan with these is for them to be short character-study moments which may or may not end up fitting into the larger Cowboy & Hellcat story. I don't forsee any archive warnings applying to these but some may end up nsfw. Each will have the usual list of major tags at the top.
Moustache ✘ Weave ✘ Crown ✘
Headcanons, Asks, Sundry Things
Birthdays and Ancestry ✘ NSFT Alphabet ✘ Discarded Writing - Original 2nd meeting ✘ My Pirates, My Outlaws, and the Choices ✘ Playlist discussion ✘ Far Future Chapter Snippet - Blessed Are the Hellcats ✘ Far Future Chapter Snippet - A Treatise on the Many Kinds of Bastards ✘ Ask Game: Shooting, Drinks and Clothes ✘ Ask Game: Names, Horses, and Honour ✘ (My) Arthur's Horses: Granya ✘ Ask Game: Favourite Place ✘ Ask Game: Pet Peeves, Weapon of Choice ✘ Ask Game: Drinks, Fun Fact, Clothing ✘
✘✘ Image Credits: Dividers by @lobster-graphics thank you! ✘ Stag photo by Leif Christoph Gottwald on Unsplash ✘ Cougar photo by Wilson Chen on Unsplash ✘ I would have made an edit but (rant about adobe redacted)
a/n: Lwk cant believe i havent written for arthur @crux-serpentis bullied me into it. Arthur lives happily in my head he left right before the big heist in saint denis. Ending kinda rushed but i hope u like it (oﾟvﾟ)ノ
Arthur Morgan x Fem! Pregnant reader
--
The ride to colter wasn't easy, with only being given around ten minutes to pack up your life again after being cozy in an inn. Arthur said there was a slip up at the ferry, while he gathered everything into a trunk.
The room was all set up for the both of you with; nice bed sheets, clothes neatly folded, and a frilly bassinet Arthur haggled down.
Now it was left for whoever wanted it, Arthur could see the hurt in your eyes as you left "unnecessary items", leaving a few toys, the bassinet and clothes.
"I promise I'll get ya more, if we don't leave the Pinkertons gonna get us" he whispered into your ear, helping you into the wagon.
It'd been around a week since you've ran, barely holding up in this hellish storm. Arthur silently worried about you, always pressing Dutch and Hosea about how they had an expecting mother, women, and a child in the gang.
Only until Dutch finally realized everyone was exhausted, sent out Arthur somewhere to to hole up. Where Arthur finds the abandoned camp of Colter.
"How ya holdin' up"
"As best I can, staying warm and on Dutch's good side " you reply grabbing a blanket, ever since the doctor in Black Water said you were pregnant. Everything shifted, all of a sudden everything was unsafe, you were paranoid, and questioned everything Dutch did- especially now with Micah in the gang. He snorted helping you make the bed less shitty. "yeah well guess pregnancy will do that to ya"
It goes quiet in the cabin, the fire Arthur had built filling the emptiness with warmth. You stopped unpacking turning to face him.
"Arthur, what did happen on the ferry?"
"I dunno they ain't tellin' me"
"Why" you asked, Arthur stopped for a moment. He never thought of why usually whatever Dutch said was the law of the land, and he knew to not question him.
Dutch always had a plan, and thought ahead. That was just the Dutch they knew. "Ah, uh I dunno" he replied moving towards you, kissing your forehead while muttering a 'I'm sorry'.
Arthur knew something changed in you since you found out a baby was on the way, the life of an outlaw wasn't for families. He knew that, he disliked John for it. He regretted not being there more for Issac, but now that he had a second chance.
He wasn't throwing it away, not again.
"We'll be here for a few days so you can rest... I'll make sure pearson gives you the best parts" he mumbled grabbin' his things.
"Let's leave" his hand stopped caressing your face, "leave?".
"We can't stay here, it'll only endanger us. I love Abigail and little Jack but I don't wanna raise my baby here, not when we have a chance to live a normal life".
Arthur had thought about it briefly, he was Dutch's errand boy already slowly being demoted. They had no money, he was expected to put in his share of anything he returned with, Dutch gave him everything when he had nothing. He couldn't just leave, Dutch would shoot 'im with his gun if he did.
"Baby we can't-"
"Arthur we can, you just can't"
You both went silent, the wind filling in the silence. Your eyes avoided his while turning down the oil lamp, "Daveys gone, Jennys dead, John, Sean and Mac are god knows where. Whats next you? Me? Theres no tellin' whose next Arthur-"
You made sense, Arthur wanted to believe in Dutch but so much had happened he felt like he didn't know the man anymore. He sighed rubbing his face and deciding to leave you alone for the night, "g'night darlin' sleep well" he said opening the door to the cabin.
--
You all finally left Colter after Arthur nagging Dutch and the train robbery being a success, now on your way to Valentine on Arthurs horse softly humming whilst looking around at the scenery.
"I gotta do some jobs to get money, Dutch wants everyone to pitch in".
"He always wants people to donate while he 'plots'" you reply holding onto the saddle while Arthur led you towards the developing town, "..." he stayed silent.
Ever since you pointed out Dutch's flaws he saw them, to Arthur- Dutch was like a father his mentor and to see him like this. It hurt, the thought of him leaving the gang hurt him. "I feel bad, he used to be better ya know?"
"took care of me when I was boy, taught me everythin' I needed to know. I thought I could pass on what he taught me to our kid"
"you still can, he's just not all there Arthur. Why the hell is he listening to Micah and not you? Why is he always questioning your loyalty to him?"
You both were silent after you comment about Micah. Everyone disliked him, especially Arthur since the rat was always teasing you.
Arriving at the bank Arthur spoke to the man behind the counter asking about saving money and opening a bank account.
While you stood beside him, eyes flickering around the banks interior. Admiring the details, when Arthur tapped you on the shoulder.
"Want somethin' to eat?"
"Sure"
You nod feeling his hand on the small of your back, leading you to the bar where he ordered stew with bread. "Wanna sleep here for the night, I know the cot's tough to sleep on"
"Only if you'd like"
"Your always askin' what I want first" he sighed kissing your knuckles.
"Alright I'll rent out a room and a bath"
Arthur disliked sleeping in the camp nowadays, he was just so paranoid about everything. He knew town wasn't so safe either but at least you were far from Micah and bears.
--
"Strauss asked me to collect some debt from a farmer" he told you as he packed his horse, you felt something your gut twist instinctively grabbing his hand. "Don't go Arthur,"
"I know but I gotta do this-" His brows furrowing at your stubbornness.
"Can't anyone else do it for you?"
"I- He asked me darlin'-"
"Arthur, please" you begged your head finding its way on to his shoulder, you felt it in your stomach that if he went something terrible would happen. "Besides you aren't his goon, he can send any other member"
"I'm the most menacin' one apparently"
"He can send Micah, Arthur"
He nodded going back to argue his case, saying he could leave you here and that he promised to take you to the towns doctor. So Strauss ends up finding Micah for the job.
--
The gang got worst, they lost more and more members until they ended up on the edge of the map. And in the pinnacle of industrialization, Saint Denis. Arthur felt it in his gut, Dutch really wasn't well. Nights arguing with each other about what was best, Arthur being gone for long periods of time.
"Doctor said I'm healthy, I just need to eat more" you added handing Arthur the papers, "Yer picky as hell don't always want Pearsons stew, an' we don't got money to eat at the bar for every meal either". "Well he makes the same thing for three meals a day, it can't be healthy"
"'least yer eatin" he retorted looking over the papers.
"The hell why I got pay this?"
"He gave me medicine"
"Why's it so expensive?"
"It's for expecting mothers"
"This baby better work in the mine when it's born" he uttered looking at the papers you handed him, but he was grateful to have been in Saint Denis with real doctors and people who can help. Even if it was more expensive than some small town doctors, you were happy and healthy. That's all that mattered.
--
It was the middle of the night when Arthur woke you, he'd gotten a wagon and with the help of Lenny & Hosea.
"Arthur?" you ask rubbing the sleepiness from your eyes, looking your jewlry he was packing. "Darlin' I didn't mean to wake you just yet" he mumbled kissing your forehead, "What're you doin'"
"packing"
"But Dutch said we ain't leavin' yet-"
"And what if we left."
"Arthur-"
"It ain't safe for us no more, I got something to protect now"
All your belongings were packed by the time you picked out a dress. Helped you dress and grab whatever was left and snuck out of the abandoned estate, leading you to the carriage where Hosea lead the horses away and lenny sat across from you.
"So your really leavin' us Arthur?"
"I gotta, and you all got too as well." he added pointing to both of them "find you a nice girl and get out of there, Dutch ain't the same". Everyone knew by now, it was whether or not they had the courage.
You dozed in and out of a sleep on the wagon, until it came to a stop at a small home. "Where are we?" you ask shielding your eyes from the rising sun, admiring the cozy home with a farm. "Home"
"Home?"
Oh, it was your home.
It would finally be alright.
--
Epilogue: Arthur sat on the porch looking at the sunset holding his little girl in his arms, gently stroking her downy hair that looked the same color as his. She was bundled up in soft blankets you'd sewn during pregnancy, "yer sleepy already? You just woke up" he cooed to the infant, who was cozying up against him. "You gotta learn how to help daddy take care of the chickens, and help mama cook. An' here you are sleeping the day away." he gently smiled kissing her soft head, "it's okay I guess your just a little baby".
Arthur hired men to build your dream house with land, it was fully furnished when you entered. So you both could do nothing but live the life you always wanted, not on the run, not sleeping on some shitty cot or on the floor. But a warm bed after a hardy meal you made, not pearson.
"The sunsets' pretty today"
"yeah, summer startin' I see it in the crops"
"Do you like this life? It's nothing like the one you've lived"
"I don't mind it, I miss the thrill but I'm gettin' old."
"You've changed, you don't bully everyone you see now" a laugh escaping you while admiring the man with the bundle of fuzzy blankets.
"What, you miss it?" he teased standing up once the sun disappeared.
"I like this version of you, you've always been a good man. Being in the gang just hid it from us". Arthur smiled, looking back at the sun he had everything he needed. A wife, a daughter, a warm home and animals to keep them company. He didn't need Dutch, just his family. His mind wonders to what if you hadn't left, he didn't even wanna think about what would've happened if he went through with the bank heist. The baby brought him back with her squirming and small sounds of discomfort, "ah you want mama huh" he said passing the fussing girl onto you.
"I'll be out here for a bit longer" he decided, pulling out a cigarette. Arthur live on the run for so long it was hard for him to now believe that he was-
He was a free man.
--
did you guy know i love arthur morgan . papa doesn't play about rdr2 .
Kinda all over the place been working onit for like a month i hope u liked babys first rdr post :) ill write more (prolly bc i started it again)
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synopsis: arthur morgan returns from hunting, and you watch how effortlessly he carries carcasses to and fro. you greet him to find he's brought something back for you.
contains: whole lotta fluff, whipped arthur, fem!reader, awkward arthur
wc: 1.6k!
The morning at Horseshoe Overlook was already warm, sunlight spilling through the trees in honey-colored streaks. Camp was slow and quiet - just the soft murmur of someone shuffling cards and the distant clink of pots as Pearson fussed over breakfast.
You were rinsing your hands at the bucket, rolling your shoulders loose, breathing in that dusty summer air - when the sound of heavy footsteps and rustling brush pulled your attention.
Arthur emerged from the treeline, and damn if he didn’t look like he belonged to the wild and claimed it too.
A deer rested across his shoulders, tied firm and balanced like it weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. His shirt was pushed up at the sleeves, tan skin catching sunlight, muscles shifting beneath it with each steady step. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple - he wiped it with the back of his arm and kept walking, jaw set in that determined, effortless way of his.
He saw you first.
And just like always, his face softened the second his eyes landed on you, just enough to make your heart feel like it tripped over itself.
“Mornin’,” he drawled, voice warm as the breeze.
You tried - you really tried - not to stare at the whole display of strength and surety in front of you. But your eyes lingered, caught somewhere between admiration and that fluttery feeling you refused to name.
“Morning.” You echoed, a little breathless. “Successful hunt?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Reckon so. Figured Pearson might actually stop complainin’ for an hour.”
You laughed, and he looked just a little too proud of himself for making you do it.
Pearson came bustling over like a man possessed, praising the meat and already planning dinner. Arthur let him yap, then turned back to you, thumb hooking absently into his gun belt.
“Didn’t expect you awake this early.” He admitted, eyes lingering on you like he was committing the sight to memory.
You brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Nice mornings like this? Hard to sleep through ’em. Besides,” you added, heat rising beneath your skin even before the words fully formed, “good company helps.”
It slipped out so soft you almost hoped he didn’t catch it.
But he did - and the look he gave you in return was slow, warm, and dangerous in the sweetest kind of way. A smile tugged at his lips, quiet and pleased, like he wasn’t sure whether to tease you or hold the moment close.
“That so?” He teased, voice turned low and rich.
Pearson yelled something unintelligible at him, breaking the spell. Arthur cleared his throat and adjusted the deer on his shoulder.
For just a second - one warm, golden-lit second - his tough, steady composure faltered. His ears went a little pink. Then that ghost of a grin returned, curling at his mouth like he couldn’t fight it if he tried.
“Well,” he said, tipping his hat, “good to know.”
He walked off toward Pearson, but not without looking back once more, like he couldn’t help himself.
Arthur emerged from the trees carrying the deer like it weighed no more than a coat slung over his shoulder, sun catching on his arms, sweat glinting off the warm bronze of his skin. Camp chatter softened as he passed - even the horses lifted their heads like they knew a man worth noticing when they saw one.
He crossed the clearing at that steady, grounded pace of his, boots sinking into dirt, muscles working in smooth, practiced motion. If strength had a sound, it’d be the quiet confidence in his steps. You pretended not to stare, yet every line of him pulled at your eyes like gravity.
He dropped the deer beside Pearson’s wagon with a heavy, final thud.
Pearson spun, wide-eyed. “Arthur, that there is—”
Arthur didn’t stay long enough to hear the praise. He’d already turned - not toward his tent, not toward camp work, but toward you.
His gaze found you easily, like it always did. Like maybe it was looking for you before he even got back.
“Hold up a second.” He grumbled, cutting Pearson off mid-breath.
Pearson blinked, baffled. “Arthur? Don’t you wanna—?”
But Arthur was already stepping away. You watched as he wiped his palms on his trousers, cleared his throat like he was preparing for a duel, and walked straight toward you.
You blinked. “For me?”
He nodded, then immediately seemed to regret nodding, because now he looked awkward as hell. “Just—wait here.”
Before you could say a word, he turned sharply, pacing toward his horse like a man on a mission and yet somehow embarrassed to be seen doing it. You watched him rummage in his saddlebag, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact. Then he hesitated… winced… and pulled something out.
It was a little wildflower bouquet.
…Well. Mostly a bouquet.
A few petals were bent, some stems twisted from the ride back: a handful of summer blooms in shades of pale yellow and soft white, tied together with a bit of twine. Clearly gathered by hand. Clearly meant for you.
He stared at it with a tiny grimace, thumb brushing over a crushed petal like he could magically fix it by sheer willpower alone.
Then he sighed under his breath, squared his shoulders, and headed back - bouquet held behind him like it might explode. When he stopped in front of you, he cleared his throat again. Twice.
“So, uh… this’s for you.” He muttered, finally holding the flowers out.
You looked at them - imperfect, sweet, heartbreakingly earnest - then at him. His eyes flicked to yours and away instantly, a pink flush climbing his cheeks.
“They were nicer before.” He mumbled, visibly annoyed at the betrayal of nature. “Got a bit squashed comin’ down the ridge.”
You accepted them gently, careful like they were a gift worth more than they looked - because to you, they were.
“They’re beautiful.” You said softly.
He lifted his head at that, searching your face like he needed to make sure you meant it. When he saw the truth there, his whole expression softened - relief, warmth, something tender he didn’t know how to hide quick enough.
“Yeah?” He asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he just nodded once - slow, almost shy - and tugged the brim of his hat down.
“Figured you might like ’em.” He murmured.
A beat passed. Summer air between you, bright and gentle. Your fingers brushed his as you tucked one flower behind your ear, and he froze - breath catching just a little.
Behind him, Pearson’s voice cracked across camp like a frustrated rooster: “Arthur Morgan, that deer ain't gonna skin itself!”
Later, camp settled into that soft evening hum - the clink of plates being washed, the crackle of the fire, somebody humming a tune just off-key enough to make it human. Lantern light flickered across wagons, and fireflies drifted like tiny sparks caught in the warm twilight.
Arthur sat at the edge of camp with his journal open but absolutely not writing a damn thing. He kept pretending to scratch the page, but he wasn’t fooling anybody with eyes.
Especially not Dutch.
“So.” Dutch drawled from across the fire, swirling his drink like he was born dramatic, “I heard you rode back with quite the… spring in your step today.”
Arthur’s jaw ticked. “Don’t start.”
“Seems to me,” Dutch continued, voice like a smug cat stretching in the sun, “our dear Arthur’s been feelin’ inspired by nature. Flowers and all.” He smirked. “Romantic sort.”
Arthur’s ears went pink instantly. “Ain’t nothin’ like that. Just saw ‘em, figured… somethin’ nice. Nothin’ more to it.”
Dutch lifted a brow like he didn’t believe a single word. And truthfully? Neither did Arthur.
He tried to go back to staring at his blank journal page. Tried to breathe normally. Tried not to think about how close he’d come to makin’ a fool of himself handing those flowers over.
But then he looked up.
And froze.
You were walking toward the fire, lantern light catching your hair - and there they were. His flowers.
Braided into your hair, woven through like they belonged there all along. Little, soft, wild blooms threaded between strands, glowing in firelight, making you look like summer itself had chosen you.
Arthur forgot how breathing worked.
His fingers curled slowly into the paper of his journal. His shoulders stiffened. His heart - traitor that it was - kicked hard enough that he felt it in his throat.
Dutch followed his line of sight, then grinned like the devil himself. “Ahh.” He realised, low and pleased. “And there she is.”
Arthur swallowed. Hard.
You met his eyes briefly, shy little smile tugging at your lips when you caught him staring, and he had to look down at his boots before he did something stupid, like stand up and pull you into his arms in front of half the camp.
Dutch leaned closer, voice just loud enough for Arthur to hear. “Son, if you’re tryin’ to hide it, you’re doing a terrible job.”
Arthur grunted, voice strained. “Ain’t hidin’ nothin’. Ain’t anything to hide.”
Dutch’s laugh was knowing, quiet but wicked. “Mhm. And I suppose the sky ain’t blue either.”
Arthur tried to ignore him. Tried. But when you settled by the fire, flowers glowing in your hair, soft smile just for him, he felt something in his chest tighten, soften, and break open all at once.
He ducked his head, tipping his hat low to hide the way his mouth betrayed him with a tiny, helpless smile.
Dutch saw it anyway and clicked his tongue. “Lord help him.” He teased cheerfully. “The man is gone.”
Arthur didn’t look up. He didn’t trust himself to.
All he managed was a quiet, rough, “Shut it.” and even that sounded more like a prayer than a threat.
And across the fire, with your flowers in your hair and moonlight catching your eyes, you looked at him like maybe, just maybe, you were gone too.
a/n: arthur is such a cutie.. he just like me fr.. this is also my first post on this account what do we think chat
.☘︎ ݁˖ strangers to lovers headcanons with arthur morgan - mdni! (light smut)
Arthur Morgan, who first truly notices you when he catches you grooming his horse.
Arthur loves his horse more than most people, and he’s fiercely protective of the animal. For weeks, he’d seen you around camp – the quiet girl who didn't make a fuss – but it wasn't until he returned from a short hunting session with Charles to find you meticulously brushing the grime from his horse's coat that he actually saw you.
He stopped in his tracks, leaning against a nearby wagon, watching the way your small hands worked with such tenderness.
You hadn’t only been cleaning his horse. Rather, you were whispering to it, your voice a soft melody that seemed to calm even the most spirited beast. He watched the way you leaned in to kiss the horse's velvet nose, a genuine, sweet smile lighting up your face.
In that moment, the hardness in Arthur’s chest cracked just a little. He felt a strange, sudden pull toward you, a desire to be the recipient of that kind of gentleness.
He didn't say much then – just a gruff “Thank you, Miss” – but as he walked away, he found himself glancing back over his shoulder.
He couldn't stop thinking about the softness of your expression and the way you handled something he loved with such genuine care.
Arthur Morgan, who starts spotting you everywhere you go around camp.
Once he noticed you, it was as if a veil had been lifted. Suddenly, you were the center of his periphery.
Whether he was cleaning his rifle by the fire or chatting with Hosea, his eyes would instinctively drift toward you. He’d watch you helping Pearson with the stew, the way you laughed at something Mary-Beth said, or the way you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear while reading a book by the lantern light.
He began to find excuses to be near you. He’d linger by the horse picket longer than necessary, or he’d “happen” to be walking toward the coffee pot just as you were arriving.
Arthur loved the quietness of your presence: you didn't demand anything from him, and you didn't judge the blood on his knuckles or the weariness in his eyes.
You just smiled at him – a small, shy thing that made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He started noticing the little things: the scent of wild herbs that clung to your skin, the way your voice hitched when you were nervous, and the way you looked at him with a curiosity that felt like a warm blanket.
Truth be told, he was terrified of these feelings, but he was even more terrified of the thought of you disappearing from his sight.
Arthur Morgan, who begins bringing you wildflowers from the fields during his rides.
Arthur isn't a man for poetry or fancy gestures, but he found himself captivated by the colors of the wilderness.
On his scouting trips, while the world was quiet and the wind was whistling through the pines, he’d spot a patch of bright yellow primrose or a cluster of deep blue cornflowers. He’d stop his horse, look at the blooms, and immediately think of you.
He’d awkwardly pluck a handful, stuffing them into his satchel, feeling like a fool for doing so.
“What am I doing..?” He’d mutter to himself, shaking his head.
But the moment he rode back into camp and saw you, the embarrassment vanished, replaced by a desperate need to see you smile.
He wouldn't make a grand production of it. He’d walk up to you while you were working, clear his throat loudly, and thrust the slightly wilted bunch of flowers toward you without looking you in the eye.
“Saw these. Thought... thought you might like 'em.” He’d grumble, his cheeks flushing a deep red.
“Why thank you, Arthur. They’re… well, they’re gorgeous.” You’d reply, face heating up as you grinned up at him.
But when you took them, your fingers brushing his rough skin, and thanked him with that beaming smile, Arthur felt a rush of warmth that no amount of whiskey could ever provide.
Arthur Morgan, who lets his guard down during a drunken slow dance at a camp celebration.
The camp was in high spirits, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and the sound of a fiddle playing a lively tune.
Arthur had been drinking – more than usual – and the whiskey had softened the edges of his anxiety. When the music shifted to something slower, more melodic, he found himself standing near you.
The courage of the bottle pushed him forward.
He reached out a large, calloused hand, his voice low and slightly slurred.
“Dance with me... please?”
You didn't hesitate, sliding your hand into his.
Arthur was a mountain of a man, and he felt clumsy as he pulled you close, his boots stepping slightly out of time. He wasn't a dancer – he was a fighter and a killer. But as he felt your body press against his, the world around them blurred.
He loosened up, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction as he rested his chin on the top of your head.
Closing his eyes, he let himself breathe in the scent of your hair, swaying slowly to the music. For a few minutes, he wasn't an outlaw on the run; he was just a man holding the woman he loved.
“Yer real pretty…” He whispered incoherently yet sweetly into your ear, a confession born of alcohol and longing, and for the first time in years, Arthur felt truly at peace.
Arthur Morgan, who finally kisses you after you help him back to his cot.
The party had wound down, and the whiskey had finally caught up with him. Arthur was stumbling, his head spinning, and you were the one who caught him, looping his heavy arm over your shoulder to guide him back to his small, secluded corner of the camp.
He was leaning heavily on you, his breath warm and smelling of rye, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin tingle.
As you helped him lower himself onto the cot, you lingered for a moment, your hand resting on his chest to steady him. You started to pull away, but Arthur’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a surprising firmness.
He pulled you down, and before you could gasp, his lips were on yours.
It wasn't a polished kiss; it was desperate, hungry, and filled with all the words he had been too scared to say. He tasted of alcohol and longing, his beard scratching your skin, but the heat of it was intoxicating.
While he groaned into your mouth, his hand moved from your wrist to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were clouded with emotion, his forehead resting against yours.
“I've wanted to do that... for so damn long.” He whispered, his voice cracking.
Meanwhile, you had hidden your face in the crook of his neck, too speechless to reply.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who is a mess of shyness and awkwardness the morning after.
The sunlight filtering through the canvas of the tent felt far too bright the next morning.
When you woke up and looked over at Arthur, he was already awake, staring at the ceiling with a look of sheer panic on his face. The bravado of the whiskey was gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable uncertainty.
Whenever you tried to speak, he shifted away slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Mornin’...” He muttered, his voice gravelly.
He couldn't quite look you in the eye, his ears turning a bright shade of crimson. He was terrified that he had overstepped, that you would regret the kiss, or that he was simply too ruined of a man to be what you deserved.
But as the day progressed, the awkwardness turned into a tender, tentative courtship. He started holding your hand in secret, his large thumb stroking your knuckles while you walked. He’d leave little notes or pieces of candy on your bedroll.
He was still the rugged outlaw, but with you, he was a boy in love, constantly checking to make sure you were happy, his eyes following you with a devotion that was almost painful to witness.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who treats your first time together with a reverence that borders on sacred.
The transition from kissing to something more happened on a quiet, moonlit night, far from the prying eyes of the camp. He had led you to a secluded spot by a stream, the grass soft beneath you.
Arthur was trembling – not from cold, but from a sheer, overwhelming nervousness. He had spent his life taking things by force or fighting for survival; the idea of being gentle, of truly cherishing someone, was terrifying.
As he stripped away your clothes, his hands were shaking. He kept pausing, looking into your eyes for permission, his voice a low, unsteady rumble.
“You sure? I– I don't want to hurt you. I'm not– I ain’t a gentle man, darlin’.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure in my life, Arthur.”
You’d assured him that you wanted him, and the look of relief and desire that crossed his face was heartbreakingly sweet.
When he finally entered you, he did so with agonizing slowness. He stopped the moment he felt any resistance, his muscles locking up, his breath hitching in his throat.
He stayed still, his forehead pressed against yours, waiting for you to adjust, whispering praises into your skin.
“Yer so tight… fuck, sweetheart.” He hissed, his voice thick with emotion.
He didn't rush. He focused entirely on your pleasure, his movements patient and rhythmic. Every time you gasped or arched your back, he would slow down, kissing every inch of your face, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.
“M– Mmh! Arthur… feels s’good..!” You’d mewled into his ear, and he responded by capturing your lips in a kiss.
Arthur was so focused on your comfort that he almost forgot his own needs, his heart hammering against your chest.
And when he finally came inside with a groan against your ear, he'd let go. He collapsed against you, sobbing quietly into your neck, finally feeling like he belonged to someone.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who becomes incredibly protective and affectionate in the aftermath.
After that night, Arthur changed. The softness he had shown you became a permanent part of his demeanor when you were alone. He became your shadow, always ensuring you were fed, warm, and safe.
If another man looked at you for a second too long, Arthur didn't need to say a word; one dark, warning glare from beneath the brim of his hat was enough to send them scurrying.
But with you, he was a different man.
He loved to wake you up with soft kisses on your shoulder, his large body curling around yours like a protective shield. He started talking to you about his past: the things he regretted, the dreams he had given up on.
He trusted you with the parts of himself he had hidden from Dutch and the gang; the parts that were fragile and frightened.
He’d spend hours just watching you, his hand resting on the small of your back, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration on his face.
He still brought you flowers, but now he’d tuck them into your hair, his fingers lingering against your skin.
He had found something in you that he thought was lost to the world: a reason to believe that he was more than just a gun for hire.
You’re hired as the housekeeper by the big boss— but unfortunately for you— the creeps see you as their housewife.
The job was self-explanatory. HELP NEEDED, the newspaper said. LIVE-IN HOUSEKEEPER FOR SHARED RESIDENCE — Full-time. Basic cleaning and cooking skills required. Duties: deep cleaning, laundry, organization, and light meal prep. Housing provided with a private bedroom and bathroom. STRICT CONFIDENTIALITY & DISCRETION REQUIRED. Background check and references mandatory.
Looks innocent enough, right?
Innocent enough to have you working for them in the duration of 5 months and counting.
You wanted it to be a mundane yet honest routine, peaceful work hours with minimal interaction—
But certain residents just make it too hard to do so.
For instance: you’re making dinner. Simple. But they aren’t simple.
“Honeeey, I’m hooome,” the exaggeration of the fake gusto in Jeffrey’s voice hung sourly in your ear as you flipped over the savory mix of beef and broccoli in the pot.
Nonetheless, you kept smiling.
Jeff creeps closer. “Are you making me dinner, honey?” His grin was wider than ever, his cold, large hands resting on the back of your waist, toying with the ribbon lace. You knew the nickname was a mockery of your position, but you still couldn’t help but blush.
You serve him quietly, still smiling, and when he sees you giving him the bowl of rice and stew, the fake high-tone of his voice drops to a dangerously low rasp.
“Why, thank you, honey.” Jeff tilts his head menacingly, smile wider than before.
He squeezes your ass briefly with a squeal from you before leaving.
Another instance, you cleaning their guns. But they have more than just ammo locked and loaded.
You were nothing more than delicate with the cotton pinched between your hands moving through the breach all the way to the muzzle when Toby sputters.
“Yuh-you have s-such pretty hands… can I– can I huh–hold ‘em?”
You smile and about to say yes, but Tim on your left side interrupts.
“Get back to work, boy. She ain’t here for you,” he gruffs, muttering under his breath. “Y’need help there, sugar? You ain’t hafta tire yourself from this–”
“She wants to stay, Tim.” Brian butts in. “I can tell.” the end of his mask was still hung on the bridge of his nose, but you can tell— no, you can feel his eyes on you.
You smile politely and continue, catching the three of them staring at you at least one time.
You also remember folding BEN’s clothes and neatly piling them in one laundry basket labeled with his name.
It wasn’t a big deal. Your mother taught you how to fold clothes in the right and quite fast way, and this was no problem. Plus, you knew BEN wasn’t really a neat person. You just wanted to help him out a little.
And along with doing his laundry without being asked, you’d also whipped up some waffles smothered in nutella with whipped cream on top, shaped like a heart.
You need knock on his door only three times before he shuffled to open it. His eyes widened, revealing more of the black of his scleras.
He looks at you, then the neatly folded clothes, the waffle, then back at you.
“Aw, no way, ma,” the red pupils of his eyes seemed to sparkle at you. “You… you did this… all for me?”
You nod, offering the plate with his waffles toward him. He takes it.
“No, no way. No way I’m gonna let you get away with this unscathed,”
You raise an eyebrow in confusion.
“Let me make it up to you, ma,” BEN’s grin screamed half-high and excited. “I can make it up to you, I swear–”
Then, he sets his eyes slowly, slowly, until they landed on the pushed-up look of your tits held by the apron you were still wearing.
“I know more ways than one.” He cocks an eyebrow, one hand holding the plate, and the other pulling at the tie of your apron.
And finally, the most unexpected but surprisingly pleasant memory: giving Jack a massage in his own clinic cot.
You noticed he’d been a little too stiff lately.
He was organizing pill bottles in his cabinet when you came in, quietly, and asked softly to give him a massage.
Jack had denied at first, but seeing you so very sweetly insist— how could he say no?
You’re behind him on your knees while he sat in front of you facing the wall. Your hands worked to find the gnarly knots and firmed to let them free, slowly working from the edge of his shoulder blades all the way up to the base of his neck—
He’s… he’s purring.
Jack had tried to stop it– but your palms were simply magic in flesh’s form.
After you were done, you two sat in comfortable silence, before:
“I have a full 12-hour shift this Thursday in lieu of Tim and Brian’s patrolling duties.” He pauses, twisting his body around to look at you from behind.
“I would like… some company.” Jack clears his throat. “Stay with me for the night. My shoulders could only work for so long. You should know. After all, it’s you who knows how to touch me.”
about: you're arthur's muse for a quiet evening at camp. then he catches himself dreaming of a life that couldve been.
tags: mostly fluff, slight angst, dreams, wishful thinking
wc: <1,000
an: i wrote this about a full figured woman with brown hair and eyes because i want more representation of women with my body type! hope you enjoy!!!
Evening settled slow over camp, casting long golden fingers through the pine branches and dappling the worn tents and wagons in the kind of soft, forgiving light that made everything feel a little less harsh. The kind of light that made a man want to sit still and just… watch.
Arthur Morgan leaned his shoulder against the cool bark of a tree just off the main path of camp, half-hid in the shadows. His journal lay open in his lap, the familiar worn leather comforting beneath his rough fingers. A stub of pencil tapped lightly against the page, as if impatient.
But Arthur wasn’t drawing yet.
He was looking. Searching.
Across the camp, just near the fire where Miss Grimshaw usually held court, you sat on a low wooden crate, back to the setting sun, head bent, a shirt spread across your lap like a map. Mending. Needle flashing between the fabric, steady, efficient. Your hands moved with purpose, graceful, but sure, like you’d done this a hundred times over.
Arthur squinted a bit, watching as a lock of your dark brown hair slipped forward from the loose knot at the back of your head. It curled slightly at the ends, just brushing your shoulders. You huffed, frustrated, and pushed it back without missing a stitch. Brown eyes narrowed in concentration, mouth tugged into a small line of focus. You weren’t smiling, but you weren’t frowning either. You were just… in your own world.
You always looked like that when you were working. Quiet. Peaceful.
Content.
Arthur’s chest tightened, sudden-like. He didn’t like that feeling, not much. Made his jaw clench. He looked down at the blank page in his journal, muttered something low under his breath, then pressed pencil to paper.
The first few lines came slow, tentative. The curve of your back as you leaned over the shirt. The slope of your shoulders. The way your dress, soft, worn cotton pulled snug across your full figure. He tried not to think about how his eyes lingered there, how he appreciated the roundness of your hips, the way your chest moved just slightly as you breathed. That weren’t proper. Not for him to dwell on, anyhow.
But still… he stared a little too long.
He sketched the set of your face, the roundness of your cheeks, the curve of your nose. He gave special care to your eyes, those warm, earthy brown eyes that always seemed like they were looking through people instead of just at them. Even if they didn’t meet his often.
Your hair came next, that tumble of loose strands and gentle waves and curls. He made sure to sketch how a few wisps clung to the sweat along your temples—real detail, honest work. He wasn’t trying to make you picture perfect. Just real. Just… you.
Arthur paused, looked up again.
You shifted, rolling your shoulders, stretching a little with a soft groan like you’d been hunched too long. The way your body moved was natural, un-self-conscious. He caught himself admiring the way your arms looked strong from years of lifting and working. Not delicate, no, but something better. Real strength. Womanly. Comforting.
His pencil moved quicker now, like it had a mind of its own. He added the shape of your hands, the way your fingers curled around the fabric. He shaded the patchwork shadows cast by the firelight dancing along your figure, letting it frame you in warmth.
Then, near the top of the page, where he sometimes scribbled names or little notes, he paused.
He didn’t write your name.
He just wrote:
"Camp, Evening. Mending."
Plain and simple.
Arthur stared at the sketch for a long time after he finished it. His gut felt strange, tight and warm all at once, like he’d swallowed something that didn’t sit right. But he knew better. He wasn’t sick. Just… stirred, maybe.
He knew you were beautiful. He thought it every damn time he looked at you. But it wasn’t the kind of thing a man like him admitted haphazardly.
So instead of words, he closed the journal, slid it back into his satchel, and stood slowly.
He watched you a moment more, just a heartbeat, before heading toward his bedroll, pretending like he’d just been walkin’ through.
He never said a word about the drawing.
But that night, when he lay on his side, journal tucked in his saddle and the soft hum of camp drifting in the air, he didn’t dream about shootouts or past regrets like he usually did.
He dreamed of those brown eyes and that soft smile.
He fell into sleep slower than usual, like his mind refused to settle. The hum of the crickets and crackle of the campfire blurred into a low lullaby, and the smell of pine sap drifted in on a cool breeze.
And when sleep finally did come, it brought you with it.
At first, it was the camp, but softer somehow. Dream-washed. Firelight flickered like candle glow, the shadows less sharp, the cold bite of the evening replaced by a warmth that didn’t come from the fire. You were there, sitting across from him, not mending now, but laughing, your head tilted back slightly, that brown hair of yours falling in soft waves and curls around your cheeks. The dress you wore was different—lighter, something with little flowers stitched near the neckline. You looked comfortable. Happy.
Arthur found himself leaning toward you, elbows on his knees, heart thudding slow but heavy. His voice felt thick in his throat, like it always did when he hesitated.
“Y'er real beautiful, y'know that?” he asked, in that low, gravelly drawl of his. Hesitant. Honest.
You blinked, caught off guard. Then smiled. A slow, warm, crinkling-at-the-corners kind of smile that made him feel like maybe the sun had decided to rise just for him. You didn’t laugh at him, didn’t scoff or look away like he feared. Simply smiled. And that was more than enough for him.
He chuckled in the dream, rough and sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when nerves got the better of him. You reached across the space between and touched his hand--soft, steady fingers against scarred knuckles.
That’s when the dream shifted.
The camp disappeared, and he saw flashes of another life--a different one.
A little log cabin tucked in the trees, smoke curling from the chimney. Not fancy, but sturdy. A garden out front, your herbs and vegetables growing in neat rows. He saw himself chopping firewood, shirt sleeves rolled up, sweat beading on his brow, but there was no pressure behind the work. Just peace.
Inside, there was light. Warm walls, a table with two chairs, dishes drying by the basin. He saw you at the stove, hair tied back with a faded red kerchief, humming a tune while stirring something rich and warm in a pot. The smell of stew and fresh bread filled the place.
Then another flash. Your hand in his as you walked into town, skirt brushing his boots, the two of you laughing at some dumb thing he’d said. People looked at you like any other couple. Normal. Settled. You didn’t have to look over your shoulder anymore. Neither did he.
Then he saw himself brushing hair from your eyes by lantern light, kissing your forehead while you leaned into him by the fire. And later, falling asleep with you curled against his chest, your body warm and real in the dark.
He dreamed of children, though he didn’t see them clearly--just heard the patter of little feet, the echo of laughter through the woods. He saw you carrying a small blanket over one shoulder, turning back toward him with that same soft smile.
He felt it all. The ease. The quiet joy. The belonging.
But even in dreams, some part of Arthur knew it wasn’t real.
The dream faded, the log cabin dissolved and the warmth slipped from his hands like smoke, he saw himself standing outside in the snow, watching that little home from a distance, as if it belonged to someone else. Someone better. Someone who hadn’t done the things he’d done.
You stood in the doorway, silhouetted in firelight, calling to him. Reaching out. But he didn’t move. He just watched. Hand at his chest. Heart heavy because he couldn't run to you like he wanted. His feet cemented to the floor around him.
Then he woke, breath caught in his throat, the stars above him too bright, the makeshift pillow beneath his head too hard. The fire was down to embers, and camp was still. Quiet.
He stared up at the sky for a long time.
He would never say the words aloud. Would never tell you he dreamed of a cabin and soft smiles, of calloused hands brushing yours, of a future wrapped in flannel and wildflowers.
But in his journal, tucked behind the sketch of you mending that shirt, he wrote:
"A quiet life, if I could.
With her, maybe I would’ve tried."
In the morning, he left a fresh spool of thread and a new needle by your tent, without a note.
about: you tell arthur morgan you're expecting. he has a hard time accepting his new reality, juggling his responsibilities with the gang. a new life calls for arthur, but his past pulls him in the opposite direction.
an: hi so i put this together over the course of a week. i had the idea of what life would've been like if arthur got someone pregnant but the tragedy that happens in the game still happens. so this is really sad imo, and REALLY long. hope you enojy :3
The sun was dying slow behind the mountains, bleeding rust and gold across the sky. It should’ve been beautiful, the kind of sunset folks wrote songs about, but your stomach was twisted tight, a dull ache blooming in your chest. You leaned against the split-rail fence just outside camp, your fingers knotted together, cold even though the air was warm.
You could hear him before he even came into view. The sound of hooves crunching through dead leaves and fallen branches, his horse’s low huff, and then his voice–rough, tired, familiar.
“Y’alright out here?”
You turned slowly. Arthur swung down from his saddle, dust rising at his boots. He was already frowning, something unreadable behind those blue eyes. He didn’t like the quiet, not from you.
“I been lookin’ for you,” he added, taking a few steps closer. “You missed dinner.”
“Wasn’t hungry.”
Arthur’s brow furrowed deeply. “That right?” He studied you for a moment, head tilting slightly. “What’s wrong?”
There it was.
You looked at him–the man who’d carried you across rivers, pulled bullets from your leg, whispered soft but broken apologies into your hair when he thought the world was ending. And still, somehow, this felt harder than all of that.
“I need to talk to you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes narrowed just a little. “Alright.” He leaned against the fence besides you, arms crossed, glancing sideways. “Talk, then.”
You hesitated. There was no soft way to land this. No way to pad it with kindness. So you just said it, like pulling a bandage off a bullet wound.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words hit the air like gunfire. Sharp. Irrevocable. Loud, even in a whisper. Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t speak, or blink. The only sound was the breeze brushing through the pines and the distant murmurs of camp behind you.
You turned to him, trying to find his eyes. “Did you hear me?”
He straightened slowly, like a man waking up inside a nightmare.
“What did you say?”
“I’m pregnant, Arthur,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I’m gonna have a baby. Your baby.”
For a split second, something flickered in his face. Something raw. Then it vanished behind a wall of cold, practiced detachment.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, turning away from you. His hands went to his hat, taking it off before raking through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. “Jesus Christ.”
Your chest squeezed. “I didn’t plan this Arthur.”
“Well no shit, neither did I!” He snapped, spinning back toward you. “You think I got time to be somebody’s father? You think that’s a good idea, right now? With everything goin’ on?”
You flinched like he’d hit you. “I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just thought you deserved to know.”
He paced, boots heavy in the dirt, a storm rolling behind his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. You don’t know what this life is. I can’t keep you safe, I can hardly keep myself safe. I kill people for money,” he spat, “I lie, I steal–I ain’t no man a child should be lookin’ up to.”
Your voice cracked. “I’m not askin’ you to be a hero, Arthur. I’m just telling you what’s real.”
“Real?” he scoffed bitterly. “Ain’t nothin’ about this life real, not really. It all ends bloody. You know that. So what, you wanna bring a child into it anyway?”
“I didn’t choose this,” you finally snapped, “it happened. And I’m scared, alright? I’m scared outta my goddamn mind. But I’m still standin’ here. I still told you. That should mean somethin’.”
He went quiet again, breathing hard, hands flexing uselessly at his sides now. The fire was gone from his eyes and what was left was something worse. Emptiness. Shame.
“I ain’t no good for you,” he said, barely audible.
You blink back the burn in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”
He looked at you then–like he was memorizing your face for a day he already knew was coming. His jaw clenched, hard.
“How far along?” he asked, gruff.
You swallowed. “Couple months, maybe less.”
He nodded slowly. That muscle in his jaw twitched again. And then, he stepped back. “I need to think,” he said, almost choking on the words. “I–I need to clear my head.”
You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Just silence. Just the sinking feeling in your gut as he turned, climbed back into the saddle, and rode off into the dusk without another word.
The wind picked up behind him, colder now, as if it carried the weight of what had just broken open between you.
And you stood there, alone in the failing light, hand drifting instinctively to your stomach, wondering if he’d come back before the world burned down around you.
The days bled together like bruises—blue and yellow and aching.
Arthur didn’t say a word.
Not a damn word since the night you told him.
He didn’t storm off again. Didn’t yell. He just… slipped away, day after day, like a shadow shrinking in the light. He rose before camp stirred and came back well after sunset, when the fires were low and the air was heavy with sleep. You’d catch glimpses of him—sharpening his knife alone by the wagon, brushing down his mare in the dark, smoking in the trees with his back turned. Always just out of reach.
He avoided your eyes like they might burn him. And worse? He never said your name. Not once. Every time you passed close, every time your hand hovered near his on a shared task or your eyes lingered too long—he moved away. Like you were poison.
At first, you were angry.
You’d built something with him. Earned his trust in a world where most folks had to fight just to stay human. You’d shared nights wrapped in blankets under the stars, whispered truths into the hollow of his throat, watched him flinch at your touch not out of hate, but out of unfamiliar tenderness. He chose you—over doubt, over fear, over all the mess of the gang and the blood that clung to his hands.
And now? He was gone without ever leaving.
You tried, the first day. Quietly approached while he fed the horses, voice low and careful.
“Arthur…”
He didn’t look up.
You tried again the next afternoon, your voice sharp with frustration.
“You don’t get to just pretend I don’t exist.”
He kept walking.
By the third day, you stopped trying.
You felt like a ghost in your own skin, caught somewhere between furious and hollow. Not just for you, but for the life growing inside you—silent, unseen, and already left behind.
Even Dutch noticed the tension, though he said nothing, just gave Arthur one of those long, assessing looks across the fire. Hosea, bless him, opened his mouth once to ask if you were alright, then closed it again when he saw your face.
And you? You tried to go about your days like nothing had changed. Gathered herbs. Cooked. Patched your torn shirt. Held your composure like a knife between your teeth. But at night—those were the worst. When camp was quiet and the stars pressed down and you could hear the distant murmurs of Arthur’s voice talking to anyone but you.
One night you stood in the shadows behind a tree, watching him laugh softly at something Charles had said. It hit you like a punch to the ribs. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t in pain. He’d just shut you out. Tucked you away like a mistake he didn’t know how to unmake.
You pressed your hands to your stomach, eyes burning, and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby,” into the cold dark air.
Because whatever Arthur Morgan was running from—you were part of it now.
The next morning, he rode out before dawn. Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say goodbye. Just like before. And the issue—the truth of it—hung between you both, thick as smoke and just as choking. Unspoken. Unresolved. Like so many things in his world.
As he left, something inside you went still.
Not shattered—not yet. Just... cold. Numb. Like your heart had folded itself in half and tucked away behind your ribs for safekeeping. You lay in your cot staring up at the pale canvas of your tent ceiling while the camp stirred outside—pots clanging, voices low, hooves thudding against frost-hard earth. It was just another day in a world that didn’t stop moving, even when yours had.
He wasn’t coming back.
Not to you. Not to this.
Maybe he hadn’t meant to be cruel. Maybe silence was the only language he could speak when he was drowning. But knowing why didn’t change the ache. It didn’t make it easier to carry the weight of him—and the life growing inside you—alone.
By the time you emerged from your tent, the sun was climbing through low clouds and a few flakes of snow drifted down, slow and aimless. The gang was bustling—Bill was already drunk, Tilly was peeling potatoes, and Dutch was giving one of his sermons by the fire, voice full of honeyed hope and half-truths. Nothing had changed, not really.
Except you.
Your hand lingered at your belly again, a soft, unconscious gesture now. You were starting to feel different. Not much, but enough. A flutter of nausea some mornings. A new kind of tired in your bones. A quiet awareness of something not quite visible but still entirely real.
And no one knew but Arthur. And he had left you alone with it.
You avoided the questions—told Miss Grimshaw you were just sick, waved off Tilly’s concern with a forced smile. No one pushed. Not yet. But the pressure was building like thunder on the horizon.
That night, you sat alone near the edge of camp, watching the stars through bare tree branches. The fire crackled low beside you, but you didn’t add more wood. You liked the quiet. You needed it.
You thought about leaving.
You’d thought about it before, in passing. But now the idea rooted deeper, more real with every breath of winter air. What were you waiting for? Arthur to come back and pretend he hadn’t abandoned you? Dutch to notice and offer some poetic bullshit about fate? The gang to change?
No.
You knew better.
This life was a dead-end road—drenched in blood, shrouded in smoke. You had followed it long enough. And now, for the first time in a long while, you had someone else to think about. Someone who hadn’t asked for any of this. Someone who deserved better than a cradle made of stolen gold and broken promises.
The decision came slow, like a fire building from embers. Quiet, steady, irreversible.
You were going to leave.
Not tonight. But soon. You’d need to be smart—take supplies, money, maybe even a horse. You weren’t sure where you’d go, not yet, but the world was big, wasn’t it? There were towns where nobody knew your name. Farmlands. River valleys. Places where children were born without gunfire outside the window.
You spent the next few days preparing in secret. Quiet, careful. You mended saddlebags. Stashed food in a hidden pack under your cot. Pocketed bits of coin from jobs you hadn’t turned in. No one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t say anything.
The air got colder. Snow stuck to the ground some mornings, lingering in the shadows. You began to wear a heavier coat, buttoned low over your belly. No one asked. Maybe they didn’t want to know. Or maybe they knew and chose the same silence Arthur had.
Either way, it didn’t matter.
You were leaving.
Then, one night, you crept out before dawn. The moon was low and the sky washed silver. The camp was still sleeping, curled in tents and dreams and old regrets. You paused near Arthur’s tent. It looked the same as ever—neat, quiet, impersonal. As if he might return at any moment and slip back into place, as if nothing had ever changed. But you knew better now.
You stepped forward. Hesitated. Then left something small at the flap—a folded note.
You didn’t write much. Just a single line, in your uneven, looping script.
I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.
And that was it.
You saddled a horse—quiet, a mare you trusted—and rode out under the veil of a waking sky. No tears. No theatrics. Just the crunch of hooves over snow and the slow bloom of morning behind the trees.
You didn’t know what lay ahead. Towns, danger, loneliness. Maybe worse.
But you also knew this: you were strong. Strong enough to survive this world. Strong enough to carry what Arthur couldn’t.
You rode on, hand on your stomach, heart full of silence and fire.
And for the first time in days, you felt something like peace.
The camp was half-awake when Arthur finally returned. He had been gone on a long hunting trip with Charles, bringing home a variety of meats and pelts like elk, moose, and beaver.
Snow clung to Arthur’s coat, stiff and crusted. His horse was tired, ribs heavy from the hard ride. He didn’t speak to anyone—just tied her near the hitching post, nodded at Pearson’s half-hearted greeting—acknowledging their bounty. He trudged through camp like a man halfway through a bad dream. He didn’t expect to find anything waiting for him. He hadn’t really expected you to wait, either. But when he reached his tent, the first thing he saw was a small folded piece of paper, tucked just beneath the flap like a whisper someone left behind.
He stared at it for a long time. Snow melted in his hair. Cold sank into his boots. But his hands didn’t move—not until his chest felt tight enough to crack. He bent down, fingers brushing the worn edges of the paper. It still smelled faintly like you.
“I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.”
There was no signature, you hadn’t needed one. Arthur stood there for a while, the paper trembling just slightly between his calloused fingers. He stared at your handwriting until the ink blurred. Then he folded it carefully, like it was something holy. He opened the flaps to his tent, walked in, and sat on his cot he once shared with you. He thought long and hard about what to do next. Should he follow you? Or just find you? Should he let you get away from the dangers of the gang, leaving everything unsaid? For a moment, he was confused.
Then, he decided the right thing to do was to find you. At least to know you’re both okay. For peace of mind, he told himself.
It took him close to a month to find you. Weeks of bitter wind and half-frozen trails, of sleeping under pine trees and asking questions in dusty towns. He’d asked too many people if they’d seen a woman on horseback—strong-willed, quiet, brown eyes, maybe wearing a coat too heavy for her size. Most shook their heads, some offered a guess. One said she saw someone that sounded like you riding north, toward Strawberry. Arthur hadn't meant to feel hope when he heard that. But he did. And that hope kept him riding straight through the storm.
When he finally reached Strawberry, the town was blanketed in soft, half-melted snow. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A dog barked somewhere behind the sheriff’s office. The main street was quiet but not empty—townsfolk bustled in and out of the general store, a rancher tied off his horse outside the saloon, and the sky overhead was gray with the weight of coming snow.
He tethered his horse near the general store and made his way toward the inn. The woman behind the counter barely glanced up until he said your name. Then she nodded, almost cautiously. “She’s got a little house up behind the falls,” she said. “Bit outside of town. Walkable if you don’t mind a climb. Been keepin’ to herself mostly.”
Arthur thanked her with a tight nod and turned away before she could say more.
He found the house nestled at the edge of the woods—small, crooked-roofed, with a low stone chimney and a fence half-built around the back. Smoke curled from the chimney. There was laundry strung between two trees, fluttering in the cold wind. A horse was grazing nearby—he recognized her. One of the mares from camp.
Arthur’s jaw clenched. You were here. You’d really done it. You made a life—without him.
He knocked before he lost his nerve. At first, there was nothing. Then he heard it—footsteps inside. A quiet shift of movement. The door creaked open an inch, just enough for you to peer out. Your eyes widened. For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just that snow-heavy silence between you.
Then softly: “Arthur.”
He swallowed hard, unsure what his first words to you would be. “You just left.”
You opened the door the rest of the way. You looked… different. Not worse. Just changed. Stronger in some ways. Tired in others. A little paler, maybe. But your eyes were clear. And your belly had begun to show.
He noticed you had a hand resting gently over your stomach.
“I left because I had to,” you said. “You gave me nothing, Arthur. Not a word. Not even a look.” Silence fell. “I waited. And then I made the only choice I could.”
He stepped forward, his voice low and rough. “You think I didn’t notice? I was tryin’ to protect you, goddamn it.”
“By pretending I didn’t exist?”
“By not dragging you down with me.” His voice almost an ashamed whisper. He was angry, but not at you. It wasn’t ever at you–it was to himself. At his own fear, his own cowardice.
You stared at him, your voice calm but heavy. “You weren’t protecting me. You were avoiding me.”
Arthur looked away, jaw tight. “I know.”
The wind rustled the trees. A pair of crows shrieked overhead, then flew off into the gray sky. Arthur’s voice was slow when he finally spoke again.
“I was scared. Of what it meant. I don’t know how to… do any of that. How to take care of you. I was…” he paused for a second, searching the space between you two for words he couldn’t form himself. “...I was afraid I’d ruin everything. That i’d break somethin’ I love.” The words escaped him in a hush.
You blinked at him. That word hung there—love—suspended like breath in the cold. A word he so rarely used for you. A word reserved for moments like these. Rare, raw, and tender.
“But that don’t mean I didn’t care,” he continued. “It don’t mean I didn’t think about you every second of every damn day since you left.”
He met your eyes then, and his voice broke on the edges. “I was angry when I saw that note. Not cause you left—but ‘cause I didn’t go with you. And that ain’t your fault. That’s mine.”
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, you stepped aside and nodded toward the inside. “Come in,” you said softly.
He hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold.
The cabin was warm. Simple. There were blankets by the fire, food on the table, a kettle steaming. It was a life—not fancy, but real. Tangible. Safe. Something he knew he couldn’t offer you.
Arthur looked around like he didn’t quite believe it was all yours. All yours.
“Guess you didn’t need me afterall,” he muttered.
You turned to face him, arms crossed, a quiet defiance in your stance.
“I wanted you. That’s different.”
Arthur looked at you, and for once he didn’t try to explain himself. He just let the silence fall again, softer this time. And after a while, he stepped forward, slow and careful, and rested a hand over yours on your stomach. You didn’t pull away, neither of you said anything.
The kettle whistled low and steady in the quiet of the cabin, catching your attention. You walked across the small cabin towards the stove where the kettle sat patiently. You poured the tea with slow, deliberate movements—hands steady, though your heart felt anything but. Arthur sat across from you at the small wooden table, hands clasped around a chipped mug, eyes tracing the grain in the wood like it held answers he couldn’t find in you.
It had only been a few weeks but it felt like another lifetime since you’d last spoken—since you last looked him in the eyes and seen something other than guilt buried in them. The fire cracked in the hearth, casting golden light over the room. Outside, the snowfall had started to thicken. Fat flakes drifted sideways in the wind, gathering along the windowsill and piling slowly against the porch. Arthur glanced toward the window, jaw tensing slightly.
“You’re not gonna make it back to camp tonight,” you said quietly, watching him. He didn’t argue. “I’ve got a spare bedroll,” you added, eyes flicking down to your tea. “You’re welcome to stay. Just for the night. It’s… safer.”
Arthur hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Guess that’d be smart.”
Smart. Right. Logical. Reasonable. So why did it make your heart twist in your chest?
Time passed by slowly, slower than what was comfortable in all honesty. But the two of you caught up slowly, like two people trying to reach each other in a language they’d almost forgotten. You told him about the town, how the general store clerk gave you extra oats when he noticed you were eating for two. How the lady at the inn had helped you find the little cabin. How quiet it was out here, how lonely, sometimes, but how peaceful too.
Arthur listened in silence, nodding now and then, gaze never straying far from you. He didn’t interrupt. Just sat there, hat in his lap, looking like he’d aged a little more since the last time you saw him. He told you he’d been running jobs between looking for you. That the Pinkertons were getting too close. That Dutch was getting restless, dangerous. That the world he lived in was unraveling—and fast. He admitted that he was thankful you got out at the time you did, especially considering the baby you now carried.
You asked him if he was alright, he lied and said he was fine. But you saw the wear in his eyes. The way he sat too stiffly, like he was waiting to run. Like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome here or trespassing on something he’d already lost. Later, after the sun dipped low and the wind began to howl harder through the trees, you made supper. Nothing fancy, just stew and bread and the last of the salted meat. He thanked you with a nod so quiet it almost didn’t reach his lips. You ate in near silence, listening to the wind rattle the shutters to the cabin.
When you both moved to the fire, you sat on opposite sides. The warmth between you helped, but the space still yawned wide with unspoken questions. Arthur cleared his throat. “I ain’t gonna pretend like I didn’t mess up,” he finally spoke, voice rough, eyes on the flames. “I did. I know that.”
You glanced at him, waiting. He fidgeted with a loose thread in his glove. “I don’t know what I’m doin’. With you. With the kid. I ain’t had someone depend on me like that in a long time. And I ain’t got much left in me to give.”
You looked at him a long while then said, “I never asked you to be perfect, Arthur. I just wanted you there.” The words hung in the air between you, quiet but heavy.
“I know,” he muttered.
You both fell silent again. The wind moaned outside, louder now, a storm building on the ridge. You pulled your blanket tighter, feeling the ache of old hope stirring in your chest—hope you didn’t quite trust anymore. When it got late enough to yawn, you laid out the spare bedroll beside the hearth. You didn’t ask him to share your bed. You didn’t offer. And he didn’t ask. But you lingered, both of you, staring into the fire like it might hold something more than flickering light and fading warmth. Finally, he laid down with a groan, one arm folded beneath his head. You extinguished the lantern and climbed into bed, facing the wall. Neither of you fell asleep immediately, simply laid awake in the quiet comfort of each other's presence.
You rolled over, checking the time. Past midnight. You sat up, staring through the dark cabin towards the now dying fire of the hearth. Something told you that he was still awake.
With a voice barely above a whisper, “Do you want to be in our child’s life?”
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. You couldn’t really see him from where you sat but you imagined his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, mouth drawn tight. For a long time, he didn’t answer.
Then: “I don’t know.”
Your heart sank, slow and heavy.
But then he added, voice lower now, more raw: “I want to. I just… I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. Like I messed up everythin’ else.”
“You can’t undo the past, Arthur,” you said. “But you can choose what you do next.”
He stayed quiet for a long moment, his silence saying more than he could.
“You don’t have to do it alone,” you reassured him. The quiet hung between you like smoke.
You saw him nod, just once, like it hurt to do it. “Alright.”
You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you moved. But something shifted in the stillness. A step, a breath, a beginning, maybe.
And in the deep hush of a snowbound night, you both lay awake, listening to the wind, the crackle of coals, and the slow tentative beating of three hearts trying to learn each other again.
The next morning came blanketed in white—the snow thick on the porch railings, the trees sagging under its weight. There was no point trying to ride out. The roads were buried, the air sharp and bright with winter silence. You stood at the window with a steaming mug between your hands, watching the frost climb the glass.
Behind you, Arthur stirred. You didn’t turn around.
“I’ll split some wood,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep.
You nodded. “Axe is out back.”
It was a small thing. A simple thing. But it was the beginning.
That first day, you watched from the porch as he chopped kindling. His coat hung open, breath fogging in the cold. He worked without saying much, but he didn’t complain either—not about the cold, or the blisters, or the snow piling up around his boots. Every now and then, he glanced toward the house. Toward you.
You pretended not to notice.
He carried the firewood in and stacked it by the hearth. You nodded to him when he came in, and he gave a short grunt in reply. Then he sat at the table while you prepared breakfast—oats, some berries you’d dried from the fall. You passed him a bowl. He muttered a soft “thanks.”
The silence was different now. Not sharp. Not full of tension. Just… new. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to scare it off.
The days passed like that. Slow. Simple.
Arthur fixed the fence behind the cabin, tightening rails and replacing slats where the snow had cracked the old ones. You offered him soup afterward, and he sat close enough by the fire that your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you pulled away.
He mucked out the little barn beside the house, fed your mare, helped patch the draft in the window above your bed.
You caught him standing in the doorway more than once, watching as you folded linens or stirred something over the stove. He never said anything when you looked back—but he didn’t look away either.
That unfamiliar pull grew stronger with every quiet chore. Every wordless glance. Every brush of your fingers as you passed each other in the narrow kitchen.
And still, neither of you spoke about what this was.
Or what it might become.
On the sixth night, the snow stopped.
Stars appeared—faint, but visible through the thinning clouds. The moon glowed soft and full, casting silver over the trees. Inside, the fire had burned down low, throwing flickering shadows across the walls.
Arthur stood near the hearth, hands resting on the mantle. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow. You sat on the edge of the table, watching him quietly.
He turned.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, voice low.
You tilted your head, unsure where it was going.
He hesitated, eyes on the floor. “About you. About this place. The baby.”
Your hand went unconsciously to your belly.
Arthur looked up. There was something in his eyes you didn’t expect.
Not fear. Not shame. Something softer.
“I ain’t good at this,” he said. “Any of it. But I feel… different here.”
“Different how?”
He took a slow step toward you. “Like maybe I could be someone else. Someone better. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
You blinked, heart tight in your chest.
“Do you want to be here?” you asked. “With me?”
“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” he said quietly. “Camp’s still out there. Dutch is still out there. My past, all of it—it ain’t gone.”
He came closer.
“But right now? All I know is this feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.”
Your breath hitched. And in the quiet that followed, you stood. Walked toward him. Met him halfway. The kiss came slowly—tentative, uncertain. His hand was warm against your jaw, calloused fingers trembling just slightly. Your hands settled at his waist, anchoring yourself to him. He tasted like salt and cold air, like woodsmoke and something unspoken. Something real. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was honest.
When you pulled away, you didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. You just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same space. Then Arthur gave a short, almost broken laugh.
“That okay?” he asked, voice rough.
You smiled, faint and sure.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “That was okay.”
The fire burned low. The snow outside had stilled. And for the first time in a long while, the weight of what you carried didn’t feel quite so heavy. Not when someone might finally be willing to carry it with you.
Days turned into weeks and before you knew it, Arthur had been at the cabin for 2. Life seemed content, calm. You were happy, and Arthur seemed…happy too. Your belly growing by the day, and Arthur’s affection growing along with it.
Arthur had started to fall into a rhythm that felt dangerously like peace. He’d wake early and tend to the horses, the quiet hum of your morning routine comforting in its familiarity. Sometimes you’d sit together at the table, hands brushing as you reached for the same spoon. Other times, he’d find himself pausing in the doorway, just to watch you move around the little cabin like you belonged there—and like maybe, somehow, he could too.
But peace is fragile when you come from a life built on gunfire and running.
You were inside by the fire, mending a shirt. Arthur was outside, splitting the last of the firewood, when he paused—head tilted, brow furrowed. The sound of horses echoed down the ridge. Not one. Two.
He moved toward the front porch, wiping his hands on a cloth.
You stepped outside just as the riders crested the path.
John Marston was the first to dismount—coat dusty, a tired look in his eyes. Behind him, Charles followed, calm as ever but serious. They both looked cold, weather-worn, and—Arthur noticed it right away—urgent.
“Arthur,” John called out, his voice taut. “We’ve been lookin’ for you.”
Arthur stiffened. “Didn’t know I was missin’.”
John gave a humorless laugh. “Dutch sure thinks y’are.”
Charles slid from his saddle, giving you a polite nod before turning to Arthur.
“He sent us out days ago,” Charles said. “Said there’s a job comin’ up. Big one. He needs everyone back.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched.
You stepped down from the porch, eyes scanning the two men.
“What kind of job?” you asked.
John looked at you for a moment, then turned back to Arthur.
“Blackwater. The ferry,” he said grimly. “Dutch says it’ll be the last one. One big score, and we’re done.”
Arthur looked down at the snow-covered ground, fists curling at his sides. The cold crept up his spine, but it wasn’t the weather. It was the weight. The pull of obligation. The noose of loyalty tightening again.
“He needs you, Arthur,” John pressed. “He’s been getting… unpredictable.”
Arthur’s throat was tight. “He’s always unpredictable.”
Charles crossed his arms, quiet but firm. “We’re not here to twist your arm. Just… Dutch is counting on you. You’re the only one who can talk sense into him.”
A long silence settled over the yard.
You looked at Arthur, and he could feel your eyes like fire on his skin. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. Not yet.
“Why now?” he asked, finally. “Why this one?”
John shifted, glancing toward the horizon. “We’re losin’ ground. Pinkertons are closing in. We’re out of time.”
Arthur dragged a hand down his face. “Goddamn it.”
You stepped forward, voice calm but firm.
“So what, Arthur? You just go back? Just like that?”
He turned toward you, eyes flashing with conflict. “I don’t know!”
The air turned brittle. The sound of the wind in the trees was the only thing filling the space between all of you.
“I been tryin’,” Arthur said, his voice cracking. “Tryin’ to be here. To do something that ain’t just robbin’ and runnin’. But I still got people countin’ on me.”
You crossed your arms, holding yourself tight.
“I’m not asking you to turn your back on the gang,” you said, quieter. “But you can’t keep doing both. You can’t keep one foot in that life and one here.”
Arthur looked down, jaw tight.
Charles watched the exchange, saying nothing, but you could see the understanding in his eyes. The quiet sympathy. He’d always been the only one who truly saw Arthur.
“I’ll wait by the horses,” Charles said after a moment, and he walked off without another word.
John lingered a bit longer. He looked at Arthur, then at you, then back again. “You’ve got some thinking to do,” he said, voice rough. “But don’t take too long. Dutch won’t wait forever.”
Then he turned and followed Charles down the path, their footsteps crunching in the snow. When they were gone, the silence was louder than it had been in days. You and Arthur stood a few paces apart in the yard, breath curling in the cold air.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, quietly.
“I know,” you replied.
He looked at you then, really looked. Like he was searching for something in your face—some answer, some permission to let go of the life he’d lived too long.
“I don’t wanna leave you.”
“Then don’t,” you said. “But if you stay, stay for real. Don’t keep your heart out there with Dutch. With that life. I can’t raise this baby always wondering if you’re coming back with bullet holes in your side.”
Arthur looked down at the snow between you, nodding slowly.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice like gravel. “Scared that I ain’t gonna be the man you need. Or the man that kid needs.”
You stepped toward him, placing a hand gently on his chest, over the slow, heavy beat of his heart.
“I’d rather have an honest man who’s scared,” you said, “than one who runs off pretending he isn’t.”
He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.
“I need time,” he whispered.
You nodded. “Take it. Just don’t take too long.”
The wind picked up again. The snow swirled between you.
And for the first time in a long while, Arthur Morgan had to ask himself who he was when he wasn’t the gun for hire, the loyal soldier, the ghost riding behind Dutch Van Der Linde. Because now, for the first time, he had something to stay for. Something to lose.
That night was quiet, still, only the sound of the cracking fire filling the small cabin. Arthur didn’t say much when it was time for bed, instead he curled himself around you, holding your belly in his hand until he fell asleep. You took in the moment, memorizing the feel of his breath on your neck, his scent that you grew accustomed to over the course of the past couple weeks.
But quiet tears streamed down your cheeks and fell onto your pillow, yet you made sure Arthur didn’t hear you cry. Fear, panic, unease. It all grew in your chest simply by imagining that he could possibly be gone, that he’d miss your belly growing, miss the birth, miss the baby’s first… everything. Still, you wiped your tears, breathing deeply and taking in his calming scent. You put your trust in the universe, hoping that it would be kind to you like you were to it.
It’ll all work out, you tried to convince yourself.
You woke before dawn to the sound of boots on floorboards and the distant clinking of saddlebags. The fire was down to glowing embers, the cabin cold. You sat up slowly, watching his silhouette move through the dim light—tall, broad, quiet as a ghost. His back was turned, but you knew the tension in his shoulders like your own breath.
He didn’t expect you to wake.
“Where are you going?” you asked softly as you sat up on the bed you both shared.
Arthur turned. His hat was in his hands, that battered old thing he never seemed to take off unless he had something heavy weighing on him. Like now.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered.
“You didn’t.”
He crossed to your side, sitting besides you so you were eye to eye. His face was rough from sleep, beard untrimmed, but his eyes—those storm-colored eyes—were clear.
“I’m going back,” he said. “Just for a while.”
You knew it was coming. Still, your chest tightened.
“Blackwater?” you asked.
He nodded. “One job. Dutch swears it’s the last. I ain’t so sure I believe him, but… I gotta be there.”
You swallowed thickly. “And then what?”
Arthur reached for your hand. His palm was rough and cold, but his grip was steady.
“Then I come back here,” he said. “For good.”
You stared at him, searching for the cracks. The fear. The doubt. But all you saw was something that scared you even more: hope.
“You really think you can leave that life behind?”
He exhaled through his nose, eyes falling to your joined hands.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I want to. I know I’m tired of runnin’. Tired of buryin’ people. Tired of wonderin’ what the hell I’m doin’ it all for.”
He looked back at you, voice low.
“But here… with you. Our baby. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”
Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away.
“Promise me,” you whispered. “If something goes wrong—you come back home anyway. Don’t disappear. Don’t vanish into that world again.”
Arthur brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
“I promise.”
You stood on the porch when he rode off.
His horse kicked up frostbitten dirt as it wound down the snow-covered trail. He turned back once—just once—and raised a hand in farewell. You lifted yours in return, heart lodged somewhere in your throat.
And then he was gone.
The cabin felt too quiet without him.
You went about your chores—feeding the mare, boiling water, keeping the fire alive—but the stillness weighed on you. It crept into the corners like smoke, like a draft you couldn’t seal out. You caught yourself reaching for a second mug in the morning, turning toward the door at the sound of hooves that never arrived. And every night, you laid in bed with a hand resting over your stomach, missing the weight of his hands, wondering where he was. Was he safe? Was Dutch pushing him too far again? Would he come back whole? Would he come back at all?
The days blurred.
You’d sit by the fire in the evenings, a book open in your lap, barely read. The wind whistled through the trees, and you’d stare out the window for long stretches, listening for the faint echo of hooves that might never return.
You wrote letters you never sent.
Arthur— The snow melted yesterday. The ground’s soft again. I planted something near the fence line. I think you’d like it here, come spring.
Arthur— I felt the baby move today. Just a flutter. Like a heartbeat under my skin. It scared me. And then it made me smile.
Arthur— Where are you? Come home.
You’d fold them, tuck them into the drawer beside your bed. Your hope lived in that drawer now. Fragile, folded, waiting.
The days grew longer. The snow thinned. The creek behind the cabin started to run again. Still no word. You chopped your own wood. You rode into Strawberry for supplies once, just to hear voices, to remind yourself the world hadn’t gone quiet.
But it had.
At least the part that mattered most.
One night, as spring tried to take hold, you sat on the porch wrapped in Arthur’s coat he left behind for you to keep, watching the stars blink open in the purple dusk. The mountains were still capped in white, but the trees had begun to bud, reaching for something new.
Your hand rested on your belly—rounder now, unmistakable. The child was quiet, like they too were waiting for a father they’d never met.
You didn’t cry.
You’d done enough of that.
You just waited. Quiet and still.
Trusting that somehow, the man who’d kissed your hand and whispered I promise would find his way back through the darkness. That he'd return not just for the promise he made, but because—despite the blood, the gunpowder, and all the things he carried—he wanted to.
The snow had melted into slush and mud. Spring had clawed its way up the mountain at last, leaving a damp chill in its wake and a cabin steeped in silence. The trees were budding, the creek behind the house was alive again with the babble of meltwater, and the wind had lost its bitter edge.
But he didn’t come back.
Arthur Morgan had ridden out into the cold weeks ago, hat low over his brow, a man torn in two. And still, there was no sign of him.
Not until the letter came.
It arrived the way all heartbreak does—quietly. No fanfare, no warning. Just a knock at the door one late afternoon, as the sun spilled gold through the trees.
You opened it to find an unfamiliar man on your porch. Weathered face, neutral eyes. He didn’t say a word—just handed over a folded, sealed envelope and nodded once.
“For you,” he said, voice low, and then turned back to his horse without waiting for a response.
You closed the door behind you, hands trembling as you turned the letter over. Your name scrawled across the front in familiar, looping script. It looked rushed. Smudged, even. Dirt on the corners, a faint thumbprint near the seal.
Arthur’s handwriting.
Your heart plummeted.
You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, candlelight flickering beside you, and unfolded the single sheet.
The paper crackled. His scent clung to it faintly—gunpowder and pine. Your eyes moved across the words, each one a punch to the chest.
My girl,
I don’t have the right to call you that no more. But I reckon it’s the only way I know how to start this.
I’m alive. For now. The job in Blackwater went bad. Real bad. Dutch had it all wrong—we all did. Pinkertons were waitin’. There was shootin’. Screamin’. We barely got out. Some didn’t. I don’t even know how we made it north, but we did. We’re holed up now, somewhere cold and cruel, and Dutch is already talkin’ about what comes next.
I know I said I’d come back. I meant it. Every word. But if I come back now, they’ll follow me. And they’ll find you. You and the baby. And I can’t risk that. I won’t.
So I’m stayin’ away. For your safety. For the baby's. It ain’t what I want, but it’s the only way I can think to protect you now. I don’t know how long we’ll be runnin’. Maybe forever. Maybe not long at all.
I think about you every day. About the cabin. The way you looked at me that night by the fire, like I could be somethin’ better. I wish I’d held onto that longer.
I’m sorry.
If I find a way to make it right, I’ll come back. But don’t wait for me. Don’t put your life on hold. Raise that baby strong. Tell them I was a fool, but I loved them all the same.
Tell them I loved you.
— Arthur
You sat still long after you finished reading, the letter clenched in your fists, its paper crumpling under the weight of your grief.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in the woods, a bird sang—lonely and far away.
You stood slowly and crossed to the fire, feeding a fresh log to the flames. The letter stayed in your hand.
You wanted to scream. To cry. To curse his name for leaving, even if it was for all the right reasons. You wanted to rip the letter in half.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you read it again.
And again.
Until the candle burned low and the light outside dimmed to blue and indigo.
That night, you lay in bed curled on your side, one hand resting on your stomach. The baby shifted beneath your touch—a quiet reminder that life, no matter how uncertain, still moved forward.
You thought about Arthur’s face the last time you saw it. The way he kissed your hand, the way his voice trembled when he made that promise.
He meant it. Of that, you had no doubt.
But the world had never been kind to men like Arthur Morgan. Men who tried to claw their way out of darkness for the sake of something gentle. The cruel truth was that he hadn’t broken his promise because he stopped loving you. He’d broken it because he loved you too much to bring his hell to your doorstep.
In the days that followed, you kept moving. You fixed the fence he started. You tended the garden he’d helped dig. You patched the leaking corner of the roof, your belly growing heavier with each passing week. Your back growing painful with the new weight of your baby.
But part of you had gone quiet again.
Not dead. Just waiting. Like the creek under frost.
The letter stayed in your drawer, folded neatly beside the others. You’d reach for it sometimes—never to read, only to hold. Like maybe, if you pressed it close enough to your chest, you could still feel the warmth of his hands. Still feel the echo of his voice, whispering words he may never get to say again.
Spring soon turned to the start of summer, and the green world bloomed around the cabin in quiet defiance of your solitude.
The trees stretched tall and full, the days long and golden. Bees danced through the lavender you’d planted by the front step. A pair of robins nested in the rafters beneath the porch roof, their soft chirps a constant reminder that life pressed on, regardless of heartbreak.
You moved slower now. The weight in your belly grew heavier by the day, until even simple tasks left you breathless. You’d catch your reflection in the small mirror hanging near the wash basin and barely recognize yourself—hair messy, face flushed, hands always cradling your swollen stomach like you were afraid to let go.
You talked to the baby sometimes. When the nights got too quiet. When the wind rattled the shutters and your back ached from tossing in bed.
You told them stories—about their father, about the cabin, about the fireflies that blinked like stars in the meadow after sundown. Sometimes you laughed. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you just pressed your hand to your belly and whispered,
"I hope you don’t feel as alone as I do."
Her name was May. You met her in Strawberry, during a rare trip to town in early June. A trip you’d put off too long, your supplies running low, your body already straining. She was older—widow-gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, hands like leather, eyes as sharp as flint. She saw you struggling to load a sack of flour into your wagon and took one look at your belly before she tutted under her breath and stepped in.
“You shouldn’t be liftin’ that. Not in your condition.”
You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” she replied curtly, but not unkindly. “Come. I’ll help you finish your errands, and then you’ll come have tea with me. Unless you want to be one of those fools who gives birth in the dirt alone like some wild animal.”
Despite yourself, you chuckled. And then, unexpectedly, you went.
May lived in a small cottage at the edge of Strawberry, vines creeping up the stone walls, a garden teeming with color and smell. Her house was warm and full of clutter—books, candles, knitted blankets folded over chairs. She brewed strong tea. Gave you a bar of handmade soap and a pouch of dried herbs to help with your back. She asked no questions about the father of your child, and you were grateful. You visited her once a week after that.
She showed you how to ease swollen ankles in cold water. How to soothe your cramps with peppermint and lavender oil. How to listen to your body when the baby shifted and dropped. When you told her how far along you were, she nodded and began visiting you at the cabin, walking the half-mile trail from town with a wicker basket in hand and stories about her late husband on her lips.
“It’s not about pain,” she said one afternoon, as you sat on the porch with your feet soaking in a bucket. “It’s about power. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
You stared at her, brow furrowed. “What if I’m not strong enough?”
May looked you dead in the eye.
“You already are.”
The first contraction came in the middle of the night.
You woke with a start, the pain twisting low and hard like a rope being pulled tight inside you. You doubled over, gasping, one hand on the wall to steady yourself. You lit the lantern. Counted the minutes between the waves. Each one stronger than the last. By dawn, you knew it was time.
You sent your loyal hound hurrying down the trail, tail tall, a note pinned to her collar: “It’s happening. Please come.”
May arrived before sun rise, already rolling up her sleeves.
What followed was a blur of breath and sweat and pain that reached down to the bone. Hours passed in a haze of heat and tears. May barked calm orders, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered encouragement like spells.
“You’re almost there. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”
And you did.
Because there was no other choice.
Because you weren’t just giving birth to a child. You were giving birth to a future Arthur might never see, but that you would carry for him.
The baby arrived just after sunset, as the sky went soft and lilac beyond the trees. A scream—yours—and then a cry that split the air like thunder. May lifted the child, wrapped them in a soft linen blanket, and placed them gently in your arms. You stared down at the tiny face, flushed and squirming, their cries already fading to soft hiccups against your skin.
A boy.
You felt it then—all of it. Joy. Relief. Grief so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs.
You traced your fingers across his damp hair, whispered his name—a name you’d chosen weeks ago, when hope still burned a little brighter.
Arthur Alexander Morgan. You decided he’d go by his middle name.
The tears came fast and hot, slipping silently down your cheeks as you held your boy close. You wanted him there. You wanted his voice, his hands, his steady calm. You wanted him to see the way Alexander clung to your finger. The way his little chest rose and fell. The way he already had his father’s brow. But there was only the firelight, and May’s quiet footsteps, and your own sobs muffled into a blanket as you whispered through the ache in your chest,
"You should’ve been here."
The days came slowly after the birth.
Not gentle—never gentle—but steady, like the tide. Predictable in their routine. Wake. Feed. Rock. Change. Sleep, if you were lucky. Repeat.
Your world shrank to the size of your cabin and the woods beyond it. The creek, now swollen with summer rains, offered a lullaby for quiet nights when Alexander wouldn’t stop crying. You walked him up and down the porch, whispering lullabies against his tiny ear, pressing your lips to his soft scalp, breathing him in like he was the only real thing left in a world that had gone silent.
And in a way, he was.
You still whispered Arthur’s name sometimes. Quietly, like a sin. Like a prayer.
You still kept the letter tucked in your drawer, edges curled and worn soft from being unfolded so many times. You’d memorized it now. Every crooked word. The apology he’d poured into ink. You didn’t cry anymore when you read it. Not like you used to. But you still felt it, like a bruise under your ribs—tender when touched.
Alexander grew fast. Too fast. He had Arthur’s eyes. You saw it more every day. That dusky blue that sometimes looked gray in the shade, piercing and soft all at once. He furrowed his little brow when he was focused, just like his father. Made a low, thoughtful noise when he was frustrated. His hands—God, his hands—were already shaping to be big like Arthur’s, even in miniature. It was like living with a ghost. A sweet, smiling ghost who learned to crawl, then walk, then toddle across the porch to chase butterflies in the tall grass. And every time you looked at him, your heart broke just a little, pieced itself back together, and broke again.
Because Arthur wasn’t here. Because he was supposed to be.
You stopped expecting him around the six-month mark.
Not that you’d given up hope. Not entirely. But something inside you shifted the day you caught yourself leaving the front gate open. A habit you’d built after his letter came. A silent offering. A beacon. You stood at the edge of the trail that morning, Alexander on your hip, the wind stirring the hem of your skirt. The trees swayed overhead, and for a moment—just a single, stupid moment—you thought maybe you’d hear the thrum of hooves. The jingle of tack. The familiar silhouette riding up from the woods.
But there was nothing. Just wind and birdsong. The rustle of a squirrel darting up a trunk. And it hit you, then. He wasn’t coming back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d died somewhere out in the world, a bullet in the dark, no name on his grave. Or maybe he was still alive, running, hiding, surviving—whatever the gang had become now that Blackwater had blown them to pieces. You didn’t know what was worse: thinking he was gone forever, or thinking he was still out there… choosing not to return.
You started closing the gate again.
You packed the letter in a wooden box along with the first blanket Alexander had been swaddled in, a broken feather Arthur had tucked behind your ear once, and the silver ring he’d left on your nightstand before the Blackwater job. You stopped going into Strawberry as often. May still visited, sometimes bringing books or biscuits or idle gossip about some cattle rustler passing through. You smiled, nodded, listened. But your heart stayed quiet. The silence didn’t hurt as much anymore. It just… was.
You sat with him under the birch tree beside the creek when Alexander was 11 months old, planning his first birthday. The grass had grown wild around the large birch tree. He giggled, blue eyes sparkling, without any worries. And you laughed with him. Genuine. Loud. The kind of laugh that felt strange leaving your mouth after so long. You kissed his forehead and held him tight, even as he squirmed to chase a dragonfly. “I wish he could see you,” you whispered, not for the first time. But this time, your voice didn’t shake.
You didn’t stop loving Arthur. You knew you never would. But love—real love—wasn’t always enough to keep someone by your side. Not in the world you came from. Not with the choices you’d both made. So you loved him the only way you could now: by surviving. Like he asked of you. By raising the son he never got to meet. By building a life out of quiet mornings, muddy boots, and lullabies. You’d made peace with your grief. Not because it left, but because you learned to live beside it. Like a scar. Like a shadow. Like the memory of a man named Arthur Morgan, who once rode away with a promise on his lips… and left behind a piece of himself in your arms.
The air smelled like moss and the river, and the breeze carried just enough of the summer heat.
Alexander sat beside you, legs splayed in the grass, a small wooden horse clutched in one chubby fist. He was babbling to himself, brow furrowed in concentration as he dragged the toy through the dirt like it was galloping across plains only he could see. You leaned your head back against the tree, half listening, half dreaming. You hadn’t slept much the night before—he’d woken with a fever that thankfully passed by dawn, but the worry had left its mark. The days were long, and you carried all of them alone.
You didn’t hear the footsteps. Not at first. But you felt them. The weight in the air shifted—heavy, like a storm building behind clear skies. The hairs on your arms stood up. The silence bent around something.
Someone.
And when you opened your eyes—
He was there.
Arthur.
You stared at him for a heartbeat too long, not believing what you saw. Not wanting to. Not daring. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hat in hand, shoulders sloped forward like the world had tried to crush him and nearly succeeded. His coat hung loose on him. His eyes were sunken. His skin—what you could see of it—was pale, waxy, like a candle burned down too low. His chest moved with short, shallow breaths. And even at this distance, you could tell he was struggling to stand upright.
You didn’t remember getting up. You just remember running. Across the grass, heart pounding in your ears. He flinched like he thought you might slap him—or worse. But you didn’t. You wrapped your arms around him, hard and fast, like the earth might steal him away again if you didn’t anchor him here. He tensed. Then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. One hand at your back. The other hovering, trembling. You felt the way he shook. The way he pressed his cheek to your hair, his breath catching in his throat like it hurt to hold on.
“I missed you,” you whispered, voice breaking, fighting back tears. “I thought—God, I thought you were dead.”
“I should be,” he rasped, the words barely there. “But I ain’t. Not yet.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
His eyes were the same. Blue as ever. But there was a tiredness behind them now, so much deeper than before. Not just exhaustion—acceptance. Like he’d stopped fighting something he knew he couldn’t outrun.
You lifted a hand to his cheek and he leaned into it before stepping back, coughing once into his sleeve. He looked toward the tree where Alexander sat in the grass, blinking up at the new stranger. Arthur’s eyes softened. And then filled with something you hadn’t seen in them in a very long time.
Wonder.
“Is that…?” His voice faltered.
You nodded. “That’s your son.”
Arthur stared. The wind caught his coat, and he swayed where he stood, but his gaze never left the boy. Alexander tilted his head, curious, then clambered to his feet and toddled toward you with wide, bright eyes. Arthur watched every step like it might shatter him.
“He looks just like you,” you said quietly, voice as unsteady as ever.
Arthur took a shaking breath, his jaw working.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to… be gone so long. But after Blackwater… the Pinkertons… things went bad. I figured stayin’ away was the only way to keep you safe.”
You said nothing at first, letting the wind answer for you. Still, under all the pain and deterioration, he was as beautiful as the first day you saw him.
Then Alexander reached your side, grabbing the hem of your dress and peeking up at Arthur with the hesitant curiosity only small children possess. You picked him up, pressing his head to your shoulder. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. His chest rose, fell, rose again, like he was fighting the urge to cry. Or collapse.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see him,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see either of you again. But I—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t go without meetin’ my boy. I had to see him. See you.”
You stepped toward him, slowly.
“You’re sick,” you said. Not accusing. Just truth. Your heart ached for him.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Dyin’?”
He hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not long now. I don’t reckon.”
You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He looked so tired. So hollowed out. Like something had been burned away in him, but the ember still smoldered.
Alexander squirmed in your arms, reaching a hand toward Arthur, fingers outstretched like he knew—like he felt the tether. Arthur looked down at his son’s hand like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. And then he broke. Not loud. Not messy. Just a single tear slipping down his cheek, his voice thick with sorrow and awe.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “For not bein’ here. For missin’ everything. You didn’t deserve that. He didn’t either.”
You reached out, pressing Alexander’s tiny hand into Arthur’s. It finally felt like your family was complete, even if it was on borrowed time.
The days that followed blurred into a soft, dreamlike haze — too tender, too precious, and too fragile to fully hold.
Arthur stayed.
He didn’t ask if he could. He didn’t need to. You made up the bed with shaking hands that first night and watched him fall asleep beside the fire, bundled in blankets that barely kept his trembling at bay. His breath came rough, rattling in the quiet hours when you couldn’t sleep, and each cough that shook his body tore something from your chest.
But still, he stayed.
And you cherished him in ways that didn’t need words.
You cooked for him, quietly setting small bowls of stew or porridge beside his chair. You laid Alexander in his arms when the boy reached out with chubby fingers and babbled “Dada” like it had always been part of his world. You didn’t flinch when Arthur staggered, when he had to lean against the table just to catch his breath. You held his hand as he sat out on the porch in the evenings, watching the summer’s light sink behind the trees.
Sometimes, you pretended he wasn’t dying.
Sometimes, you let yourself believe he might stay.
But at night, when he coughed into his pillow and curled inward like he could hide the sickness in his bones, reality clawed its way back in.
You were losing him.
Piece by piece.
And there was nothing you could do.
It was the fourth night when he finally told you how it all happened.
You sat together by the fire. Alexander was asleep in the back room, his little body wrapped in quilts, one thumb in his mouth. The house was quiet. So quiet.
Arthur stirred the mug in his hand, not drinking. His eyes were far away, like he was watching ghosts.
“It was down in Valentine,” he said finally. His voice was rough. Worn thin. “Had to collect some debt from a fella… Thomas, his name was. Died not long after I beat him half to death. And I—” He paused, coughed into his fist, then kept going. “I started feelin’ bad not long after. Sick. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t ride long without spittin’ blood. Guess that’s what I get for hurtin’ a family that needed help.”
You turned toward him, heart caught in your throat.
He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“Doctor told me it was tuberculosis down in Saint Denis. Said there weren’t nothin’ to be done. Just… wait it out. Die slow.”
The words hit like cold steel in your gut. You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes brimming.
“I’m sorry,” he added, and it shattered something in you.
“Stop,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t apologize. Don’t—don’t do that.”
But he did. Again and again, like a man trying to confess every sin before the reaper came knocking.
You broke then, curling into yourself, sobbing in a way you hadn’t since the night he’d left for Blackwater. Arthur reached for you, gently, his arms weak but still familiar. You buried your face in his chest, careful of his breathing, and let yourself fall apart.
“I thought I was ready,” you choked. “To raise Alexander alone. To let go. But now you’re here and I’m not ready. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want it to end like this. I want us to be a family.”
Arthur’s hand moved slowly up your back.
“I want that too,” he said softly. “More than anything. I’ve dreamed about it, y’know? Every night, since I left. You. Him. This little place in the woods. No Dutch. No runnin’. Just peace.” He kissed your hair. “But the truth is, I’m runnin’ outta time. I came back 'cause I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave this world without seein’ you again. Without meetin’ my son. But I can’t give you what you deserve. Not for long.”
You pulled back to look at him, your face wet, your hands trembling as they held his.
“Then give me what you can,” you said. “Just… whatever time we have. Don’t spend it apologizing. Don’t pull away. Just be here. With us.” You nearly begged.
Arthur smiled, tired but warm. “You always were better than me,” he whispered. “Knew how to love when I was too scared to.”
You leaned in and kissed him. Gentle, aching. A kiss filled with every unspoken promise, every memory, every dream you’d built in the quiet spaces of your heart. No fear.
And he kissed you back.
That night, Arthur held Alexander in his lap by the fire, humming a soft song you didn’t recognize. His voice was rough, but steady. The baby stared up at him, transfixed, one hand curled around his father’s finger.
You stood in the doorway and watched them, trying to memorize the moment. The shape of Arthur’s face in the firelight. The curve of his smile. The way his thumb stroked slow circles against Alexander’s tiny hand.
You wanted to bottle it. Bury it. Keep it forever.
But time wasn’t kind.
Time was never kind.
You could feel it before he said the words.
The distance in his eyes, the quiet grief he tried to bury behind soft smiles and trembling hands. The way he lingered outside in the evenings, staring out at the tree line long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. He was still here — in body — but you could feel him slipping away, like water through your fingers.
The sixth morning, you found him on the porch before the sky had turned gray with dawn. His coat was drawn tight across his hunched shoulders, his hat low, the air around him heavy with the scent of dew and woodsmoke. He didn’t turn when you stepped out beside him.
“I have to go,” he said. Quiet. Like the trees were listening.
You didn’t answer at first. Just let the words sink in.
“I’ve thought on it,” he went on, his voice rougher than usual, laced with that familiar rasp. “Long and hard. And I don’t wanna leave. God knows I don’t. But I’ve got… responsibilities. Loose ends with the gang. Things I gotta try and make right.”
You folded your arms around yourself, the morning air biting through your thin sleeves. “Arthur, you’re dying.”
“I know.” He nodded, still not looking at you. “And that’s just it. I ain’t got much time left. But if I stay here… if I get you or Alex sick—if I bring the Pinkertons to your door—I won’t be able to live with myself. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I ain’t about to risk either of you for my own comfort.”
You felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You swallowed them down. “You promised you’d come back,” you said.
He turned then.
There was something shattering in his expression. Not just guilt — grief. The kind that lives deep in a man’s bones, where no apology can reach.
“I meant it,” he said. “And I’m here now, ain’t I? But I also promised to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I’m dyin’ under your roof. Or if I lead them bastards here. They’re still after us. After Dutch. After me.”
You stepped forward, clutching his coat lapels in trembling fists. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’re leaving… again?”
“I wouldn’t if I had a choice.”
You looked up at him — at the man who had returned to you broken, thinner than he’d ever been, but still him. The man who had made your son smile. The man you still loved.
“I want more time,” you said, voice shaking. “I know that’s selfish. But I want another morning. Another day. I want him to remember you.”
Arthur cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that finally fell.
“I know, darlin’,” he murmured. “I want that too.”
That evening, the sky bled orange and violet across the ridgeline. A storm brewed on the far horizon, thunder rumbling low like the growl of some distant animal. You watched it come in from the porch, Arthur sitting beside you, legs stretched out, a blanket across his lap to keep off the creeping cold.
Alexander curled against his father’s side, giggling softly as Arthur lifted his toy horse in slow, deliberate swoops, making tired, wheezing horse noises.
You made supper — rabbit stew and cornbread, just the way he liked it — and Arthur ate what little he could, forcing it down between ragged breaths. He winced every so often, pressing a hand to his ribs, but he smiled when you offered him more tea, when you ran your fingers through his hair.
You tucked Alexander into bed together that night.
Arthur sat on the edge of the mattress, calloused hands brushing back your son’s hair, eyes shining in the candlelight. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead, lingering there a moment longer than needed.
“Be good for your ma, alright?” he whispered, voice thick.
Alexander didn’t understand. Not fully. But something in your silence must have spoken for you, because he clung to Arthur’s shirt for a long time before sleep finally took him.
Later, when the house had gone still and the rain tapped gently against the windows, you sat together in front of the dying fire, wrapped in silence and the weight of goodbye.
Arthur reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small — a folded scrap of paper, worn at the edges. He handed it to you.
You opened it slowly.
A sketch. You recognized his hand immediately. Charcoal lines, soft and smudged: a small cabin under the trees. A porch. A swing. A family.
You. Him. Alexander.
A dream he’d never stopped carrying.
“I drew that in camp,” he said softly. “Kept it in my pocket. Every time things got bad, I’d pull it out. Remember what I was fightin’ for.”
You pressed the paper to your chest, eyes burning. “Why can’t it be real?”
He looked at you then — really looked. With everything in him.
“It is real,” he whispered. “Just… not forever. But I had it. I had you. I had my boy. Even if it was only for a few days… I’ll carry that with me. Always.”
You climbed into his lap then, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too hard against his ribs. He held you there, breathing you in like you were the last thing on earth that felt right.
And you stayed that way for a long time, wrapped in each other and the quiet hum of a life that could have been.
The goodbye didn’t come easy.
You’d both known it was coming, had been dancing around the edges of it since that morning on the porch. But the hours passed too quickly, slipping through your fingers like river water. No matter how tight you held on, you couldn’t stop the sun from rising again. Couldn’t stop Arthur from saddling his horse in the dark before dawn.
He moved slowly, not from hesitation but from the weight of his own bones. Each breath came labored now, his coughs quieter but deeper, rattling in his chest like something shaking loose. His skin had taken on a paler shade, lips thinner, the hollows under his eyes darker with exhaustion he could no longer outrun.
You stood on the porch barefoot, holding Alexander, wrapped in one of Arthur’s old flannel shirts — the one that still smelled like him, like leather and campfire smoke. The baby shifted against you, blinking sleepily, unaware of what was being taken from him.
Arthur stepped forward, reins in one hand, the other clenched at his side like it hurt to let go.
You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t.
Instead, you stared at each other — memorizing. Burning every inch of him into your mind: the curve of his nose, the gray in his beard, the sadness behind those blue eyes. He was still the man you loved. Still the man who had held your hand during the hard nights, who had returned against all odds just to meet his son. But you could see the farewell in the way he stood, chest rising slow and uneven, lips pressed into a thin line to keep from trembling.
“I ain’t gonna make it back,” he said softly, breaking the silence.
You felt it then — your throat closing, your breath catching. “Don’t say that.”
Arthur’s jaw tensed. He looked away, toward the line of trees beyond the fence.
“If I could stay,” he said, quieter now, “you know I would. If I didn’t have this… thing rottin’ me from the inside out—if the Pinkertons weren’t huntin’ us—I’d be here. With you. With him.”
You stepped forward, voice cracking. “Then stay anyway. We’ll hide. We’ll disappear. I don’t care where we go. Just… don’t leave, Arthur.”
His breath hitched. You saw it in the way he blinked too fast, looked up at the sky like maybe it could give him strength. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. His thumb caught a tear before it slipped down.
“I want that,” he said, his voice so low you barely heard it. “More than anything. But I can’t live with myself if I run and leave John behind. He’s got Abigail. Jack. They still got a chance. And Dutch… he’s lost. I can’t save him, but I can help the ones who still got hope.”
You shook your head, tears falling fast now, shoulders beginning to shake. “What about us? Don’t we get hope?”
He looked at you then, eyes glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears.“You and Alex… you gave me somethin’ to come back for. You gave me peace. For a little while, I felt like I had a home.”
Your knees buckled, and he caught you before you could fall, wrapping you into him.
You sobbed into his chest, clinging so tightly to his coat that your knuckles ached. The tears came in waves — all the fear, the sorrow, the heartbreak you’d buried these last days spilling out like floodwaters. He held you through it, his own shoulders trembling as he buried his face into your hair. You felt the warmth of a few tears against your scalp — hot, silent — and it shattered you all over again.
“I can’t do this alone,” you whispered.
“Yes, you can,” he said. “You already have. And you’ll do it again. For him.”
You looked down at Alexander — now awake, squirming in your arms, reaching toward Arthur with tiny hands.
Arthur reached out and took him, arms shaking but sure. The baby nestled into his chest immediately, resting his head right over Arthur’s heart like he knew exactly where he belonged.
“I’m sorry, little man,” Arthur choked out, holding his son tight. “I’m so damn sorry I couldn’t be more for you.”
Alexander whimpered softly, then began to cry, sensing the shift, the pull of something coming undone. Arthur blinked rapidly, brushing his nose against his boy’s soft hair, cradling him like porcelain.
It took everything you had to take Alexander back, the child clawing at Arthur’s shirt, not understanding why he was being pulled away. He reached for him again and again, and Arthur turned his face away, biting his lip to keep from sobbing.
You stepped forward, once more, and cupped his face.
“If you survive this,” you whispered, “come home to me.”
He nodded. “If I can… I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” he said, lips brushing your forehead. You nodded through your tears, though your heart screamed otherwise.
Then he pulled you in, one last time, and kissed you like he’d never kissed you before — full of everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t. It was desperate and slow and full of pain, the kind of kiss you never forget. One you feel for the rest of your life.
When he pulled away, he left part of himself with you.
Arthur mounted his horse slowly, glancing back once, twice.
And then he rode off into the trees, the early morning mist swallowing him whole.
And you stood there in the doorway, clutching your crying child to your chest, the last of your heart galloping into the forest.
Time passed in quiet, uneven measures.
Morning became your anchor. The rhythm of the stove crackling to life, of Alexander’s little footsteps echoing through the cabin like music. You marked the days by his growth. The first time he said dog, then cat, then horse. The first day he ran off at full speed down the beaten path-hair blowing through his curls, you in a frenzy to catch the wild boy. Each moment carved into your memory like tally marks on the wall. But Arthur didn’t return.
Every sunrise without the sound of hooves on the path chipped away at your hope, just a little more. You tried to tell yourself he was still out there. Still breathing. Still fighting. That he had kept his promise, and one day you’d see his shadow cast long across the porch again.
But deep down — in the aching, wordless place inside your chest — you knew.
He was gone.
You mourned him slowly, the way women do when they have no grave to stand over. No final words. No body to bury. Just an old flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair, worn edges and all. Just a drawing of a cabin and a dream tucked safely in your nightstand drawer. Just the echo of his voice in the way your son laughed.
And even still… you waited.
Autumn came gently.
The trees flamed in shades of gold and rust, their leaves spiraling down from the canopy like bits of sun. You harvested what you could from the small garden out back, chopped firewood until your hands blistered, and kept the cabin warm with extra quilts as the days grew shorter.
Alexander was a well over a year old now — wide-eyed and wild-haired, with Arthur’s smile stamped plainly across his little face, proud as can be. He liked to toddle over to the fence line and stare out into the woods, as if he was waiting for something.
Like he remembered.
Like he knew.
It was late afternoon when it happened. The sky was pale and streaked with thinning clouds, the scent of damp earth and dying leaves thick in the air.
You were outside, hanging a blanket on the line, Alexander crawling at your feet. The wind stirred just enough to carry the soft crunch of hooves from down the path.
Your head snapped up.
Your breath caught in your chest.
There — beyond the trees — a figure on horseback. Alone. Moving slow, as if weary from long travel.
You stood still, squinting, heart hammering in your ribs. You knew Arthur’s gait on a horse. The curve of his shoulders. The way he leaned forward like he was always chasing something.
This man… wasn’t him.
He rode different. Straighter. Leaner. And as he got closer, you saw a wide-brimmed hat and the worn duster of a younger man. His horse was familiar, though — dark, with a white blaze down the nose.
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
John.
He stopped a few feet from the porch, tipping his hat, his face somber beneath the shadow of the brim.
“Miss,” he said, voice low and gravelly.
You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.
He dismounted slowly, walking forward with that signature limp, eyes flicking to Alexander — who had gone still in the grass, staring up at the stranger like he understood too much for his age.
“Thought I’d check in,” John said quietly. “Been a long time.”
You swallowed. “You came alone.”
He nodded. “Ain’t nobody left to come with.
The world went quiet. The wind shifted. Your throat tightened. You looked at him, there was something heavy in his gaze. Something final.
And you knew.
He didn’t have to say it. He didn’t want to say it. But you saw the truth in the sorrow that pooled in his eyes.
Arthur was gone.
You don’t remember falling, but you must have, because your knees hit the earth and the cold bled up through your skin like water through cloth. You doubled forward, hands gripping your skirt, trying to pull breath into lungs that didn’t want to work.
John dropped beside you, catching your arm with rough fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking in a way you hadn’t expected.
You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. You didn’t care. You couldn’t. The pain came in waves — thick and violent, laced with every night you’d spent staring out the window, hoping to see him coming back to you.
“He—he said he’d come home,” you managed to whisper, choking on the words. “He promised.”
John’s jaw tightened. “He wanted to. He fought for that. ‘Til the end.”
You turned your face into your hands, trying to muffle the sob that tore free from your chest.
John sat with you. He didn’t try to tell you it would be alright. He didn’t offer hollow comforts. He just sat there, his hand on your shoulder, the only witness to the breaking of a heart that had been holding out far too long.
Alexander wobbled forward, confused by your crying, small hands reaching for you. You pulled him into your lap and buried your face in his curls, breathing him in.
“He looks like him,” John said after a moment. “Spittin’ image.”
You nodded against your son’s soft hair. “He deserved to meet him like this. Healthy. Whole.” You managed.
“I think he was,” John murmured. “For a while. With you. You gave him peace… more than most of us ever got.”
You sat there until the sun slipped lower, until the light turned gold behind the trees and the wind grew colder.
John stayed beside you.
And though it wasn’t the man you’d prayed to see again… he brought the weight of Arthur’s love in his silence. A shared grief that lived between them, now passed on to you. A reminder that Arthur Morgan had lived. And that he had come back — even if it was only once.
John stood there for a long moment, glancing between you and the boy cradled against your chest. His face was solemn, weathered from too much death, too much running, too many goodbyes. Then, slowly, he turned his attention to the small child. Alexander looked up from your arms, curious but cautious. He was too young to know the full meaning of grief, but he felt the tension, the silence, the way your body trembled when you held him.
John crouched low in the grass in front of him. “Hey, little man,” he said gently, voice cracking just slightly. “You don’t know me, but… I’m your uncle John. I used to ride with your pa. We were family, him and me.”
He reached into his satchel and pulled something out — something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t prepared to see.
Arthur’s hat.
Worn, dusty, wide-brimmed and familiar. The sight of it knocked the air out of your lungs. You bit down on a sob, knuckles white where you clutched the hem of Alexander’s shirt.
John held it out and gently placed it over the boy’s head. It was far too big — it fell over his eyes and nearly swallowed his whole head — but Alexander laughed, a pure little sound, and tugged at the brim with both hands.
John smiled, though there was something deeply mournful behind his eyes. “That was your pa’s,” he said. “He wore it every damn day. Through rain, snow, blood, and fire. Reckon it’s yours now. You keep it safe, alright?”
Alexander blinked up at him, then babbled something unintelligible — some mix of sound and joy — and carefully walked toward John with his arms open.
You covered your mouth with your hand and turned away, the grief swelling in your chest like a storm surge. It hurt — God, it hurt — to see something of Arthur in your son that wasn’t just a smile or a freckle. It was a piece of him, worn and passed on, a legacy held in cotton and sweat and old leather.
You didn’t realize you were crying again until the taste of salt hit your lips.
Eventually, you stood.
“Come inside,” you said, your voice hoarse from tears. “Please.”
John nodded and helped you gather Alexander. The hat stayed perched clumsily on the boy’s head as the three of you stepped into the warm cabin, where the hearth still glowed from the morning’s fire.
You sat down in the chair by the fire, holding Alexander against your chest. He was growing heavy now, his head drooping against your shoulder as sleep pulled at him.
John stood for a moment, glancing around the cabin. His gaze lingered on the little details: the hand-carved crib, the boots tucked by the door, the rifle resting above the mantle. Then, with careful hands, he pulled something from his satchel and stepped forward.
“I brought you this,” he said. “It’s his. Was his. He always kept it close.”
He handed you Arthur’s journal.
The leather was worn smooth from years of travel. You recognized it — you’d seen him scribble in it late at night, hunched over by firelight, mumbling half-formed thoughts and drawing pictures of birds and bison and flowers and distant mountains. The very last thing he ever owned that was truly his.
Your hands trembled as you took it.
John cleared his throat. “Last few pages… they were about you. And the kid. Didn’t mean to look but…”
You opened it slowly, carefully, afraid the moment might shatter if you breathed too loud.
There — in Arthur’s unmistakable, scratchy handwriting — were the final entries.
You traced his words with your fingers.
“I saw her again today. She had the boy in her arms, sittin’ under a tree. Looked like sunlight caught in her hair. Never seen anything so beautiful. I wanted to run to her, but I knew I shouldn’t… not right away. I’m sick. Didn’t want to bring danger to their door. But I needed to see ‘em. Needed to know they were alright.
Alexander’s got my eyes and he smiles like me — poor kid. He’s got a wild spirit. I can tell, even now. He’ll be strong. I hope he remembers me kindly, even if I ain’t there to teach him right from wrong.”
The tears came harder now, falling in thick, silent rivers. You turned the page and found the last entry.
“I ain’t got much time. Breathin’s hard. Nights are worse. But I’m glad I came back home. Glad I saw her. If there’s any justice in this world, maybe she’ll find peace. Maybe she’ll tell the boy about me — maybe not who I was, but who I tried to be in the end. It’s all I want.”
“I love her. More than I ever said. I hope she loved me too.”
That broke you.
You doubled forward, journal pressed against your chest like you could absorb the words, like they could bring him back if you held them tightly enough.
John stood quietly, letting you fall apart. When you looked up, his eyes were wet too — not sobbing, but heavy. Heavy with shared loss.
“He was a good man,” you whispered. “Flawed, stubborn… but good.”
John nodded. “The best of us, in the end.”
Eventually, the sun began to dip behind the hills, painting the walls of the cabin in gold.
John walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.
“I’ll check in from time to time,” he said. “Make sure you’re both alright. Arthur… he asked me to. Said if he didn’t make it, I was to look after you. Best I can.”
You nodded slowly, your voice caught in your throat.
“Thank you, John.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then tipped his hat and stepped outside, the door closing quietly behind him.
You stood in the middle of the room, Alexander asleep on your shoulder, Arthur’s journal pressed to your heart, the fire crackling low beside you.
The cabin was warm. Safe. But it felt emptier now than it ever had before.
You walked to the window and watched as John mounted his horse and disappeared down the path, swallowed up by the trees and the growing dusk.
And then, you were alone again.
You stared at the empty chair across from you. The one where Arthur had sat just months ago, brushing his fingers through your hair, telling you he’d do better. That he’d try.
You pressed your lips to Alexander’s head and whispered, “He did, baby. He really did.”
And though your heart was broken — shattered in places you didn’t know existed — you knew you would carry him. In memory. In love. In your son’s every breath.
It was late spring when you finally made the journey. The snow had melted from the hills, leaving behind rolling green meadows speckled with wildflowers and the early buzz of bees. The sun hung warm and low in the sky, stretching gold across the horizon as you followed the narrow trail winding through the trees, your son nestled on your hip.
Alexander had grown since John’s visit. His legs were longer, his eyes sharper, his laughter louder. Every day he looked more like Arthur. Every crooked smile, every tilt of his head, every stubborn little stomp of his feet when he didn’t get his way — it was all him.
You couldn’t stop seeing him in the boy. And it hurt.
You reached the ridge by mid-afternoon. The trail had thinned out, roots knotted beneath your boots and ferns brushing your skirt. You remembered the spot — John had marked it on a crumpled piece of paper, his handwriting rough and direct: Look for the overlook above the valley. Near the old pine, the one with the lightning scar.
You saw it before you even stepped clear of the trees.
The grave.
Modest. Quiet. Just as he would’ve wanted.
There was a cross, its planks hand-written and uneven, but with his name etched into it clear and clean: Arthur Morgan.
You stood still for a long while, heart hammering as though he might rise up from beneath the earth just to greet you.
But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
You let out a shaking breath and stepped forward, the weight of your son grounding you.
Alexander, curious, reached toward the cross. His fingers brushed the top of it gently, almost reverently, as if some part of him knew.
“This is your pa’,” you whispered to him. “He was a good man. The best man I ever knew.”
The wind stirred through the trees above, soft and steady. You lowered yourself to the ground, settling on your knees beside the grave, and let Alexander sit in your lap. He leaned his head against your chest, blinking slowly, the brim of his too-big hat — Arthur’s hat — dipping low over his brow.
You reached out and touched the stones that sat underneath the cross.
“I miss you,” you said softly, throat closing around the words. “Every single day.”
Your eyes stung, but you kept going.
“You should see him, Arthur. Our son. He’s smart. Brave. A little reckless, like you. He makes me laugh. Drives me crazy sometimes, too. But he’s… he’s everything.”
You drew in a trembling breath.
“He has your eyes. Your smile. Your soul. I see you in him more and more with each passing day. And God, Arthur… it hurts. It hurts so bad not having you here. I wanted you to be part of this. To see him grow up. To hold him, to teach him how to ride and track and… just be his father.”
The words cracked in your throat.
You reached into your satchel and pulled out a bundle of wildflowers — lupine and yarrow and tiny white daisies Alexander had helped you pick along the trail. With gentle fingers, you laid them on the grave, brushing away a few stray leaves that had gathered near the stones.
“I still love you,” you whispered. “I never stopped. Even when I told myself I should let go. Even when I knew you weren’t coming back… I still held on to you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.
“I hope you found peace. I hope wherever you are, you're free of pain. I hope you know how hard you tried… and that you didn’t fail. Not with me. Not with Alexander. You gave us something worth carrying. And I’m thankful for the time we had, even if it wasn’t enough.”
Alexander stirred, glancing up at you, then at the stones. He pressed his tiny hand against them, and you couldn’t help but sob softly at the gesture.
“I love you,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible now. “Always.”
You stayed a while longer, sitting in the soft grass beneath the trees. The sun slipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. And for a fleeting moment, you imagined he was there — just over your shoulder, watching the two of you with that quiet half-smile he wore when he thought no one was looking.
Eventually, you stood.
You adjusted Alexander in your arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and gave the grave one last glance.
One last goodbye.
And then you turned away and walked back toward the trail, your son holding tight to your shirt, the brim of Arthur’s hat bobbing slightly as you disappeared into the golden light of late spring.
Arthur Morgan was gone. But what he left behind — the love, the strength, the memory — lived on.
In you.
In Alexander.
In every step you took forward.
And the wind carried your final words back to the ridge:
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Pairing: RE9!Leon Kennedy x isekai'd!fem!Reader (ft. Grace Ashcroft and Victor Gideon)
Summary: Whenever you play Leon's part in Resident Evil Requiem, Leon hears everything you say—from your curses, to your praises, to your reaction to seeing him break open a warped door with his hatchet—he hears it all. Even when you get thrown into his universe, you're just as shameless as you were before you arrived.
Note: It ain't a Genshinluvr fic if I don't write at least one fic with an isekai plot. There are snippets of the actual game in this fic, and as the fic progresses, once you/the reader gets isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem. I had the time of my life typing this out, not gonna lie. It was fun as hell. Anyway! I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and on AO3 (Aaliah_exo).
Warning: Violence (the usual), Victor Gideon caressing Leon (is that a warning itself?), The Girl, you'll probably get secondhand embarrassment from this fic.
Word Count: 9.8k
You're buzzing with excitement, knowing you're going to see the 49-year-old Leon S. Kennedy in his glory after playing Grace's part at the Wrenwood Hotel. You have been anticipating the release of Resident Evil Requiem ever since you saw the trailer for the game. Now that it's in your Steam library, you have been itching to play the game after work.
You're sitting at your desk, knees pressing against your chest as the cut scene plays before you. Your heart is still pounding against your chest after you manage to escape from the infected police officer, Cole. You watch Grace collapse in the strange man's iron grip, her body slumping to the side, and the screen goes black.
"Is it finally happening?" You whisper, leaning forward towards the monitor, and watch the series of police cars slowly appear on the screen, before cutting to a scene where it shows a dead body with strange blotches on the palm of the deceased's hand. Your eyes light up. "It is! It is it is it is!"
The man—obviously, it's thee Leon S. Kennedy—gets up from where he was kneeling and leaves the area that is blocked off with crime scene tape.
"Talk to me. Is this one like the others?" A woman's voice breaks through the sound of pouring rain as the man walks towards the CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS and POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape.
"Same black blotches." He ducks under the tape and continues to walk past the police cars at the crime scene.
"And it's not postmortem lividity?" The mission coordinator asks.
"No." He turns toward the area where his car is parked. "No, this is different. That's six now. Six survivors of Raccoon City, all dead from the same thing." The scene switches to the inside of the car.
"Yeah, that's… not good."
"No… No, it's not." The car door opens, and the investigator gets into the car before closing it.
You lean in your seat, biting your bottom lip. God, his voice is so husky. You continue watching the cut scene, completely immersed and enamored by the sight of the man you will be playing as very soon, once the cut scene is over. The mission coordinator proceeds to give additional information to the mysterious man.
You already know who this mysterious man is behind the wheel. But when the bottom half of his face is shown in the rear-view mirror, you audibly gasp and continue to watch the cut scene, watching the man grab his gun and pop out the cylinder, spinning it around before popping it back in, while the mission coordinator continues to speak in his intercom.
The minute the game finally reveals Leon's face, you gasp. "Oh my—Leon, you're so handsome."
For about thirty seconds, Leon doesn't respond to the woman on the other end of his intercom. His eyebrows slightly furrow, his eyes scanning his surroundings. Did he just hear someone else's voice? It's certainly not the mission coordinator. What the hell?
"You there, Leon?" The mission coordinator asks, bringing him out of his thoughts.
Leon nods. "Yeah. I'm here."
"You okay?" Leon can hear the woman raise her eyebrows as she waits for his response.
Leon doesn't respond to her question. Leon glances in his rear-view mirror, checking to see if a random woman may have sneaked into his car, but he sees no one. Leon pushes the start button of his Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT, and the black luxury car purrs to life.
"Send me the address," Leon says, putting his car in reverse and turning halfway. "I'll check it out." Leon puts his gearshift into drive before he drives off into the night.
You stare at the dark screen after watching Leon's car disappear into the night—your mouth agape. You're so glad that you spent $69.99 for this game. You could spend additional money on the deluxe version, but you wanted to finish the game first before deciding whether a deluxe version is worth buying.
You end up playing the game for a little over an hour. You're now on Grace's part of the game, where you need to find a screwdriver for the fuse box in Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. You didn't know what got into you when you chose to play the standard classic mode rather than casual or standard modern mode.
"God, I'm so stupid. Why am I doing this to myself?" You mutter after Grace grabs the ink ribbon in the room that you unlocked with the Cherub Key. "Limited autosaves, and I need to save my gameplay wisely. Why did I choose this mode again?"
You're roaming around the area as Grace—you're playing in first-person point of view—trying to gather the courage to go to the nursing station. It's so dark that you have to squint to see in the darkness. As much as you want to change the setting to make it a little brighter for you to see in the dark, where's the fun in that?
"It's okay! I can do this! Everything will be okay, and nothing will happen!" You try to give yourself a pep talk, having Grace walk to the nursing station with a tiny lighter in her hand, illuminating her path. Just as Grace approaches the door, a cut scene is triggered, and an infected corpse falls through the door, scaring both you and Grace.
Grace leans down and touches the corpse's neck. "He's dead." Grace states the obvious.
"I would hope so." You mutter, mentally preparing for what's to come.
After Grace moves the man's head, a large hand emerges from the darkness and grabs the infected corpse. Grace lets out a choked gasp, watching in horror as the grotesque monster brings the dead body up to her mouth and bites off the head.
Its eyes lock on Grace, mouth and teeth stained with blood, and it leans towards Grace. You flinch back from your monitor, questioning your choices on playing the game in the dead of night. After the cut scene ends, you immediately turn around and leave the nursing station with the monster at your (Grace's?) tail.
"Come on, come on, come on! Can you please run any faster, Grace?" You panic, shaking your legs as you run to the nearest room that has lights. When you successfully run to Room 203, you turn around to see the grotesque monster at the entrance of the room.
The monster steps into the room, causing Grace to fearfully yell out, "Don't come any closer!"
The monster's gray skin starts sizzling and burning from the lights in the room. It shrieks and steps outside the room. You and Grace watch the monster climb up a hole in the ceiling, leaving Grace alone at last. Just when you thought you were safe, the lights in the room went out, sending chills and shivers down your spine.
You run out of the room, heart pounding against your chest. After you make it back to the nursing station, you grab the med injector and start searching for the screwdriver for the fuse box. You can hear blood pounding in your ears, listening to Grace's shaky breath.
You search around the room and eventually have to move the cart. But before you do that, you move it slightly and open the locker to see a green herb.
"This could be useful," Grace mutters, grabbing it.
You climb onto the cart, grabbing the antique coin from the top of the locker before getting off. You grab the cart and start pushing towards the shelf where you spotted a red toolbox perched on top. Just as you're halfway to the shelf, a metal tray slides off the cart and clatters loudly to the ground, causing you and Grace to freeze momentarily.
You hear chains and shackles dragging on the floor, followed by heavy footsteps that are heading towards the nursing station where Grace is. Out of sheer panic, you grab the cart and move it closer to the shelf, ignoring the other items falling off and crashing to the ground.
You catch a glimpse of the creature through the window, slamming her hand against the glass while walking towards the nursing station. At this point, your heart is in your throat, and you're close to pausing the game and ending it there for the night, but the issue is that you still need to save the game, and if you don't, you have to redo where it last auto-saved.
Once the cart is close enough to the shelf, you climb onto it and grab the red toolbox, unlatching it and taking out the screwdriver. You sigh in relief, hopping off the cart and running to the nearest hiding spot. You extinguish the flames of Grace's lighter, staring at the door while listening to the monster getting closer to where you're having Grace hide.
The monster's hand suddenly appears, grabbing onto the doorframe before walking into the room. It sniffs the air, walking further into the room and looking around. It gets close to where the cart is and lets out a frenzied growl, swiping at the cart, causing it to fly to the desk. Grace whimpers.
You take it as a sign to start running. Before the mutated creature can turn and look in your and Grace's direction, you have Grace leave the hiding spot and start sprinting in the darkness. Since the creature turned the lights off in Room 203, you start running to the room where the typewriter sits. Before you pass the nursing station, the door bursts open, and the monster appears.
You briefly pause the game, staring at the menu in horror. Your heart is thudding painfully against your chest as you try to calm down. You lean back in your seat, heavily debating if you should just stop there.
"But I made so much progress. I have the screwdriver. I just need to find a way to get Grace to go around the monster, run to Room 201, get the fuse from the fuse box in that very room, and run to the other fuse box where I got the Cherub Key."
You take a deep breath and close your eyes. God, this is horrifying. Playing the game in first person point of view makes it even scarier than you anticipated. You give yourself a pep talk before unpausing the game. Grace cries out in fear, freezing in fear when the monster fully reveals itself in front of Grace.
You start mashing the buttons, begging for Grace to start moving or else she's dead. "Come on, come on, come on! We gotta go, or else we're next, Grace!"
As if she heard you, Grace turns around and starts running to the other entrance of the nursing station where the two of you came from. Grace hides near the desk in the nursing station, panting as the two of you wait and listen to the monster walk past the nursing station over and over.
"This is horrifying." You mutter, hands trembling on your mouse and keyboard. "Is the empty bottle even going to work in this situation?" You creep towards the door where the monster burst from, trying to see where it is.
You take the empty bottle out of Grace's inventory and aim for the furthest part of the hallway—close to where the plant was knocked over—and toss the bottle. The bottle shatters, grabbing the creature's attention. It shrieks and charges towards where the bottle landed, giving you and Grace a small window to escape your hiding spot.
You have Grace sprint to Room 201 as fast as she could, but it feels like Grace wasn't running at all from first person perspective. It feels more like a power walk rather than Grace running for her life. Halfway down the hallway, you and Grace hear the monster shrieking and charging towards where you're heading.
"Hurry, hurry!"
Grace pushes the door aside and makes it to the room where the typewriter sits. You sigh in relief, blood pounding in your ears. Grace takes a few steps towards where the fuse box is, only for the entire building to shake and the lights to flicker and turn off.
"We need to get that fuse and get the hell out of here as soon as possible," You say, making Grace go to the fuse box inside the closet. You unscrew the fuse box with the screwdriver, and Grace takes out the fuse, triggering a cut scene.
Grace stares at the fuse, "Alright," she mutters. Grace turns around, and just when she can leave the closet, you and Grace hear a faint thud coming above her. Grace gasps and looks up at the gaping hole in the ceiling of the closet in horror.
Grace takes a step back, eyes still locked on the hole. "Oh my god," Grace whispers.
The monster starts climbing into the room where Grace is, causing Grace to gasp and start panicking. The cut scene suddenly ends, and now you find yourself forcing Grace to turn around and make a run for it to the fuse box where the Cherub Key was located.
The lights shatter, and the building rumbles as Grace runs through the dark hallways of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. When you press 'F' at the fuse box, a cut scene is triggered, showing Grace shoving the fuse into the fuse box, pressing the button, and quickly looking back as the security gate slowly pulls up.
You watch Grace drop to the ground and quickly crawl underneath the moving gate. "Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on!" Grace pleads as she crawls through the gate, and the monster appears where Grace came from. You collapse in your seat, sighing in relief, happy that you have gotten through the first (among many) difficult parts of the game.
The monitor goes black before switching to another cut scene—but it starts with showing Leon's Porsche driving through the gate of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center and to the front. Leon exits the car, and you gasp in awe, completely enamored by the mere sight of Leon S. Kennedy.
"God, he looks so good." You whisper breathlessly as you watch him walk to the door of the facility after closing the car door. "Why can't you be real?" You lament, resting your chin on your knees as you continue watching the cut scene unfold.
Leon stands in the central hall, his eyes scanning his surroundings. It's quiet, too quiet. But despite how quiet it is in the facility, Leon still hears the same voice he heard earlier near the crime scene he left before arriving at the sanatorium. Maybe he's going crazy, and the side effects of the T-virus are starting to get to him.
You watch the nurse appear behind Leon, calling out to him and informing him that Dr. Gideon was expecting him.
"Funny. I don't remember getting an invitation," Leon's sarcastic response makes you snort, shaking your head. Leon hears the faint snort, the corners of his lips barely curving up into a smile.
The nurse continues speaking to Leon, telling him that Dr. Gideon is waiting for him. Leon soon follows after the nurse as she guides him to who knows where. The cut scene continues a little longer, only for the nurse to lead Leon to the rehabilitation ward. The door closes behind Leon, making him turn around. Then the cut scene ends there, and now you're in control of Leon.
You don't move Leon, watching him on the screen and admiring his design. God, the developers at Capcom really went all out for Leon. You spin the camera around, continuing to admire him. Leon looks around the facility, wondering why he couldn't move despite trying to. It's like he's locked in place until someone commands him to move. The nurse is waiting at the end of the hallway, waiting for him to follow.
"Okay, I need to get moving and stop getting easily distracted by Leon," You say to yourself, finally controlling Leon's movements and proceeding to follow the nurse as Leon.
The nurse explains about the facility and what they do at the sanatorium as both Leon and the nurse continue walking down the hall. Leon has no idea where the nurse is leading him, and neither do you, but judging by the map, it's probably to your (mainly Leon's) doom.
"The facility keeps a low profile due to the sensitive nature of the research," The nurse says, walking to the rehabilitation center of the facility.
"Oh, I bet it does," Leon replies, as he follows the nurse throughout the facility.
You hum, eyebrows furrowing at the conversation between Leon and the nurse of the strange facility. "That's something someone suspicious would say," You mutter, face scrunching up. You're so glad that you haven't dealt with any horrors as Leon just yet. "You have a mutated monster stomping around your facility right now, too."
Leon raises his eyebrows at your comment, still questioning if he's going crazy. Leon glances around, then at the nurse, but she doesn't seem to notice anything strange—or hear a woman's voice for that matter—and continues making her way to the room at the end of the rehabilitation ward. Once Leon gets closer to the room and the nurse, a new cut scene starts for you.
You yawn, stretching in your seat, watching the nurse leave Leon alone in the room and closing the door behind her as she leaves. The camera zooms in on Leon, making your face scrunch up.
"God, this Dr. Gideon guy is way more obsessed with Leon than I am," You comment, watching Leon peek at every little thing in the room.
Leon raises his eyebrows at your comment. "Almost as you are? What do you mean by that?" Leon wants to ask. Instead, Leon chooses to stay silent, as saying things out loud would earn weird looks from whoever passes by the room he's in, or could land him in this exact facility.
Little did you know, Leon's searching around for where the voice is coming from. The woman's voice is loud and clear to him, and yet he sees no one. He's alone in this room, but he's been hearing voices in his head every now and then. The voice comes and goes, gushing over him and his skills; other times, the same voice would chime in after someone—who's conversing with Leon—says something.
Leon rests against the desk, reaching for the photograph of Victor Gideon and his medical team that runs the facility. Leon subconsciously furrows his eyebrows as he scrutinizes the image in his hand before setting it back down where he found it. Leon checks the time on his watch, his expensive watch appearing on your monitor.
"That looks expensive, but I shouldn't be surprised. You drive a Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT—that's probably the most expensive thing I've seen you own." You comment, watching the time tick away on Leon's watch.
Much to your disappointment, the cut scene soon comes to an end after the nurse is killed by the chainsaw-wielding doctor. You're soon in control of Leon again and have to kill every infected person in the surrounding area with a chainsaw, which you're not a fan of.
"This thing is a bit hard to wield around. It kind of slows me down, and after Leon plunges the chainsaw into a zombie, I would need to retrieve it again from said zombie…" You sigh, shaking your head. "Oh, shit." The chainsaw drops to the ground and starts spinning out of control.
You force Leon out of the way, trying to avoid getting hit by the out-of-control chainsaw. A zombie nurse charges at Leon with her arms outstretched, trying to grab him. You try shooting the nurse with the requiem gun, but miss.
"Fuck. My aim is atrocious. I am so sorry, Leon. You're supposed to be cool, but I'm making you look like an amateur loser." You frown.
Leon frowns. "Amateur loser? Who are you calling an amateur loser?" Leon mouths to himself, continuing to aim his gun at the infected nurse.
You try shooting the nurse as she gets closer to Leon, but before you can shoot, the nurse lunges at Leon. You let out a choked gasp, assuming Leon is done for, but he ducks underneath the nurse's grasp and shoots her at the back of the head, blood spewing all over the place when her head explodes.
"Whoa!" You gasp, eyes wide in awe. "How did you do that?!" You exclaim, pausing briefly to look at what buttons you've pressed, but you're too busy mashing different buttons to know the actual controls of the dodge he just did.
You unpause the game. "Leon, can you do that again?" You ask yourself, shooting every zombie that's charging at Leon at full speed. How the hell did you do that again? You really need to know what the controls are, or else you won't be able to pull that cool move ever again.
As more zombies emerge from the other rooms in the rehabilitation ward, you shoot every zombie in the head successfully despite having bad aim. An infected doctor lunges at Leon, causing you to panic momentarily, miss your shot, and giving the zombie an opportunity to grab onto Leon and bite down on his shoulders.
"Ah, fuck! I'm so sorry, Leon!"
Leon cries out in pain as he thrashes around, trying to get the zombie to release. You press on your mouse frantically, watching Leon's health bar rapidly deplete at a dangerous pace, the longer the zombie bites down on Leon's shoulders. Leon reaches for his hatchet and attacks the zombie, causing it to back away.
"I really need to learn how to properly parry and aim." You grumble, aiming Leon's requiem gun at the zombie and shoot, only to miss again. "Man, I'm making Leon look uncool, what the fuck."
The zombie lunges at Leon again, and before you can panic, Leon dodges under the zombie's arm and shoots it at the back of its head. The adrenaline dies down, and Leon is left alone in the rehabilitation ward, surrounded by headless zombies.
The only sounds you hear are the sounds of the chainsaw and Leon's heavy breathing, his health bar yellow rather than green. Before escaping the ward, you have Leon search around the room for a healing item. You could use the green herb in your inventory, but it's not enough to fully heal Leon.
"It's okay, Leon! You're going to be okay! You're not going to die under my watch, no matter how bad I am with aiming and parrying." You reassure the DSO agent, picking up the mixed herbs from the glass cabinet that Leon broke. After picking up the mixed herbs, you immediately use them, watching Leon's health bar slightly go up.
You continue playing the game until almost four in the morning, only having to end your gameplay after Leon's cut scene with Victor Gideon after your Mom peeks into your room, scaring the shit out of you.
"Why are you still awake?!" Your Mom asks, staring at you in horror.
You point at your monitor, a cut scene of Leon tied up to a chair playing on your screen. Your Mom peeks at your computer and sighs, shaking her head before leaving your room, muttering under her breath about how you need to stop staying up so late.
You turn back to your monitor, taking multiple screenshots of Leon tied to the chair while Victor Gideon is almost sweet-talking to the DSO agent. You stare at Leon in awe, mouth agape. The side view of Leon on? Whew! His biceps are looking extra delicious.
You bite your bottom lip. "God, I would love to sink my teeth into those biceps of his." You lean back in your seat, groaning. "The ladies at Capcom did a fantastic job at designing Leon."
You watch Victor Gideon touch Leon, almost oh-so intimately. The way his gray fingers brush the strands of Leon's brown and silver hair. Ugh. You're so envious of Victor's privilege to even be in the presence of Leon Kennedy. You make sure to take multiple screenshots of Leon—frame by frame.
Leon can hear the camera shutters, raising an eyebrow. It's strange how Victor Gideon is touching him, and yet this voice in his head is swooning over him being tied up and touched by the former T-Virus researcher. Of course, he doesn't hear you mention a single thing about Victor, only about wanting to sink your teeth into his (your words, not his) beefy biceps.
"I don't like how he's touching you, Leon. He's practically fondling you." You grumble. "I should be the one to do that, not him. Just like how I should be the one to lunge at you and sink my teeth into your biceps, not those greedy zombies."
The camera cuts to Leon looking down while Victor Gideon softly says, "Are the answers to your disease here?" after pulling down Leon's shirt collar. Victor leans down, his face not far from Leon's. "Yes…." Victor whispers.
Leon flinches, his face pinching up with disgust. "You know, I do have a question," Leon says, looking at Victor, deadpanned. "When was the last time you brushed your teeth?"
Leon hears immediate laughter coming from you after asking. Leon's tempted to laugh as well, but because of the predicament he's in, he doesn't smile. The smile on Victor's face slips off, and he backs away from Leon and takes a few steps in front of Leon.
Mechanical whirring can be heard from Leon's end as Victor stares at him, zooming in on his face and his eyes. You take a quick screenshot, thanking Victor for being oddly meticulous when it comes to Leon. If it weren't for Victor, you wouldn't have a lot of screenshots of Leon added to your new collection.
The cut scene soon ends with you taking over fifty screenshots (you're pressing down on the screenshot button, taking screenshots of every frame), and you find yourself back in control of Leon. You frown, letting out a wistful sigh. "I'm going to need to find a stopping point and go to bed. Let's trigger an auto save somewhere, and I'll continue when I wake up." You say to yourself.
You make it to where Leon needs to go and stop in front of a metal cabinet storage that's blocking a doorway. You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue, approaching said cabinet storage with a cheeky smile. Oh, you are going to enjoy this!
You press 'F,' and Leon starts lifting the cabinet to move it out of the way, his biceps and back muscles flexing as he lets out a grunt. Before Leon successfully moves the cabinet out of the way, you suddenly release the 'F' key.
"Oh, fuck, my hands slipped." You say to no one.
It's a good thing Leon's back is facing your monitor because if it were facing his direction, you would've seen an eye roll from him along with a shy smile. Leon knows what you're doing; he's not stupid. You press the 'F' key again, watching Leon lift the cabinet, his biceps flexing underneath that tight shirt of his. Again, before Leon can fully move the obstacle out of the way, you release the keys.
You huff. "Man, my keyboard is messed up. I really need to get a new one because for some reason, it's not lasting long," You say with a shit-eating grin on your face. "I have a bad feeling that this keyboard is going to give me… issues the longer I play this game with a broken keyboard."
"Oh, yeah?" Leon mutters, shaking his head with a small smirk, his shoulders shaking from his quiet laughter. He can get used to hearing your commentary while he's handling the shit show that's happening at Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center.
Finally, after some time, you finally have Leon move the metal cabinet, relishing in the sight of his muscles flexing underneath his shirt, and the sound of his grunts as he does so. Leon S. Kennedy, the man that you are! The autosave button appears in the top left corner of the screen, signaling you to go to bed.
With a heavy heart, you bid Leon goodnight—as if he could hear you—before pausing and exiting the game. You plop onto your bed after the game closes and roll on your bed, eyelids feeling heavy after staring at your monitor for who knows how long. You close your eyes and drift into a dreamless sleep.
A few hours into your sleep, you wake up to the feeling of your bedroom shaking, forcing yourself to crack your eyes open briefly and stare up at the ceiling, still groggy from your slumber. You rub your eyes, mumbling to yourself, and turn over on your right side before going back to sleep. Earthquakes are common, so waking up to one isn't out of the ordinary. Nothing seems out of the norm, but little did you know, this isn't any other earthquake you've dealt with in the past.
That is, until you wake up to someone shaking you nonstop. "Hey, can you hear me? Wake up!" The voice says as the shaking continues.
You groan, trying to turn over and ignore whoever is shaking you. "Not now." You mumble, eyebrows furrowing.
Whoever is shaking you is very persistent, as they continue to do something to try to rouse you from your sleep. The person starts lightly patting your cheek, muttering about how you need to wake up and stop ignoring them. You finally crack your eyes open after a while, vision blurry from your sleep. A blurry face is hovering above yours, but as your vision gradually clears up, your heart nearly falls into your ass.
"Leon?" You whisper in disbelief, mind still foggy from your sleep.
Leon chuckles, sighing in relief. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Good to see those eyes of yours," Leon says, his eyes scanning the littlest details on your face. "I was worried you weren't going to wake up, but it seems like you're not a morning person, huh."
You don't respond to Leon as you slowly reach up and cup his face with both your hands, still trying to comprehend what's happening. Surely this is a dream, right? You did play Resident Evil Requiem for hours before going to bed, and Leon's the last thing you were thinking about before drifting to sleep.
"This is the most vivid dream I have ever had," You mutter, still holding Leon's face in your hands. "Man, it's going to be so disappointing when I wake up."
Leon stares down at you, confused. "What are you talking about?"
You shake your head, head falling to the side before sighing sadly. "This is the best dream I've ever had, and yet I'm going to get a rude awakening very soon once this ends." You lament.
"Aw, man. I think you hit your head pretty hard when you fell," Leon mutters, feeling around your head for a possible concussion.
You blink at Leon. "Of course, I fell for you. Who wouldn't fall for you?"
Leon shakes his head, the corner of his lips curling up. Despite everything, you still manage to be a sweet talker, much to Leon's amusement. Then again, you do think that this is all a dream. Leon's fingers brush a certain area on your head, earning a hiss from you. "I can feel a goose egg forming."
Now that your mind clears up and you're more awake than you were, you come to the realization that Leon is cradling you in his arms—his beefy arms. Wait, that means that his bicep is your pillow. You rub your eyes again, sitting up and looking around to see that you're not in your room. This dream is a bit too realistic for your liking, because why are you in the attic of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center?
Panic hits you like a train. Your head snaps towards Leon's direction. "This is a dream, right? I'm still asleep in my bed, right?" You start pinching yourself, but nothing is happening. "Oh, my god. This can't be real. This has to be a dream."
Leon doesn't say anything. Instead, he continues to stare at you, taking in every detail of your face, your hair, and your clothes. The longer Leon listens to you ramble, the more he realizes something.
His eyes light up. "You're the voice I've been hearing," Leon says, his arm still holding you up.
His comment makes you go silent. "Pardon?" You press your lips into a thin line. "What do you mean?"
Leon's lips curl up into a smile, shaking his head. "I don't think now is a good time to tell you when you're having an inner turmoil."
Maybe a hug will help you calm down a little, but given the things he heard you say a few hours before your arrival, it probably won't help. But it won't hurt to try, right? Leon pulls you into his arms, hugging you. Your cheek is cushioned against his chest, his beefy arms around your torso, and his chin is resting atop your head.
You wrap your arms around Leon's neck, feeling yourself melting in his arms. God, it feels so nice to hug him. You can't describe what it's like to hug Leon, but you can live in his arms if it's possible. You and Leon sit like that for a while. It doesn't feel weird or uncomfortable to be hugging someone you don't know—a fictional one, to be specific.
It's comforting and gives you a small window to collect your thoughts. You went to bed, but woke up to an earthquake before falling back asleep. Then you're roused from your sleep by Leon, who claimed that you hit your head when you fell. This is all so strange.
"How the hell did I get isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem? I didn't get hit by a truck." You mutter to yourself, but it's loud enough for Leon to hear.
Leon raises his eyebrows, leaning down to look at your face from the side. "What does 'isekai' mean? And what do you mean by getting hit by a truck?" God, the creases between his eyebrows are so cute. You'd love to smooth the wrinkles over with your fingers.
"I will explain that to you after you tell me what you meant by 'you're the voice I've been hearing,'" You reply, looking up at him.
Leon stares at you for a moment, chuckling to himself. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you what I meant when I said that," Leon caves in.
Leon's not sure if he should look forward to your reaction after he explains everything to you. But hey, you did say that you want him to explain what he meant by what he said, so who is he to deny you? As Leon explains everything, he watches your reaction and body language closely.
The way your face fell was both comical and endearing because now you're covering your face out of sheer embarrassment, but you didn't cover your ears, letting him know that you're still listening despite your reaction. By the time Leon is done explaining, he has a wide smile on his face, the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes becoming noticeable.
You take a deep breath, trying not to have a mental breakdown after hearing Leon's explanation. "You heard everything." You say. Suddenly, you feel faint, but you can't faint in front of Leon. You can't embarrass yourself in front of Leon for the umpteenth time in a row.
Leon nods, still smiling. "That is correct."
"My cursing whenever you get bitten by a zombie."
"You curse like a sailor, but also like a child who was granted permission to curse by her parents." He replies.
You immediately protest. "What! No, I don't!" Do you? Man, this just keeps getting worse and worse for you. "… You also heard my thirst over your…"
"Beefy biceps, me using my hatchet to crack open a warped door, and you claiming that your keyboard is broken when I need to move the fallen metal cabinet in front of a doorway. I can go on, but I'm afraid that you'll have a heart attack if I continue." Leon says.
You hug your knees to your chest. At this point, you're more likely to die from embarrassment than from a zombie bite. You didn't know that Leon can hear everything you say! Does that mean Grace and Victor hear the things you say, too?
You peek at Leon, "Please tell me that no one else hears the things I say." You whisper.
Leon gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You don't need to worry about that. As far as I know, I was the only person who heard your voice. It doesn't seem like Victor heard your voice, and as for that FBI agent—Grace Ashcroft, I'm not entirely sure."
After Leon's explanation, you choose to stay quiet. There's no need for you to embarrass yourself again in front of Leon, right? Leon checks his watch, and when he looks up, you're staring at him with stars in your eyes. Leon is even more beautiful in person. His hair looks so soft and healthy for someone who bleaches his hair often. God, the stubble… You love the scratchiness of it when you cupped his face in your hands.
Leon doesn't say anything; instead, he lets you do what makes you happy and stay sane. His eyes are blue, but they're not nearly as blue as it was when he was in his early twenties. Maybe they're still the same blue, but you would need to get a closer look at it—if he catches your drift.
"I love how you kept your signature hairstyle after all these years…" You murmur, leaning side to side as your eyes continue taking in every detail of him.
"Now it's your turn to explain to me what 'isekai' means," Leon comments, crossing his arms over his chest.
You quickly glance at Leon's bulging biceps before looking back at him innocently. His biceps looked at you first, so it's only fair for you to look at them in return. "Where do I start…" You trail off, tapping on your chin.
So you start explaining to Leon what isekai means, giving him a rundown on it, its origins, and how there's a handful of animated shows (specifically anime) that have this concept. Leon is intrigued, but also confused. The look of confusion on Leon's handsome face is cute. His eyebrows are furrowing, his head tilting to the side while not taking his eyes off of you for one bit.
You subconsciously reach forward and gently press on the space between his eyebrows, smoothing the creases between his brows. Man, even Leon has soft skin for someone who goes through hell. You meet Leon's eyes, causing you to quickly retract your hand before apologizing sheepishly.
"After explaining to me what 'isekai' meant, it makes sense. Is there a way for you to return to your world?" Leon asks.
You frown dramatically. "Aw, you want to return me to sender already? I'm hurt." You joke, clutching your chest playfully. "I thought you would enjoy my company after going through the horrors of having to deal with Victor Gideon caressing you lovingly."
You turn around and face the wall, pretending to be offended by what he asked. Leon shudders at the memory of Victor's fingers brushing through his hair, fingers ghosting over the dark blotches on his neck after lowering the collar of his shirt. That is not a pleasant memory, and he certainly wishes he could erase it.
"Your presence is a breath of fresh air. I'm merely asking because I don't think you would want to stay and deal with what's waiting for us," Leon replies, reaching forward and grabbing your forearm and turning you around to face him.
You can just melt in his arms right now. You've imagined this very moment, but in a different scenario. Leon Kennedy grabs your arm to stop you from leaving, gazing at you with those dazzling blue eyes of his, his eyebrows knitting together as he pleads for you not to leave. And the way he says it? It'll be soft, making you weak at the knees.
"By the way, you never introduced yourself. You know my name, but I don't know yours." Leon adds, pulling you out of your thoughts.
Your eyes widen. "Oh, crap! You're right! How could I forget?" You smack your forehead before introducing yourself to Leon. After telling Leon your first and last name, Leon stares at you while muttering your full name to himself. Heat rushes to your face the longer he does it.
After what feels like forever, Leon smiles and nods. "Your name suits you. I like it. Your parents must've put a lot of thought and love into naming you."
You stare at Leon, mouth agape. Why did he have to say that? Leon raises an eyebrow at you, smiling in amusement. Without saying anything, you cover your face with both hands as heat continues rushing to your face. This man can effortlessly make you blush like a schoolgirl.
You groan behind your hands. "What are you doing to me?! It's not fair. You know you have this effect on me! Damn you, Leon Scott Kennedy!" You whine.
If only you could evaporate right now. Maybe Leon was up to something when he asked if there was a way for you to return to your world, because how much longer can you handle being in the presence of Leon S. Kennedy? The only thing you hear is laughter coming from Leon—his laugh is soft, very gentle. You peek between your fingers to see him shaking his head, a wide smile on his face as he gazes at the wooden floor.
Realization hits you. You're so fucked. There's not a single man in your life—real and fictional—who has made you feel this way before. Until Leon S. Kennedy happened. You love every version of Leon, but there's something about forty-nine-year-old Leon Kennedy. Aside from his looks, there's something that makes you feel so warm and gooey inside when he shows up on your screen.
You look at an imaginary camera, hands falling on your lap before sighing. "I'm so fucked." You whisper, shaking your head in disbelief. "Okay, let's kill some zombies and get the hell out of here."
You push yourself off the ground, feeling around for the so-called goose egg Leon felt on your head, while Leon gets off the ground and brushes the dust off his ass. Leon grabs your wrist, preventing you from finding this goose egg. You look at Leon, frowning.
He wags his pointer finger at you, shaking his head. "Don't search for it."
"Fine." You mumble, lowering your arm, but Leon doesn't let go of your wrist.
You blink at him, looking back and forth from your hands to Leon's face. Leon doesn't say anything and starts looking for an exit with you in tow, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. You will take that as a win because Leon is holding your hand, kind of! You peek at Leon and wiggle your wrist to hold his hand.
You and Leon soon come across the familiar metal cabinet that's blocking the entrance. Your heart nearly sinks into the pit of your stomach when you realize what you're about to face soon. This is strange; you could've sworn that you moved the cabinet before ending the game right there.
"Step back. I don't want you to get hurt." Leon says, gently nudging you to the side, and starts lifting the cabinet.
You press your lips into a thin line and cover your mouth, watching his back muscles and biceps flex under the fabric of his shirt. Leon grunts and starts lifting the metal cabinet. You bite your lower lip, enticed by what you're seeing and hearing.
After a few minutes, Leon successfully moves the cabinet out of the way. He fixes his shirt before pulling out his gun from the holster. Leon turns to you to see you staring at him in a daze, earning an eyebrow raise and smirk from him. You quickly snap out of it, acting like you weren't ogling him just now.
"So, do I follow you into that room or do I wait out here until you finish your, uh, duty?" You ask, rubbing the back of your neck.
You don't know how much has changed since your sudden arrival in this universe, but you're hoping it's not much change, but who knows?
Leon holds his hand out and gestures for you to follow him. "I'm not leaving you behind, are you crazy?"
"For you? Yes." Is your automatic response. You slap your hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut. "I mean, let's go and get this over with!" You say, grabbing his hand and walking through the entrance with Leon in tow.
You're always amazed by your ability to humiliate yourself. This has got to be a new record for you. Once you and Leon step through that door, everything shifts. The atmosphere, the mood, the air, and the sound. You hear squelching coming from the other side of the room.
Think of someone chewing with their mouth open, but multiply that by a thousand. That's how loud it is in person. The squelching is accompanied by deep rumbles. You and Leon trade looks with each other before slowly making your way through the room, making sure Leon picks up ammo for his guns.
Leon stops in his tracks, holding his arm out in front of you before looking over his shoulder at you. "You're going to have to trust me on this, alright?" Leon murmurs.
You look at him, confused. "What are you planning? Should I be worried?" You whisper.
Leon doesn't respond and continues walking towards where the disturbing sound is coming from. You swallow the lump in your throat when you eye the grotesque creature towering over a dead body, feasting on its rotting flesh. The smell is rancid, making your stomach churn.
You grip the back of Leon's shirt, lightly tugging it. "How can you handle a smell like that when you're dealing with these things?" You mutter to him, tempted to bury your face into his back to block out the smell of decomposition and blood.
"When you're constantly out on the field dealing with these things, you'd get used to it."
You raise an eyebrow at his response. "But you recoiled when you caught a whiff of Victor's breath." You point out.
Leon snorts. "Smelling rotting flesh and bad breath are two different things. Besides, who knows how long it's been since he has brushed his teeth?"
"Can't argue with that."
You continue following Leon around the room while he collects ammo for his guns, occasionally peeking from behind him to get a look at the mutated being. For something that large, you're shocked that it hasn't heard you and Leon walking around the vicinity.
"Do you trust me?" Leon asks suddenly, turning towards you.
You falter. "Uh, yes, I do trust you—even though we met not long ago. I'm surprised you trust me despite the things I put you through." You refer to your failed aiming and parrying before you were isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem.
Leon chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course, I trust you. You're the only one who kept me sane at the start of this shit show." Leon replies.
Leon turns around and aims his gun at the ravenous, mutated creature and shoots it in the head with his shotgun. You flinch at the sound, gripping his shirt hard as you watch the creature stop munching on the corpse and turn towards your and Leon's direction.
Fueled by rage and anger, the chunky zombie roars. "Food! Food! Food!" He growls, getting ready to charge towards you and Leon.
"Hope I'm not next," Leon mutters.
Before you can say anything, Leon quickly turns around, grabs you by the waist, and tosses you over his shoulders before making a run for it. Upside down, you wrap your arms around his waist, whimpering as the monster gets closer to you and Leon. You certainly didn't sign up for this when you got isekai'd, but hey, you didn't sign up to be isekai'd in general!
"Leon! He's getting closer!" You whimper, patting his lower back.
Leon loads his shotgun, making sharp turns to avoid getting grabbed by the ravenous creature. Leon picks up a med injector from a wall that was broken by the monster, along with the shotgun shells and handgun ammo. Leon quickly grabs onto the ladder and climbs up. You nearly flip over if it weren't for Leon's quick reflexes and your iron grip around his waist.
"Are you sure I'm not getting in the way?" You ask, lifting your head to look at Leon. "I feel like I'm adding more weight on you. Metaphorically and literally."
Leon pats the back of your thighs. "You're fine, you're not getting in the way or adding weight on me," Leon reassures you.
Leon quickly puts you down on the platform, fixes his gear, and gestures for you to get on his shoulders by squatting in front of you. You climb over Leon, stomach resting on his shoulders, while your arms are wrapped around his waist. Leon wraps one arm over the back of your thighs, checking to see where the mutated monster is.
On cue, the chunky mutated monster, which you found out is named Timothy from the note Leon read to you, appears at the bottom of the platform. Timothy growls and tries reaching for you and Leon, but Leon shoots him in the face with his shotgun, but Timothy's not phased by it.
Timothy starts climbing up the platform, causing you to involuntarily flinch. "Leon…" You plead, patting Leon's thighs. "We need to move, or else we will be on Timothy's menu!"
Leon tightens his grip on your legs. "Brace yourself."
Before you can process what Leon's doing, you suddenly feel airborne. Your heart is in your throat as you cling to Leon for dear life. Leon lands on the ground with a grunt and shoots Timothy a few more times before making a run for it, loading his shotgun.
The chase lasted five more minutes because Timothy was very motivated to get both you and Leon. Finally, Timothy stops, and blood starts spewing out of the holes and gashes on his body that he received from the shotgun shells and Leon's hatchet.
While Timothy is gushing all over the place, Leon walks to the other end of the room to collect extra items that are lying around before putting you back on the ground once Timothy explodes. You brush off your clothes and turn to Leon, propping your hands on your hips and watching him reload his shotgun before switching to his other handgun.
"You know, when I said that I wanted to be manhandled by you, this isn't what I imagined." You comment.
Leon shakes his head, chuckling. "Don't worry, there will be plenty of time for that. Come on, let's get out of here." Leon gestures for you to follow him as he walks towards the door where the rotting corpse—Timothy's final meal—is lying.
You stare at Leon, mouth agape. What does he mean by that?! Wait, Leon is probably implying other boss fights that are waiting for both you and Leon. You really need to get your head out of the gutter. You follow behind Leon, shuddering when you step in the pool of blood that was once Timothy.
Leon grabs the hand grenade from the puddle of blood and continues walking to the exit. Finally, you and Leon will get to leave this place and face more horrors waiting for both of you. Leon unlatches the door and pushes it open, occasionally looking over his shoulder to make sure you're still following him.
You and Leon come across a wooden closet with a warped door. Leon walks to it, grabs his hatchet, lodges it between the doors, and starts prying them open. You bite your bottom lip, watching his biceps flex as he tries to open it. Once the door bursts open and Leon grabs whatever is inside, you look away, trying to act like you weren't drooling over him.
"Ready to go?" Leon asks, turning to you as he puts the mod on his handgun.
You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Yeah! Are you ready to go?" You ask, looking at him from the corner of your eyes.
"Of course, I am. I'm always ready." Leon says softly, walking past you while gently nudging you to follow him by patting your lower back.
You bite the inside of your cheek, screaming internally. You really need to get yourself together because you're acting like a cat in heat. Leon pushes the red button, and the attic opens; the metal ladder slides down, and Leon starts climbing down.
Once Leon gets off the ladder, you start climbing down, shuddering when you see the amount of blood in the office. The whole time while you're climbing down the ladder, Leon's keeping an eye out while holding out his hands to catch you just in case you slip. You step into the puddle of infected blood, groaning with disgust.
"You'd get used to it," Leon says. "Come on, we need to find Victor Gideon's office."
You follow Leon out of the Chairman's office, on edge about whether zombies are roaming around or not. You don't think there's any zombies roaming around cause you killed most of them when you were playing as Grace. You come across another warped closet outside of the Chairman's office, and you sit back and watch Leon do his thing.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Leon asks, turning to you after taking the handgun ammo and shotgun shells.
You look at Leon, flabbergasted. "Wha—is a lady not allowed to admire a total eye candy in front of her?" You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I have had enough of your teasing! Let's find Victor's office." You stick your nose in the air and walk towards the bar and lounge room.
Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, chuckling. "You truly do make this more entertaining than it should be."
The minute you walk into the bar and lounge room, a zombie in a white button-up starts contorting violently while screaming in agony. You walk backwards frantically, bumping into Leon as the zombie gets off the ground and his head morphs into something more horrifying.
"This place is infested," Leon mutters, shaking his head, and aims his gun at the blister head that's running towards both of you. Leon shoots, and the bullet penetrates the zombie's head, causing it to burst, and blood spews everywhere like a water fountain.
You sigh, turning to Leon. "Can you teach me how to shoot one day? You know, in case I have to fight for both of us."
Leon chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course. I can show you when we come across another zombie."
You and Leon continue searching for Victor's office. Instead of having you walk behind or in front of him, Leon makes sure you're by his side at all times because you'd never know when a zombie will sneak up from behind or jump out of nowhere.
As you're both walking up the stairs to the third floor of the sanatorium, you and Leon hear a faint beeping and gurgling from a zombie. Leon hands you his handgun and gestures for you to follow him quietly. Once the zombie is in your and Leon's line of sight, Leon quickly adjusts the gun in your hand, angling your arms a certain way.
"Make sure to have a firm grasp on the gun so it doesn't recoil and hit you in the face," Leon murmurs, his chest pressing up against your back. "Okay, now, you can either shoot the zombie or the red propane tank. I would go for the explosive canister because it's quicker, and who knows how many shots it'll take to kill the zombie."
Taking Leon's advice, you point the handgun towards the red gas tank and shoot. The red canister in the zombie's hand explodes, taking the zombie out with it. You tilt your head up and see Leon's smile as you lower the gun.
Leon pats your shoulders, "Not bad."
"But not good either." You pout dramatically. "Okay, let's go kick Victor Gideon's ass, Leon!" You grab his wrist and drag him up the stairs to another warped door—much to your delight.
Leon shakes his head as he pulls out his hatchet and starts prying the doors open. Once Leon successfully opens the door, you and Leon enter the room and look around to see many bodies with no heads. You immediately latch yourself against Leon, trembling as Leon picks up the paper on the ground.
"Burst their heads if you want to survive."
On cue, you and Leon hear the familiar screams of agony close to the entrance where you and Leon came. This is not what you expected when you got isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem. Leon shields you from the blister head and starts shooting the head over and over until the zombie finally dies. He leads to the corner of the room where the other zombie lies and takes the shotgun shells and handgun ammo from the vase.
"Do you trust me?" Leon asks, loading his shotgun and handgun.
You nod. "Of course, I do." You answer.
"Good, cause you're going to need to trust me on this." Leon leans down and tosses you over his shoulders just when another blister head bursts through the door to the meeting room.
You squeeze your eyes shut and cling to Leon's torso as he shoots the blister heads and storms the meeting room, where another blister head is getting ready to charge at Leon. This is going to be a long night, and the worst thing is that you're not even sure if you'll return to your world after all this.
Note: I love how in almost every Leon fics I've typed out, I would be kicking my feet and twirling my hair cause I'm having the time of my life typing Leon fics. I completed insanity mode for RE9, and I feel like I've been through hell and back; I finished that game one minute faster than the standard classic mode, somehow. Every time I write a new Leon fic, I replay RE9 because I miss Leon and want to see him tied up. Anyway, to all my new and returning readers, keep in mind that I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!
Edit: Part 2 can be found here → Shameless II
Read more of my works on my Grand Masterlist, which contains every masterlist I have created! | Maybe support me by tipping me on Ko-Fi or by reblogging my fanfics! ^^ I will also be posting exclusive fanfics on Ko-Fi as well very soon! I might post all of my stories there, too, but who knows? You can also tip me on Tumblr if you'd like, as a way to show support! ^^
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