honeyvalleyflowers

[honeyvalleyflowers]

I'm obsessed with Vander from Arcane as well, so if anyone has any requests etc, I'm open to trying! Currently sitting on a cute fic.

[honeyvalleyflowers]

Thank you so much for this sweet comment and the reblog 😭😭 I felt like he deserved some love too! Especially because this man can never see how much good he can do 🗣️

Those hands

Pairing: Arthur x Reader Summary: After a haunting experience, Arthur struggles seeing himself as anything but bad. You show him that there are other sides to him too. Warnings: Arthur self hate. Talk of violence (unnamed man, fate unclear). Hints at nsfw, but nothing happens. Words: 1,936 Notes: GN!Reader. Use of "you" for reader. Angst with comfort/fluff (starts off sad but has a happy end). Kind of body worship but in a wholesome way. Still trying to do accents but I might have forgotten sometimes. Don't wanna proofread. Kind of open end?

Another day gone by, the sun setting over the camp of mismatched outlaws. Thieves, murderers, all of them. Even the sweetest face or voice could hide deft fingers that would rob you of your gold, or your life. The neverending fire at the center crackled on, drowned out by chatter and song.

But it was the cool breeze that brought Arthur’s attention back to Earth and his body. The cuts and bruises from a day’s work littering his skin. By all means, he wasn’t often the one who got off worse in his encounters, yet even a punch would leave its mark on his knuckles.

He turned his hand, a sigh lingering in the column of his throat. Blood, though most of it wasn’t his. He hasn’t yet had the time to clean it off. No, more like he couldn’t bring himself to. There were somewhat clean rags everywhere, John had brought fresh water from the stream earlier that day and Arthur could just dunk the offending limbs in there until the color washed itself off.

But that would be too easy, no? Make him forget all too soon what he did to that man whom he beat up for a measly 10 dollars. The man who lost one or two teeth from every hit, begging, pleading for Arthur to stop. Nose bleeding as darkened blue eyes glared him down while his wife cried in the back. He didn’t even have enough to pay back the loan in the first place. Arthur should have stopped, should have been a better man. But he kept going until he had even the last scrap of clothes from their backs. And now the evidence stared back at him in muddled crimson and the images behind his eyes. Does he even deserve to wash his hands off after this? No matter how much he’d scrub, they would always be vile, coated by violence and apathy as they took life after life and ruined families. It was right under the skin, in his blood. This was who he was deep down. Terrible. Disgusting. “Arthur?” He hadn’t even noticed the shake in them until another color came into his view. Soft, warm as it shielded the sight of coppery regret from his misty eyes. Arthur looked up, and his stomach churned. There you were, looking at him with such worry and love that bile threatened to spill past his lips. He wanted to cut his hands off lest you touch them more, lest you realize why they looked like that. If you saw what he did, knew what those hands committed, you’d recoil like he did now. But your brows only furrowed as you inched closer, as if you couldn’t see what a monster he was. There were your hands again, encasing his, despite the grime and blood. Swallowing the lump in his throat, the man willed his eyes up to meet yours. “Shouldn’t touch me, darlin’. Gonna catch somethin’”, Arthur mumbled, not even convinced of his own words. But he didn’t want his crime on your hands as well. Those hands that stitched him up after bullet wounds and held his face so tenderly as if he wasn’t wanted in numerous states. And yet you only shook your head, the corners of your lips quirking up in amusement. “Catch what? Arthur, you're being silly again.” Taking a firmer grip, you urged him to stand, and he followed you without second thought. Thinking around you was always difficult anyway. One smile and Arthur wouldn’t know if he died during his last mission and it was you greeting him above the clouds. His large steps stumbled after your smaller ones, realizing too late where you two were headed. Two feet from the wash basin, Arthur’s legs locked up, and his hands clenched yours. “Darlin’... I don’t need no washin”, he tried to argue, plead almost. But the underlying meaning was lost on you as you simply laughed that divine sound at him. “I won’t dunk ya head like Grimshaw, Arthur, promise!” You reassured, angling your body further towards him and giving him a view of the barrel. “That’s not…” But you cut him off with an insistent tug, one thumb running over the back of his hand before tapping it twice. “Yer all bloody, mister. I reckon you DO need a wash here.” The little teasing in your retort wasn’t lost on him, and Arthur’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he let himself be lugged along. The water wasn’t as cold as anymore as it was this morning, yet the gunslinger flinched as if he touched ice. This time, it didn’t go unnoticed, and you halted your ministrations. “... Arthur?” You tried again. Softer this time, quieter. Only for him. It took a while before the man in question answered, clearly wrestling with his thoughts. But when he opened up, it was with the same guilt as if he was being shamed in court. “Hurt some feller today… Real bad.” He began, and it was at this moment he realized he didn’t even remember the man’s name anymore. Blues downcast, he avoided your gaze in case of judgement. As if you would bring the hammer down on him and condemn him to a lifetime of loneliness once more.

And yet, you only nodded out of his sight, gently lowering his hands into the basin once more. “Another loan?” Your voice matched his sober tone. His distaste for this kind of work came up a few times before for you two. It always ended with Arthur wanting more time for himself, away from everything and everyone. To overthink, surely, you figured. But this time, you wanted to be there for him, and properly.

The non-answer Arthur gave you told you everything you needed to know, eyes still not meeting yours. So you lowered your gaze as well, focusing on cleaning the worst off of his calloused hands. Once most of the stains were gone, your voice reached his ears again. “C’mon Arthur. Wanna show you somethin’.” Stealing Arthur away to his tent was easier than usual this time around. Javier strummed his guitar for the few onlookers around the fire, Kieran being surprisingly one of them. Hosea and Lenny were reading books together, seemingly talking about their respective plot points in a little huddle with Tilly and Mary Beth listening in. Dutch, for once, was busy as well, giving Molly the attention she deserved as Charles heaved a deer up onto the butcher’s table for dinner in the back. In short, practically everyone was busy - perfect for your little ‘love-on-Arthur’-plan.

Up on your tippy toes, you closed the old draped on Arthur’s tent as best as you could. You wanted privacy for this, even if it wasn’t that kind of night. “You showin’ me my tent?” Your man quipped behind you, a hint of amusement coming up from under his exhaustion from the day.

“Shush, you.” You waved your hand, unable to hide your half-smile as you ushered him onto his cot. He followed obediently, though one of his now clean hands ran down his face, smushing his tired expression.

“Don’t think I can-”

“We not gonna. Now hush, love.”

Arthur accepted you cutting him off with your cryptic replies, one eyebrow raised as you kneeled in front of him. Despite insisting he wasn’t in the mood, he couldn’t shake how you in this position made him feel. Breath caught in his throat, shifting, he never imagined what you would do instead though.

Lifting one of his bruised hands to your lips, a faint kiss was planted right over his knuckles. Then another, travelling sideways over each finger. Your eyes were closed while Arthur was sure his were about to bug out of his head, unable to form any coherent thought.

And then you spoke.

“Your hands are beautiful, Arthur.”

“No-”

“Yes.”

A frustrated groan as Arthur’s fingers twitched. Yet, you only smiled a little, your eyes much too soft and warm for his liking. Then, as if he never complained, you continued, kissing over his palm. “You might not like ‘em, but I can see what they can do.”

A cold chill ran up his spine, Arthur believing you would recount his many escapades in drunken violence. Not that you ever did, but what if this time, you would? See him for the monster he is, the monster he can never change being. Horrendous and made out of tainted blood not his own.

Your lips graced his thumb, and as your mouth opened again, Arthur forgot how to breathe.

“Y’always use this thumb to wipe my tears…” You whispered, almost reverent as you kissed from knuckle to tip, a shiver of Arthur accompanying the gesture. Moving on to his pointer finger, you murmured between kisses. “And this one, your trigger finger. Reliable, yeah, but also the one y’use to pick flowers.”

Arthur’s mind emptied, focused entirely on your show of love as you revealed your thoughts to him. Your true ones, not the ones he projects onto you in his own fear, but the ones from your loving heart that stayed with him for a year now.

Arriving at his middle finger, he huffed a chuckle at how he could feel your smile against his skin. “I know what you use this one for, Mr Morgan.” “Ain’t always vulgar, sweetheart.” He tried to joke back, feeling his heart soar at how you giggled in reply.

“That’s right. Because this here finger, it’s got that little callus on it from when ya hold your pen to draw.” Now that’s not what Arthur expected you to say, but you simply kissed the mark in question on the inside of said finger. The action and how you saw him almost made him miss the whisper you breathed at the next one in line.

“Maybe one day, Arthur…”

He wanted to ask you to elaborate, beg to tell him you really did want that ring on his and your finger. But you were already moving again, and Arthur’s hand could only twitch as his heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

“Remember what we use the pinky for, baby?” You smiled, intertwining both of your fingers together and waving them softly from side to side.

“Yer little promises, right?” Finding his voice again, Arthur fought to keep the cracks and wavering out of it. He was still shaken up, but in a good way now. A better way.

“Yeah. The one ya used to promise me to go huntin’ back out west. Remember…?” And remember he did. The first time you both went out together, though it was hardly a date. Arthur could never call it that, you deserved much better than hunting coyotes after Pearson burned the gang's last food. And yet it was one of your first outings together.

One of many firsts, just like right now.

Dragging your lips up to his palm, you promptly held it against your cheek, leaning into it. A pleased hum vibrated against his skin, and out of instinct he began to cradle you softly. “Your palm always holds me… And your hand holds mine.” You finished, gently putting his hand in yours.

Now looking up at him, Arthur could barely recall what happened today aside from this. “Darlin’…” He began, almost choking on the word, but you shut him up with another kiss to the back of his hand. As if he were some maiden and not… not…. “I love you Arthur. Your hands can do good, too.” And in this moment, Arthur fully believed you.

[honeyvalleyflowers]

Those hands

Pairing: Arthur x Reader Summary: After a haunting experience, Arthur struggles seeing himself as anything but bad. You show him that there are other sides to him too. Warnings: Arthur self hate. Talk of violence (unnamed man, fate unclear). Hints at nsfw, but nothing happens. Words: 1,936 Notes: GN!Reader. Use of "you" for reader. Angst with comfort/fluff (starts off sad but has a happy end). Kind of body worship but in a wholesome way. Still trying to do accents but I might have forgotten sometimes. Don't wanna proofread. Kind of open end?

Another day gone by, the sun setting over the camp of mismatched outlaws. Thieves, murderers, all of them. Even the sweetest face or voice could hide deft fingers that would rob you of your gold, or your life. The neverending fire at the center crackled on, drowned out by chatter and song.

But it was the cool breeze that brought Arthur’s attention back to Earth and his body. The cuts and bruises from a day’s work littering his skin. By all means, he wasn’t often the one who got off worse in his encounters, yet even a punch would leave its mark on his knuckles.

He turned his hand, a sigh lingering in the column of his throat. Blood, though most of it wasn’t his. He hasn’t yet had the time to clean it off. No, more like he couldn’t bring himself to. There were somewhat clean rags everywhere, John had brought fresh water from the stream earlier that day and Arthur could just dunk the offending limbs in there until the color washed itself off.

But that would be too easy, no? Make him forget all too soon what he did to that man whom he beat up for a measly 10 dollars. The man who lost one or two teeth from every hit, begging, pleading for Arthur to stop. Nose bleeding as darkened blue eyes glared him down while his wife cried in the back. He didn’t even have enough to pay back the loan in the first place. Arthur should have stopped, should have been a better man. But he kept going until he had even the last scrap of clothes from their backs. And now the evidence stared back at him in muddled crimson and the images behind his eyes. Does he even deserve to wash his hands off after this? No matter how much he’d scrub, they would always be vile, coated by violence and apathy as they took life after life and ruined families. It was right under the skin, in his blood. This was who he was deep down. Terrible. Disgusting. “Arthur?” He hadn’t even noticed the shake in them until another color came into his view. Soft, warm as it shielded the sight of coppery regret from his misty eyes. Arthur looked up, and his stomach churned. There you were, looking at him with such worry and love that bile threatened to spill past his lips. He wanted to cut his hands off lest you touch them more, lest you realize why they looked like that. If you saw what he did, knew what those hands committed, you’d recoil like he did now. But your brows only furrowed as you inched closer, as if you couldn’t see what a monster he was. There were your hands again, encasing his, despite the grime and blood. Swallowing the lump in his throat, the man willed his eyes up to meet yours. “Shouldn’t touch me, darlin’. Gonna catch somethin’”, Arthur mumbled, not even convinced of his own words. But he didn’t want his crime on your hands as well. Those hands that stitched him up after bullet wounds and held his face so tenderly as if he wasn’t wanted in numerous states. And yet you only shook your head, the corners of your lips quirking up in amusement. “Catch what? Arthur, you're being silly again.” Taking a firmer grip, you urged him to stand, and he followed you without second thought. Thinking around you was always difficult anyway. One smile and Arthur wouldn’t know if he died during his last mission and it was you greeting him above the clouds. His large steps stumbled after your smaller ones, realizing too late where you two were headed. Two feet from the wash basin, Arthur’s legs locked up, and his hands clenched yours. “Darlin’... I don’t need no washin”, he tried to argue, plead almost. But the underlying meaning was lost on you as you simply laughed that divine sound at him. “I won’t dunk ya head like Grimshaw, Arthur, promise!” You reassured, angling your body further towards him and giving him a view of the barrel. “That’s not…” But you cut him off with an insistent tug, one thumb running over the back of his hand before tapping it twice. “Yer all bloody, mister. I reckon you DO need a wash here.” The little teasing in your retort wasn’t lost on him, and Arthur’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he let himself be lugged along. The water wasn’t as cold as anymore as it was this morning, yet the gunslinger flinched as if he touched ice. This time, it didn’t go unnoticed, and you halted your ministrations. “... Arthur?” You tried again. Softer this time, quieter. Only for him. It took a while before the man in question answered, clearly wrestling with his thoughts. But when he opened up, it was with the same guilt as if he was being shamed in court. “Hurt some feller today… Real bad.” He began, and it was at this moment he realized he didn’t even remember the man’s name anymore. Blues downcast, he avoided your gaze in case of judgement. As if you would bring the hammer down on him and condemn him to a lifetime of loneliness once more.

And yet, you only nodded out of his sight, gently lowering his hands into the basin once more. “Another loan?” Your voice matched his sober tone. His distaste for this kind of work came up a few times before for you two. It always ended with Arthur wanting more time for himself, away from everything and everyone. To overthink, surely, you figured. But this time, you wanted to be there for him, and properly.

The non-answer Arthur gave you told you everything you needed to know, eyes still not meeting yours. So you lowered your gaze as well, focusing on cleaning the worst off of his calloused hands. Once most of the stains were gone, your voice reached his ears again. “C’mon Arthur. Wanna show you somethin’.” Stealing Arthur away to his tent was easier than usual this time around. Javier strummed his guitar for the few onlookers around the fire, Kieran being surprisingly one of them. Hosea and Lenny were reading books together, seemingly talking about their respective plot points in a little huddle with Tilly and Mary Beth listening in. Dutch, for once, was busy as well, giving Molly the attention she deserved as Charles heaved a deer up onto the butcher’s table for dinner in the back. In short, practically everyone was busy - perfect for your little ‘love-on-Arthur’-plan.

Up on your tippy toes, you closed the old draped on Arthur’s tent as best as you could. You wanted privacy for this, even if it wasn’t that kind of night. “You showin’ me my tent?” Your man quipped behind you, a hint of amusement coming up from under his exhaustion from the day.

“Shush, you.” You waved your hand, unable to hide your half-smile as you ushered him onto his cot. He followed obediently, though one of his now clean hands ran down his face, smushing his tired expression.

“Don’t think I can-”

“We not gonna. Now hush, love.”

Arthur accepted you cutting him off with your cryptic replies, one eyebrow raised as you kneeled in front of him. Despite insisting he wasn’t in the mood, he couldn’t shake how you in this position made him feel. Breath caught in his throat, shifting, he never imagined what you would do instead though.

Lifting one of his bruised hands to your lips, a faint kiss was planted right over his knuckles. Then another, travelling sideways over each finger. Your eyes were closed while Arthur was sure his were about to bug out of his head, unable to form any coherent thought.

And then you spoke.

“Your hands are beautiful, Arthur.”

“No-”

“Yes.”

A frustrated groan as Arthur’s fingers twitched. Yet, you only smiled a little, your eyes much too soft and warm for his liking. Then, as if he never complained, you continued, kissing over his palm. “You might not like ‘em, but I can see what they can do.”

A cold chill ran up his spine, Arthur believing you would recount his many escapades in drunken violence. Not that you ever did, but what if this time, you would? See him for the monster he is, the monster he can never change being. Horrendous and made out of tainted blood not his own.

Your lips graced his thumb, and as your mouth opened again, Arthur forgot how to breathe.

“Y’always use this thumb to wipe my tears…” You whispered, almost reverent as you kissed from knuckle to tip, a shiver of Arthur accompanying the gesture. Moving on to his pointer finger, you murmured between kisses. “And this one, your trigger finger. Reliable, yeah, but also the one y’use to pick flowers.”

Arthur’s mind emptied, focused entirely on your show of love as you revealed your thoughts to him. Your true ones, not the ones he projects onto you in his own fear, but the ones from your loving heart that stayed with him for a year now.

Arriving at his middle finger, he huffed a chuckle at how he could feel your smile against his skin. “I know what you use this one for, Mr Morgan.” “Ain’t always vulgar, sweetheart.” He tried to joke back, feeling his heart soar at how you giggled in reply.

“That’s right. Because this here finger, it’s got that little callus on it from when ya hold your pen to draw.” Now that’s not what Arthur expected you to say, but you simply kissed the mark in question on the inside of said finger. The action and how you saw him almost made him miss the whisper you breathed at the next one in line.

“Maybe one day, Arthur…”

He wanted to ask you to elaborate, beg to tell him you really did want that ring on his and your finger. But you were already moving again, and Arthur’s hand could only twitch as his heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

“Remember what we use the pinky for, baby?” You smiled, intertwining both of your fingers together and waving them softly from side to side.

“Yer little promises, right?” Finding his voice again, Arthur fought to keep the cracks and wavering out of it. He was still shaken up, but in a good way now. A better way.

“Yeah. The one ya used to promise me to go huntin’ back out west. Remember…?” And remember he did. The first time you both went out together, though it was hardly a date. Arthur could never call it that, you deserved much better than hunting coyotes after Pearson burned the gang's last food. And yet it was one of your first outings together.

One of many firsts, just like right now.

Dragging your lips up to his palm, you promptly held it against your cheek, leaning into it. A pleased hum vibrated against his skin, and out of instinct he began to cradle you softly. “Your palm always holds me… And your hand holds mine.” You finished, gently putting his hand in yours.

Now looking up at him, Arthur could barely recall what happened today aside from this. “Darlin’…” He began, almost choking on the word, but you shut him up with another kiss to the back of his hand. As if he were some maiden and not… not…. “I love you Arthur. Your hands can do good, too.” And in this moment, Arthur fully believed you.

[honeyvalleyflowers]

Sketches of you

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader Summary: Arthur hasn't been able to get you off of his mind, and his hands act accordingly Warnings: A little self deprecation on Arthur's part, way too many uses of the word God Notes: Male Reader! Arthur is losing it, someone save his journal from his abuse. Also, this is my first fic and I didn't really proof read it, hope it's enjoyable nonetheless!

His hands were gripping the pencil again. By now, Arthur figured it was a nervous habit, judging by how clammy they felt. It was a wonder he didn’t drop or break the utensil in its entirety. Focused on the pages - he didn’t dare look up. There was a reason he was scribbling furiously.

And he hated it.

Well, maybe not hate, but it was frustrating. Frustrating and embarrassing and it made his heart beat too hard and oh no, he looked up. There you were, chopping wood for the campfire. Much more useful than he was - or has been the last couple of weeks. Each swing of the axe made Arthur’s eyes follow, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to curse at that. He was distracted. And unfortunately he revelled in it. His breathing became shallower as he stared unabashedly, trying to follow the rhythm of your huffs. A sudden grunt of yours made him swallow and abruptly snap out of it, his gaze flying downwards once more. Now the curses came, stuttery and under his breath. God, he had to control his breathing, his heart. Close your eyes, Arthur. One breath in, hold it, one breath out. Don’t think about him, don’t think about him, don’t think about- Goddamnit. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with yet another drawing of you that he didn’t even realize he created. Fine brush strokes to accentuate your muscles, the almost sheer glistening of your sweat-slicked skin. Those captivating eyes. The sound of Arthur’s mad pencil scratches cut through his thoughts once more, desperate to get rid of his lovesick evidence. What if someone saw? Saw him doodling you over and over again. Every angle, every expression. God, he’s embarrassed just thinking about it. One palm over his face, Arthur tried to calm his frenzied thoughts of doom and you. God, you. He had to distract himself. Why was it that today there was no job for him to do? Curse you, Dutch! Make him work! Please! Please. Another deep breath, though not as deep as the first, and Arthur tapped his pencil against the page. Resigned to his fate of longing like a fool, he racked his brain for a minute. Maybe he could write a little, or draw something else. There were those flowers he picked for a collector in Saint Denis, what were they called again? Exotic. White and so delicate. Orchids, he thinks… Yes, they were orchids, the collector told him so. He remembers now, and his hand follows his memory on the page. Beautiful and so rare, it was a shame to pluck them off of their stems. They should stay in nature where they belong, prosper on their own, and maybe in the future, there would be more of them to behold. But that was a futile hope. They were picked now, and made into whatever this weird man wanted to have them for. Maybe he should have declined, despite the monetary reward.

Arthur could have shown you the orchids. A sea of them, even. Surprised you and you would have probably loved them. Or maybe not. He barely knew what you liked. What a moron he was, why did he think he’d know you? Stupid, stupid Morgan. What do you even know about beauty, you ugly bastard? Beauty… Well, he knew one thing that was beautiful, for sure. Eyes flicking up from a drawing that would leave him dissatisfied the next time he’d open his journal, he dared sneak another peak at you. And the sight that greeted him stole his breath away. Beautiful, beautiful, no this was more than beautiful. You, without your shirt this time, the sweat soaked garment discarded to the ground. God, you. Just you. Arthur didn’t know if he was still breathing. Or if he was still holding his pencil and journal. Or if maybe his heart was even beating at all anymore. Blood rushes through his system and leaves him dizzy, but this time he can’t blame the summer heat. Neither can he do so for the flush on his cheeks, nor the sweat gathering in his palms. Tugging his hat even lower than it usually was, the man desperately tried to hide. Not even he was sure if it was from you, the rest of camp, or himself and his feelings. But Arthur knew one thing for certain. Those sketches of you wouldn’t stop for a while now.