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noxsspace · 3 days ago

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The Beauty Of The Redeemed

in which the mysterious new camp member has something to hide, and Arthur is determined to figure out what.

tags: slow burn, eventual romance, eventual smut, hurt/comfort

its been a while since i’ve posted! i hope to be posting frequently with new chapters of this creation, be sure to look out for updates :)

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64158559/chapters/164637475

You flipped the page, eyes tracing the words slowly while you took in the abstract of the sentence. Your mind was focused entirely on the plot, intrigued with each word, only then to divert to a real life scenario when you read of the sudden embrace the main character received from the love interest.

Immediately then, you had to shut the book.

It was not worth day dreaming over a fantasy that would never occur.

That’s why it’s a fantasy.

You set the treasured object on your nightstand and laid back on your cot, staring up at the blanket that covered you and your belongings—a sad excuse of a tent. You then noticed a hole right in the corner of where the blanket was held up by a pole, possibly due to the tight wrap you’d made to ensure it wouldn’t fall.

Frustrated, you huffed and stood from the cot, walking to the issue to remedy, even just temporarily. You were exhausted from a prior trip to town, only to be pushed into chore duties when you had returned, all you wanted was a peaceful night to yourself.

You wanted the blanket to be the least of your worries, but that seemed to change when you heard a crash from what seemed to be a couple tents over.

You tensed, reaching for the gun that stood against the pole, while then slowly making your way to the slitted opening. You peered out and took in the camp, quick to identify any potential intruders.

Glancing by Arthur’s tent, you noticed him tending to his boxes that were on a high shelf—and then noticed the spill of materials that lay in the grass. You felt relieved, but obligated to help considering you were the only one nearby that seemed to have heard.

And it was a chance to talk to him.

You set your weapon down gently, then quietly made your way to his tent. “Arthur,” You started, letting him know you were near. He turned abruptly, seemingly startled until his expression changed to what seemed like relief for a split second.

“Need somethin’?” He asked lowly, going back to adjusting the box that held supplies. “Just wonderin’ if maybe you did,” you pointed at the mess of supplies that was scattered within the grass. He looked at you and raised a brow.

“That’s not why you’re here,” he narrowed his eyes. “You askin’ for a favor?”

You rolled your eyes and began to pick up the supplies without permission, setting them inside the box that had broke open. “No, just couldn’t sleep and wanted to make use of myself.”

He eyed you carefully, watching as you delicately placed the ammo in the box, noticing the details of your hand under the dim lamp light.

“My damn tent is fallin’ apart, and I was up when I heard your troubles over here,” You continued, thoughts roaming for small talk. “Not like I thought it would last, but still, it’s frustratin’, yknow?” You sighed. You mindlessly rambled on while he stood back and continue to watch.

A scarred mark on your hand piqued his interest, and made him squat down next to you, while he mimicked your actions, reaching for other boxes of ammunition that had fallen. He let you talk on, his own focus was on you. The way your arm stretched out and your freckles became visible, the way you handled the items with care, the gestures you made while you talked though you were facing away from him.

He decided to break your rant.

“Your hand, what’d you do?” He asked, and you turned to face him, shocked by his decision to talk and also about how close his face was to yours.

You noticed the scar on his chin, and precariously wanted to ask about his own scar. He saw your dumbfounded expression, and nodded to the scar that went across the back of your hand. You immediately forgot what he had asked until he broke your stare by poking your forehead, snapping you from the hold his features had on you.

“You sure you ain’t tired woman?” He smiled, watching as you begin to stutter. You then stood, placing your hands on your hips.

“Fine, you clean this yourself then.” You firmly started to walk back, face feeling as hot as if you’d had a fever, only getting warmer when you felt him reach for your hand.

“I only asked a simple question, and I think I deserve an answer considerin’ the amount of nonsensical questions you ask me.” He pulled you back to where you had stood, and then held your hand up by the light to examine it further.

“My hand? Just an accident, was playin’ with my knife and, uh, dropped it on my hand.”

You sounded real convincing.

He gave you a look and almost said you’re full of shit but he held his tongue.

“You can’t even give me a sensible answer?” He remarked. You smiled to yourself.

“Maybe if you had told the truth when I indeed questioned you, I’d give you that same sentiment too, Mr. Morgan,” you replied.

He let go of your hand while you gestured to the remaining materials. You’d started to bend down to grab them when he tilted your head up, and you were immediately struck by his stare.

“You can play that game with me, but just know I’d been tellin’ the truth, and you’re the one that seems to be lyin’ to my face every second you get.”

You didn’t exactly feel scared by his words, or how his figure seemed to grow while he talked in a demeaning manner, almost as if he was a mountain that no one could climb.

You felt his finger under your chin, but you weren’t being held with endearment, rather it was of suspicion, like he was searching for the truth in your eyes. You couldn’t do anything else but stare back, absorbed in the way his eyes darted back and forth between yours, and you wanted to catch them each time.

“Someone tried to kill me.”

That made his expression less harsh, his features softened and his hold on your chin was delicate, his thumb brushing your bottom lip as he seemed to contemplate your words.

“Now that makes more sense than whatever that half-assed story you told me was.” He let you go and then picked up the box, setting it gently on his cart, investigating the latch. You waited for further comment, any sort of response in regard to your statement.

You rolled your eyes. This man was trouble and liked to give you a hard time any time anywhere.

That bounty would be worthwhile, you thought to yourself, almost dreaming of the day you take him in and receive that pile of cash. You’d be set for life, you’d be able to flee once and for all, but it will be difficult coming close to that.

Long treacherous days of working close with him and others from the gang would send you into a spiral, but the money would be worth it.

“‘Night, Arthur,” you said softly, walking back to your tent. You could make out a soft “Night” from him, though it was almost drowned by the clatter of tools within his tent.

It would all be worth it.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur #arthur x reader #arthur morgan x reader #hurt/comfort #slow burn #eventual smut #eventual romance

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stottlemorgan · 3 hours ago

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"A Little... Refinin'." / Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Fluff

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Summary: You shave Arthur's face for him. It's all cutesy and y'all're sweet one one another and GAH. Tags: Fluff, literally the purest fluff. Starts off with Arthur being very full of self-loathing. Word count: 2,958 Author's Note: Thank you to the sweet anon who requested this, I truly hope you love it. I got SO carried away with the idea that it just... Needed to be a fic instead of headcanons.... Love uuuu. Ao3 Link

A heavy sigh. Tired, worn skin, parts dry and sunburnt and peeling. Wrinkles nestle deeply into his skin at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. Nasty scars deboss his features, as though he is a sculpture, uncared for and unfinished. Full of dips and marks both inside and out, never to meet the kiln, never to be improved. An impossibly repugnant sight.

He feels the disgusted expression morph his features into something even more grotesque before he sees it reflected back at him in the small mirror. It feels like an insult every time. His lips part dumbly, from behind which unevenly set teeth peek. His brow furrows, shadowing the one thing he may dare to like about himself; the blue of his eyes which are currently squinting. Staring too long at himself brings forth thoughts and memories as worrisome and uncomfortable as his face.

The shaving station is a necessary utility, but to him, a feigned performance of self-value. A place for him to hack at his hair and beard, quickly and methodically. To finish up with a shrug and a “good enough”, not a place for priggishness.

“You ugly bastard.”

Arthur’s voice barely escapes as much more than a low grumble, a subtle but continuous and harmful mantra that coats his insides like tar. He begins an attempt to crush the familiar feeling with some deep, grounding breaths. His palms take some of his hefty weight, the wood of the barrel beneath them pressing pinkish shapes into his skin. Much like most forms of pain, he doesn’t mind it.

The rustle of your skirts and the padding of your pottering feet marry together with the chirping birds and whispering spring air as you round his tent and give him a once over. You smile and nod in greeting. He returns the gesture, albeit a tad stiffly, struggling to climb out of his thoughts, though your voice helps coax him.

“You look like you need a shave, Arthur.” You walk past him and through to the back of his tent, an air of domestic authority about you as you snatch some of his washcloths and socks from the little hanger and stuff them into the basket at your hip. He does a double take, his head turning as his gaze follows you.

“What?”

On occasion, you’d make little comments like this; telling him you like the new shirt he bought in Valentine, or his recent decision to grow his hair out. It left him quietly bewildered each time, unsure whether the arrhythmic dance of his heart was due to fondness or awkwardness. Whatever it was, he has spent each moment in your presence suppressing it. You pass by again, placing the basket on the floor outside of his tent with a thump. “I said you look like you need a shave–” you say with a smile, “-You’re gettin’ all scruffy.” Your nose scrunches as you gesture to your own chin, scratching it as though you have stubble. His self-loathing lightens further, your playfulness stirring into the bitter tar like honey, sweetening him up as it always does.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gettin’?” He asks, making you laugh.

“Mister Morgan, you ain’t scruffy. Far from it. You jus’ need a little… Refinin’.” You say with a grin, waltzing closer to him. He feels the column of his spine lock up slightly at your closing proximity and he swallows down a nervous sound. “Refinin’, huh?” He echoes, his eyes flitting down to your flowing skirts as you stop in front of him. He forces his eyes closed before he can think of how nicely your shirt fits. “Yessir.” You say simply, picking up the razor from the barrel, turning it and watching it glint in the sunlight. Arthur’s features tighten slightly, and his eyes flutter open as he feels you lean forward and one by one remove each item off of the barrel, playing them on his cot. “What’re you doin’?” You return to the barrel and pat the top, “Sit, I’ll give ya a shave.”

Arthur blinks, and his head is shaking before he even finishes processing your words.

“Naw, you ain’t gotta do that–” You roll your eyes, swatting at his chest and his skin beneath the fabric tingles in waves again and again. “Oh, hush up and sit’ch your ass down.”

With a concessive sigh, Arthur plants himself atop the barrel, lips pressed into a firm line. When you take a step closer, standing between his thighs, his expression blanks. And when you gently take hold of his chin between your forefinger and thumb to examine his face, his mind follows suit, whiting out into nothing.

You hum, giving him a good look before speaking casually. “Wha’chu want, then?” Your words take a moment to register as Arthur’s muddled head scrambles to take in anything going on outside of the fabric of your skirts brushing his thighs and the tip of your thumb grazing his lower lip. His voice lags, his gaze drifting about as you move his head left to right, “A clean shave, I guess.” Your nose scrunches as you look him in the eye, “You sure? I could have some real fun ‘n’ give you a little moustache.” You whisper the last words, leaning in a little closer. Arthur has to nod and chuckle to counteract every single signal in his body threatening to fizzle out entirely. “Sure, sure. A ‘little moustache’ it is.”

You give a triumphant grin and straighten up with a soft sigh as you grab the necessary items from his cot. You hum gently as you lather his shaving brush with lye soap and Arthur quietly watches. The domesticity of the situation makes him shift atop the barrel, his lips pursing. After a moment, you step closer again. “Sit up some more.” You say softly and he obeys, straightening up with a big breath. You place the fingertips of one hand against his cheek and bring the shaving brush up with the other.

Taking your time, you guide the lathered brush about, coating his bearded jaw with the cool soap. You concentrate on evenly coating Arthur’s face while he watches you. You place the brush down and pick up the straight razor, bringing it to his jaw and carefully starting to scrape away at his facial hair with rhythmic scratching sounds, holding the skin taut with your thumb.

“Thought you were going into town today?” He asks in a soft, low tone, watching your pupils grow larger as you lean close, into the shade of his tent. “Mhm,” you nod, your nose scrunching a tad in annoyance, “Grimshaw had other plans. Or should I say, demands.”

Arthur huffs a chuckle through his nose as he sneaks in fond glances at your face, thinking you’re too busy scraping at the ridges of his jaw. Then he notices the subtle flutter of your lashes, the slight raise of your brow, the way your concentration becomes forced. His fingers fidget against his pants in quiet panic. His voice comes out almost comically casual, “Well, I could take you in later on. If you’d like.” You pull away to rinse the razor with a slosh and look him in the eye, your expression sincere, “You sure? I wouldn’t wanna disturb your day.”

“Naw, you ain’t disturbin’ nothin’. I’m goin’ in anyway.” You return to shaving, cleaning up the right side of his jaw.

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Press your lips together,” you say quietly, and he follows your instruction. You use the pad of your thumb to pull the skin of his chin tight and carefully shave around the scarring there. Arthur can’t help but feel quite exposed in this moment, having someone acknowledge him so closely; no shadow, hat nor unfriendly grimace to protect him. You watch his eyes dart about and up. You hear his feet shuffle in the dirt either side of you. This reaction has you opting to not comment on his scars, though a slight pinch in your brow betrays your thoughts.

A lull forms between you again. You’re not quite sure what to say, and neither is Arthur. The two of you silently take one another in, having only been this close once when he untangled a branch from your hair. Sure, he’d done it out of courtesy as you’d had a bucket of water cradled in your arms, but despite his denial, it was also an urge of the heart. Thoughts of how satiny and warm your hair was in the spring sun weave through his nerves as you start to speak again.

“What’re you goin’ in to town for?” A low, long and dumb hum vibrates his palette as he catches up to the moment, “M’gonna check in with the sheriff, see if he’s got any more bounties.” You nod slowly in response, focused on his chin.

“I read about that man you caught for him last week. That death tonic slingin’ bastard. You did good catchin’ him.” As you speak, Arthur’s expression morphs with bemusement. He blinks, his lips pursing and he talks over you as you try to tell him to press his lips together again, “Wha’chu mean read?”

“It was in the New Hanover Gazette,” You pause to look him in the eye, realising what his next question will be, “you weren’t mentioned. Was just a piece on the idiot you captured.” He visibly relaxes with a nod. You nudge his chin with your knuckle, guiding him to press his lips together again, which he does. You clean up his chin, your fingers nimble and wet against his now smooth skin. “He was a bastard. A peculiar one, too.”

“Sure seemed it if his poster’s anythin’ to go by.” You move on to shaving the left side of his jaw. You pull away to cleanse the razor in water again before leaning back in. Gently, you place your free hand at the side of his neck, using your thumb to pull the skin taut, and you feel his throat undulate as he stifles a hitch in his breath. Months of lacking tender touch makes it feel as though you’d pressed a hot iron to his skin. Arthur feels a buzzing need to speak, to distract himself, so he speaks; his toes wiggling inside of his boots unbeknownst to you.

“What’s your business in town, then?” He glances up at you in time for your gaze to meet his, and you offer a warm smile to which he responds in kind. His toes curl in his boots. You tip his chin up to shave the middle section of his neck, hearing a silent sigh of thanks escape him for the relief in eye contact.

“I fancied myself a trip to the 50 cent show. I’ve heard it’s good.” You murmur with a tilt of your head as you focus. Arthur gives a silent “Oh?” and a raise of his brow,

“It’s interestin’, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve seen it?” You ask, moving to rinse the razor again, glancing at him as he rolls his shoulders a little.

“Mhm. I won’t spoil it for ya.”

“S’mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You quip and he chuckles, watching as your playful snooty expression changes into something akin to mischief. “Now,” you grin, eyes glinting, “It’s moustache time.” You state with a shimmy of your shoulders.

Shock and felicity meld together at his seat and flood up through to his chest, shucking any previous coherence from him as you swoop in close. The sides of your skirts brush at his inner thighs and he swears he can vaguely feel the shape of your hips. His hands move to grasp his outer thighs, steadying himself, resisting the urge to pull back. When you press your thumb to his top lip and pull a little to shave the top edge of his moustache, the touch draws a shaky huff from him. You’re quick to look him straight in the eyes, your body frozen,

“Am I hurtin’ you?” You ask quietly.

The closeness. Your breath, laced with coffee. The musk of whatever homemade soap you use. The spring morning glowing behind you, setting the edges of your hair alight. Your pupils, enlarged from facing into the shade. His mind is already flooding with ways he would draw this moment, your ethereal beauty. And his body is simmering with thoughts of how you feel, whether the rest of you is as soft as your hair. He clears his throat, a tight, choked sound,

“No.”

You scan his face for a moment before continuing your ministrations. The longer you stay so close, the harder neglecting the quickening of your heart becomes. You find yourself taking slower, deeper breaths as you work, purposefully savouring the coalescing scents of Arthur’s shaving soap and skin. You keep the pad of your thumb against his lips, guiding his skin to move beneath it as you shape his moustache.

He notices the way your gaze flits about his face each time you pause to check the shape of the forming moustache - how you linger a little when his eyes meet yours. Each scrape of the razor, each shift of Arthur’s thighs, each sweet touch of your fingers to his skin is like a flint to steel, striking, igniting a fulsome blaze between the two of you. Yet only a moment later, your thumb leaves his lips, lagging in its descent, brushing, leaving a flaming yen behind which he swallows down. It sinks through him and swells warmly within his groin.

“You’re all done.” You say with a smile, washing the razor and wiping it down. You move away to place it on his cot with the rest of the things you’d moved earlier. Arthur takes a deep breath, loosening up his neck and brain with a shake of his head,

“Thank you, Miss.”

He rises from the barrel, not able to check himself in the mirror quite yet to review your work - too busy quelling his full body fluster. He flattens his thumb against a small bit of shaving foam collected on his shirt, scooping it from the fabric and flicking it onto the floor.

“S’my pleasure, Mister Morgan.” You reply, your expression as earnest as your tone as you turn to face him.

Arthur lets out a strained sound when your hand moves to cup his face and the pad of your thumb rubs over the edge of his mouth. He can feel a glob of cool shaving soap mush under your thumb as you rub it away. He hopes that there is more somewhere, perhaps on his jaw, behind his ear, but you pull away again, wiping your hand on your apron. “You do look mighty handsome, especially all gussied up like that.” You murmur, grinning, and Arthur swears he’s heard you wrong.

Another lull begins to creep up between you before he shoos it away with a gentle catch of something trying to leave his throat. Whatever it is breaks down into a shocked, stuttering chuckle, his eyes closing, his head shaking.

“Don’t go startin’ that with me, Miss.” He mumbles, giving you a fond and sheepish expression, one hand swatting at you lazily. “I’ll start whatever I like, thank you very much.” You snark, walking back to the basket you’d left at the entrance of his tent, bending over and hiking it up onto your hip. Arthur’s eyes snag on your rear, his hand coming up to push his hair back and then rub down his face, his palm grazing over his newly styled moustache as he sighs, “I’m sure you will.” You turn to him and simper, swaying a little from side to side,

“Would you come to the 50 cent show with me before you meet with the sheriff?” You tilt your head.

Arthur’s breath escapes him yet again, his focus darting away, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror resting sideways on his cot. You’ve done a very good job, as good as you can do on a stretched and exhausted canvas such as him. “Sure-” He nods, looking back to you, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, “Sure. I’ll join you, if that’s what you’d like.”

“I’d love it, Arthur.” You say, your smile only growing, a sweet sigh leaving you, “I’ll just finish this up-” You gesture with the basket, “And then I’ll get ready. I’ll meet you at the horses?”

“Okay then.” He nods again, a tad nervously now.

“See you soon, Arthur.” You say softly and ramble off to finish your chores across camp. Arthur reorganises his shaving supplies atop the barrel in an awkward and flustered manner. He curses quietly as he knocks and catches the small bottle of aftershave from the barrel before popping the stopper from the neck and pouring some onto his palm. He pats it about his face, and after glancing at you from across the way, pours a little extra into his palm and applies it.

He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror again, seeing how neatly you’ve shaved his face. His gaze drifts about the parts of his face you’d touched so carefully; his jaw, his chin, his scars, his lips. For the first time in a while, self-loathing and shame aren’t the first things to rip through his head and pool heavily in his lungs. Instead, his thoughts stall long before that looming gate and distractedly wander towards you. How sweet you are towards him. How you called him handsome. How you asked him to the 50 cent show. How he really wants to go with you. How he might just buy you dinner.

Thank you for reading, dear hearts. I love sharing our love of rdr2 together <333 Tags for friends: @kayyqua

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #my writing #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 x you #fanfic #stottlemorgan

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photo1030 · 3 days ago

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This is so good!!! The angsty part was laid out so well. Quite the gut punch. And the love scene is perfect! 👌

Vices & Virtues

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Word Count: 7,979 (My longest yet)

Summary: After a series of poor communications, you can't stand Arthur Morgan. Yet, with the help of forced proximity - Arthur does his best to break down your walls.

Tags: heavy angst, smut, pnv, porn with plot, high honor Arthur

18+ MDNI

Author's note: I feel like I really put my useless English degree to work here. This took MONTHS to write, and what I mean by that is it sat in my drafts since November until I finally had the will to finish it. HOWEVER, it is a lot different from I usually write. A lot of plot instead of porn (lol). I've always struggled switching between the narratives of two characters, I always tend to focus on just one - because that is how my brain works. But I really challenged myself with trying to write the thoughts and feelings of both characters - which I think worked, but trying to make a smooth transition between the two was a challenge. Also, after editing this I realized I Mr. Darcy'd the fuck out of Arthur - hence the name. Shout out Jane Austen.

A soft, balmy breeze whispers through camp, offering a brief respite from the heavy humidity of Clemens Point. Cheap whiskey flows generously around the stoic fire as young Sean Maguire tells a tasteless joke at the expense of the camp cook. In response, a thunderous eruption of deafening cackles echoes through the small peninsula. Yet, Dutch’s workhorse remains silent, a liberal blush of mauve creeping onto his cheeks without notice. Not from the heavy liquor coursing through his veins, but because of the woman staring back at him.

Across the blazing flames, you sit cross legged on a log between Karen and Javier. A bottle of French Cognac dances between your fingers and lips as you smirk, the warmth of the fire beating against your skin. You rest an elbow on your knee, gaze locked on Arthur. Taking one final sip of the bitterly sweet liquid, you let it linger, corking the bottle and settling it in your lap. Your cheeks flush with heat - not just from the fire - as you bite your lip in a slow, deliberate motion. Winking at the cowboy, you leave the crowded campfire, escaping to the nearby shoreline.

Arthur's heart pounds as his gaze follows you down to the bank, only the glow from the full moon reflecting upon your skin. Intrigued by your sudden departure, he finds himself slipping away from the commotion, following you down to the water’s edge, where - much to his delight - you’re already staring at him with a mischievous grin, the corked bottle of Cognac still swinging between your fingers.

Within moments, you dart down the lake’s bank, turning around - not once - but twice - with a hop in your step, motioning him to tag along.

With a fleeting moment of caution, Arthur glances back toward camp, scanning for any watchful eyes. To his relief, the others remain gathered around the fire, lost in their drunken revelry, oblivious to his sudden departure. His gaze finds you once more, now several yards ahead, barefoot against the cool sand and without further hesitation, he takes off after you.

Minutes later, Arthur realizes where you’ve led him - a secluded bay just east of camp, where the young Kieran Duffy had taken him fishing just days prior. The spot is a stretch of empty shoreline, close enough that the glow of the campfire still flickers in the distance, yet far enough away to ensure no one will stumble upon the two of you.

“What’re we doin’?” Arthur asks as you pop the cork of the Cognac bottle, taking a long sip before passing it to him.

“Thought we could go swimmin’,” you answer with a cheeky tone, your hands moving to the clasps of your cotton blouse, unfastening the buttons with record speed.

The Gunslinger’s eyes widen, caught completely off guard as you toss your shirt onto the grassy bank. A mischievous grin tugs at your lips as you untie your skirt, letting it slip down your legs, leaving you in nothing more than the thin fabric of your bloomers and chemise.

His lips part slightly in surprise, stunned by your sudden boldness.

You roll your eyes at the dumbfounded cowboy before turning around, your back to him as you slip out of your chemise, letting your bloomers fall - bare as the day you were born. With a slow, deliberate motion, your fingers find the singular pin holding your hair in place. As you release it, your long, silky locks cascade like a waterfall.

In one final act of seduction, you peer over your shoulder, quickly winking at the cowboy before running into the lake at full pace. When the cool water reaches hip depth, you dive down, only popping your head back up to turn toward shore. “You comin’ Mr. Morgan?” Words falling off your tongue in an impish tone.

Arthur could have sworn you were some mischievous siren, luring him to his doom. But if that meant being out there with you, he didn’t mind one bit. Tipping back the bottle of Cognac, he drains the last of it before tossing it aside, mind hazy as he fumbles with the laces of his boots. Once they’re off and safely out of reach of the waves, he unfastens his gunbelt, letting it drop.

As he undresses, a strange feeling creeps over him - like some awkward boy again. He can’t recall the last time he swam purely for the joy of it, let alone with a beautiful woman. A naked, beautiful woman at that. And he feels - giddy.

If the cowboy wasn't nearly a whole bottle of Tennessee whiskey deep, he might’ve felt embarrassed as he tore off his shirt. Littered with scars and sunspots, he knew he was no pretty boy like you deserved. Yet, his strong, bare chest gleamed under the moonlight as he took a final breath, dropping his work jeans to the ground with a light thud.

In any attempt to keep his nearly non-existent modesty, the gunslinger places his right hand over his already swollen member, swiftly entering the lake after you. He only drops his hand when he reaches hips depth, the water protecting what remained of his decency.

The outlaw spots you at chest depth, only your head breaking the lake’s surface. Your slicked back hair glistens with droplets, your lips curling into a playful smirk as you tease, “Took you long enough cowboy."

By the time he wades out to meet you, his nerves had kept him too distracted to notice the water’s cool embrace. But now, standing beside you in the gentle current, a sense of cool relief washes over him.

“Feels nice,” he replies, his voice carrying the faintest tremor. His gaze drifts downward toward you, taking you in. And with alcohol still heavily flowing through his veins, he confesses, “I ain't ever done somethin’ like this before.”

Like the hellcat you were, you bite your lip seductively, eyes locked onto him as you drift closer. You had long admired the cowboy from a distance, yearning for more, but in the sober light of day, you had always convinced yourself he was too closed off, too wrapped up in his own world to see you as anything more than a friend.

But here.

Now.

With the warmth of liquor coursing through your veins and the moon casting its glow over the rippling bay, you had convinced yourself to act on instinct.

Arthur stands nearly a foot taller than you as you push your chest to his, your hard nipples gently peaking above the waterline. “You know, Arthur,” you flirt, dragging your finger up his muscular arm. “Coming out here to cool off ain’t the only reason I dragged you out here.”

Arthur’s breath hitches, squatting deeper into the water, letting his eyeline match yours. “And why’s that?” he mutters, a small smirk falling on his lips as if he knew exactly where you were going.

“Cause,” you respond with a cheeky tone, lips curling as you move closer, pressing your mouth to his.

And there it was - the sweet, heavy scent of French Cognac lingering on your breath, a stark reminder that you weren’t entirely yourself. If Arthur weren’t inebriated himself, he wouldn’t have entertained the thought of stripping down and slipping into the water with you in the first place. Because in the sober light of day, you’d never shown him interest.

The cowboy wasn’t a stand up citizen, but he had his morals - and taking advantage of a drunken woman was where he drew the line.

“I -I can’t,” he manages, quickly pulling away as the passion of the moment already fades into regret. As much as he wanted this - wanted you - he forces himself to chalk it up to nothing more than liquor fueled impulse on your end.

And just like that, the haze of liquid courage dissipates. Awareness crashing over you like a wave. You are bare before him - completely nude. The realization jolting through you like a bolt of lightning. Your hands dart upward, desperate to shield yourself from his gaze. A sickening knot tightens in your stomach, embarrassment tearing through you like a burning fire poker. And yet, somehow, even in the relentless Lemoyne heat , you feel cold.

You wanted to disappear, to shrink into the water, to curl up and never face him again.

“I -I’m sorry,” you choke out before turning and darting to shore, tears puddling in your eyes as you wish you could forget this ever happened - forget him.

How could you be so wrong?

It was as if all your senses had given out, only basic instinct bringing you back to the grassy shore. You knew it wasn’t from the Cognac -the liquor had done nothing more than give you the confidence to do what you’d always wanted. Your sudden fit of illness came from nothing more than rejection, your ears ringing as your vision blurred with tears of regret.

You couldn’t tell if it had been seconds or minutes as you fumbled along the shoreline, hurriedly gathering the scattered pieces of your clothes and pulling them back on. You didn't care, you just wanted to be gone.

Without looking back out into Flat Iron Lake, you swiftly run back to the faint glow of the campfire without another word.

In the early hours of the following morning, Arthur scrunches his nose at the bitterness of his coffee, his gaze fixed on your tent.

Sure, he was a fool.

A god damn idiot at that.

But all he wanted to do was catch you early - before anyone else could hear. Before shame could build a wall between the two of you.

He needed to apoligize.

It wasn't until he heard your choked sob from ashore last night that he realized how poorly he communicated. With you running off like that, crying, he put two and two together and realized what you had thought - that he had rejected you after following you out there like an idiot.

Which he did.

But not for the reason you believed.

Hell, on any sober night, he would have gladly pulled you into his arms, kissed you without hesitation. A silly dream he had imagined for longer than he'd like to admit. But last night wasn’t sober - for either of you. And that made all the difference.

With his head held low, just beyond the brim of his gambler's hat - he waited.

With hours slowly passing, the once quiet camp in the morning hours had turned lively by the afternoon - still no sign of you.

Like clockwork, Dutch eventually strolls up to Arthur, a familiar smirk on his face, offering a fishing trip with Hosea, for old times’ sake.

Arthur obliges, forcing a nod, but his eyes flicker toward your tent one last time, knowing that he had missed his chance. Now, with listening ears all around, his apology would have to wait.

The weather was far more forgiving than the day before, the air crisp and cool beneath an endless stretch of azure sky. As the three outlaws rowed back to Clemens Point - several fish in tow, the weight on Arthur’s shoulders felt a little lighter.

That morning, he had woken up uncertain. But after of adventure spent with the men he looked up to the most, his spirit had been lifted.

And yet, as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, a knot twisted in his stomach. There was still unfinished business waiting for him back at camp.

Docking the stolen row boat, Arthur parts ways with the gang leaders. Quickly slipping by the camp cook, dropping off a rather hefty string of lake fish.

Free at last, the cowboy's eyes reluctantly prowess around camp, searching for the one woman his mind has been on all day. Only able to truly breath when he finally finds you; seated between Mary-Beth and Karen, legs crossed as you carefully sew at a torn sock. You’re as beautiful as ever , hair swept up into a loose bun, stray strands falling around your face in a way that makes his breath hitch.

And for a moment - just a moment - he forgets why he was searching for you in the first place.

But as reality kicks in, he exhales, walking up to the three of you with a kind smile. "Afternoon ladies," he greets, jutting his hip out and throwing his thumbs into the loops of his gun belt.

"Oh, Hi Arthur," Mary-Beth responds in a peachy tone.

"Arthur," Karen acknowledges.

The cowboy deliberately ignores the two women, his gaze nervously locked on you, waiting for some sign, any response. But you remain unmoved, acting as though you’re completely unaware of his presence.

"Go fishing with Dutch?" Mary-Beth asks kindly, unaware of the high strung tension lingering in the air.

His eyes never leave you as he answers the young writer, "Yeah, we bumped into Trelawney." His crystal blue eyes searching for even the slightest flicker of emotion from you, desperate to unravel what’s going on inside your head.

"Trelawney?" Karen giggles, her voice a light contrast to the heavyness that hangs in the air.

"Yeah, says he got some kind of investments in Rhodes," Arthur replies, anger silently building beneath his skin. His hands silently falling into fists in frustration, his nails digging into his palms as every second you refuse to acknowledge his presence passes by slowly.

"That Trelawney, he's a kind man-"

Arthur interrupts Mary-Beth mid-sentence, annoyance tightening in his chest as he steals one last glance at you. Your eyes still locked on to that damn sock as if you were in your own little world.

"Well, I best be going," he mutters quickly, his voice sharp and defeated. Without another word, he turns and rushes back to his tent, his face burning with the remenants of anger and irritation.

And suddenly, your once close and cherished relationship with Arthur Morgan had turned nonexistent.

...

Nearly a month later, violent rain lashes against the roads of Lemoyne. The storm fierce and unrelenting. Thunder booms across the flashing sky as Arthur's young mare shifts uneasily as the cowboy ties her to a hitching post outside the Rhodes post office. Rain reflecting off his gambler's hat as he hurries inside.

Alden Carruthers, the discouraged postal worker greets Arthur with a smile. "I forgot to give you a receipt last time, do you want me to write one up?" Alden mischevously smiles.

Arthurs huffs, snorting as he tosses a lifeless possum onto the table, causing the postal worker to nearly jump and the rather loud thud. "No, all I need today is for these to be sent to a Ms. L Hobbs out of Strawberry."

"Got it," Alden replies hastily, picking up the dead rodent up by it's tail and prepping the animal for shipment. "That storm out there is sure relentless," Alden adds as he writes the shipment tag. "Papers are saying it's gonna storm like this for two days."

The outlaw lets out a exhale, flicking droplets of water off of his gambler's hat. "I don't care how long it's supposed to be stormin', just that my shipment gets to Strawberry on time, and I get paid."

"Well," Alden says rather loudly, handing Arthur an actual recepit this time. "Us postal workers will do our best to have your package arrive as punctual as possible." Then lowering his voice, "and if you're feeling discouraged, I have a few good leads on wagons too."

Arthur steps back, shaking his head at Alden. "Not in this weather," he mutters, before turning to leave, only to freeze mid-step.

It’s you.

Oblivious to everything, you sit in the corner of the empty post office, eyes closed, your head resting against a foggy window sill. A peaceful image, almost too calm for the storm raging outside.

What are you doing here?

In town?

Alone?

The questions flood his mind, but they don’t matter as much as the pull in his chest that makes him move toward you. He doesn’t think twice - his feet carrying him in urgency.

The last time you two were alone like this was nearly a month ago, the night by the lake. That kiss, barely more than a brush of lips had raced through his mind everyday since. Yet, since then, the tension between the two of you could be cut with a dull knife as you had been avoiding him for weeks.

But now, here you are, sitting like you hadn't been occupying his thoughts every damn day. Arthur doesn't know what to make of it, but he knows one thing for sure: he's going to make the most of your forced proximity.

His brain races a mile a minute, trying to figure out the proper string of words to splice together, and as lightining strikes near the chapel outside, he is able to muster, "Better not be runnin' away on us."

Slowly, you open your eyes. Rubbing them as you shuffle in your chair. Blinking, your vision clears, and your heart sinks into your stomach as you look up at the rain soaked cowboy standing before you.

You let out a heavy sigh, your expression twisting into a deep scowl. “No,” you mumble indignantly.

Arthur exhales sharply, hooking his thumbs into his gunbelt. “You know Dutch don’t like you women comin’ into town without a chaperone. Too dangerous.”

Scoffing, you push yourself to your feet, grabbing your woven bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “You gonna take me back to camp then?” you reply, swiftly striding past the cowboy and toward the door.

Arthur had expected a cold reception - he knew better than to hope for anything else, but after weeks of you ignoring him, he’d thought he’d at least get something less hostile. His scowl deepens, frustration simmering as he reaches out, grabbing your shoulder and spinning you around.

“You see that weather out there woman?” Arthur snaps, rain hammering against the window. “Better to wait it out in the Parlour House than risk Boadicea bucking us both off.”

You glower at the cowboy, lip quivering as his hands tightly squeeze your shoulder. "Rather wait it out alone in here than wait it out anywhere with you," you spit, knowing that deep down you didn't mean a single word that left your mouth.

A flicker of something unspoken crosses Arthur’s face - hurt or dissapointment, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. His jaw tightens, and he steps back, his usual gruff demeanor snapping back into place like a shield.

"Suit yourself," he mutters, his voice low and defeated. Your lips strongly pursed in a straight line.

He walks towards the door, taking a steady exhale, shaking his head back and fourth before pushing the doors open to a heavy rainfall.

Trying to hold back tears, you retreat to the bench, the bag of items you bought earlier still hanging over your shoulder.

You didn’t know why you were like this, and you hated it. Being stubborn is one thing, but what you had said to Arthur was just cruel. No matter how angry or embarrassed he made you feel, he didn’t deserve that. Tilting your head back against the window sill, you silently sob, listening to the steady pitter-patter of rain against the glass.

...

Arthur huffs as he pulls Boadicea toward the stables, rain soaking his cotton shirt. A thousand thoughts running through his mind as he reaches the wooden barn, paying the stable owner a dollar to board the mare for the night. Slinging his saddle bag across his shoulder, he tips his hat before starting his short walk to the parlour house.

But his feet don’t take him there.

Before he can stop himself, he finds himself once again trudging through the storm, back to the post office.

Back to you.

He wants to curse you to Hell and back, to call you every foul name under the sun, but deep down, he knew you were just hurt.

As his boots hit the wooden porch, he swings open the door, ignoring Alden entirely as he strides toward you.

His chest tightens as your red-rimmed eyes meet his. You’re angry, face still flushed, but he sees through all of it. Without a word, Arthur holds out his hand, offering you a chance to come with him willingly.

Yet, you remain unmoved.

But this time, Arthur doesn’t care. Coming with him was no longer a choice.

He reaches for your woven bag, slinging iit over his shoulder.

"Arthur," you pout, grabbing at it in an act of defiance. But your actions meant nothing and in one swift, deliberate motion, he lifts you over his shoulder as if you were a bounty he was hauling in.

Your stomach rests over his broad joint, his right hand holding you tightly, you're legs flailing against his chest.

"Arthur!" you yell again, slapping his back in defiance.

He strides toward the door, kicking it open and stepping back into the pouring rain, his grip firm and unwavering.

"You know you're one god-damn stubborn woman," he growls, rain soaking through your blouse and skirt as he marches up the road, through the mud. "I don’t know how you ended up alone in that post office, but whoever took you into town and left you there deserves a beatin'."

"I ain't comin' with you nowhere," You yell, thrashing your legs and arms against him. But his grip is tight, carrying you down the middle of the empty road, only seconds later dropping you to your feet infront of the parlour house.

"Now, you better behave. Dutch don't want anyone causing a scene," Arthur demands, pointing a finger in your face as you pout in retaliation.

You cross your arms and scowl, "And you picking me up like that wasn’t causing a scene-" you bark after him, only for your words to be cut off as he pulls you through the door.

No music plays, and barely any heads turn as Arthur pulls you throught the swinging doors behind him. A few patrons are scattered about, but much fewer than what the cowboy was used to - he could thank the raging storm for that.

He sits you at a small table in the corner of the room, leaving you slouched on chair with a scowl spread across your face. You cross your arms and huff as the cowboy walks up to the bar. Returning with two plates of fried catfish in hand, plopping one down in front of you along with a napkin.

"Eat," he orders, cutting himself a piece and shoveling a forkful into his mouth.

You glance down at your plate, the hot, crispy catfish making your mouth water at the mere sight. After being stuck at the post nearly the entire day you would be lying if you didn't say you were hungry - starving at that. But picking up that fork and placing a piece in your mouth meant more than just feeding yourself, it was a peace offering.

That night on Flat Iron Lake haunted you - the cool breeze against your bare skin, the moonlight dancing on the water, the way Arthur had followed behind you, chasing after you like he wanted you. Like he needed you.

Only to turn you away.

Even now, the memory made your stomach twist, your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You had stripped yourself bare - not just in body, but in heart - and he had let you. Let you believe, only to shut you down when you were already halfway there.

And that? That made you sick.

But more than that, you were furious. Furious at him for indulging your delusions, for pulling you in just to push you away. For making you feel wanted, like you were something more to him - only to leave you standing there, vulnerable and humiliated.

You had given him everything that night. And in return, he had left you with nothing but regret.

Yet, something deep down told you to take a bite.

Maybe it was your impending hunger, or maybe it was the desire for him that still burned in your bones. But he had come back for you - even after all those nasty words you had spewed at him, and that meant something.

So you take a bite.

The soft flaky forkful erupts onto your tastebuds as your stomach yearns for more. You look down at your plate, your mouth already watering for another bite as you nearly inhale the meal. Eating much faster than you ever have, yet, still finishing minutes after the cowboy.

Arthur realizes and chuckles to himself, shaking his head with an amused smile. His shirt is still clinging to his chest from trudging through the rainstorm. "Hungry?" he teases, raising a brow as he looks down at your empty plate.

You push away the cleared dish, ignoring his sly comment as he exhales, leaning back into his chair, wiping his hands on his button down.

"Thank you," you murmur, setting aside your bickering with him for the first time in what felt like forever.

Arthur rests his elbows on the table, watching you. "You gonna tell me why you were sittin' at that post office all alone? Lookin' like you were about to catch a train and run away?"

Your gaze drops to the empty dish in front of you. You sigh before speaking.

"I had some errands to run in town. Asked nearly every one of you men to take me before I finally had to ask Micah-."

"Didn't ask me," Arthur interjects, his tone cold.

Your eyes flash to his for a brief moment before dropping back to your plate. A million unsaid words lingering on his tongue.

"Micah - well he offered. Should've known better, but - but I was desperate. On the way back to camp, he told me I owed him something for taking me into town. And - and when I refused, he pushed me off Bayloch and ran off without me." Your voice wavering slightly. "I figured I'd wait at the post office, sooner or later I knew I'd run into one of you there."

Arthur jaw cocks, clutching his fork tighter than before, your words repeating in his mind over and over again, fantasizing about tearing Micah to pieces. "I don't want you ever gettin' on the back of Micah's horse again, if you need to go into town, you ask me from now on." Arthur's voice cold and demanding.

You bite you lip tenderly, his eyes flashing you an icy stare of a million unsaid words. And in that moment you knew he was serious - yet, all you could do was look back down at the empty dish in front of you, embarassed and defeated.

The cowboy's voice softens, "You know I jus' don' want you gettin' hurt."

But you already were, and it wasn't because of Micah.

You shift in your seat, eyes fixed on the worn wood grain of the table in front of you as the conversation with him plays over in your mind, only to be interrupted by the sound of the heavy front doors being pushed open.

Arthur straightens across from you, his posture sharpening just enough to tell you that he knows whoever just walked in.

"Deputy Callahan!"

A middle aged man with a rather gaudy mustache approaches, his grin wide and easy. "Good work with those moonshiners the other day. Sheriff Gray was mighty pleased to hear it had been taken care of."

Arthur's lips press into a firm line. He nods, stiff, giving away his distaste for whatever conversation this was about to turn into.

Then, the man’s eyes slide to you.

"This your lady wife?" he asks, removing his hat as he looks you up and down. His gaze lingers - too long - on the damp cloth still clinging to your skin, the remnants of the storm that rages just beyond the four walls of the parlour house.

Arthur notices.

He coughs, cutting through the growing tension, and flicks his eyes toward you with a silent warning. "Uh… yes," he croaks, the word sounding foreign on his tongue, as if the very idea were a ridiculous lie. "This is Deputy McGregor, honey."

You almost laugh. The way Arthur shifts uncomfortably, the slight scrunch of his nose - he was hating every second of this. But you? You hadn’t run a scheme in a while, but you hadn't forgotten the reason why Dutch recruited you in the first place.

You lean into the role, of Arthur's darling, little wife - flashing the deputy a warm, practiced smile. Oh how you missed the rush of a good con.

"Oh, you can call me Archibald," the man says, offering his hand to shake.

You place your hand in his, soft and delicate, allowing him to clasp it just a bit too long. "Oh, Archibald," you say, tilting your head just so, your tone dipped in the sweetest honey. "I've heard all about you from my husband."

A flush creeps up the deputy’s neck as he turns to Arthur, beaming with an almost boyish giddiness. "You sure got a pretty one, don't you?"

Arthur’s jaw tightens.

The heat of his glare could burn a hole through the man’s skull, but Archibald is oblivious, his eyes back on you, devouring every inch. "Don’t get women like your wife often here in Rhodes," he muses, that hungry stare making your skin crawl, though you keep your expression sweet.

Arthur shifts, his discomfort rolling off him in waves. Then, in a move so sudden it almost startles you, his rough hand slides across the table, closing over yours as if he was making his claim.

“Sure am a lucky bastard,” he says, voice lower now, gritted between his chipped teeth.

Archibald straightens, oblivious or choosing to ignore the sharp threatening edge in Arthur’s tone. "Well," he says, clapping his hands together. "Are you two up for a round-?"

"Sorry, we were just on our way out," Arthur cuts in, already standing up from across the table.

Archibald blinks. "You sure? The round’s on me."

Arthur grips your hand tighter, pulling you gentle but firmly to your feet, his arm sliding around your waist - just to remind Archibald that you weren't his.

"Real kind of you, Archibald," Arthur says voice tense but polite. "Maybe nextime."

Archibald shamelessly checks you out one more time before his eyes meet Arthurs, shaking his head, and returning to the bar.

Arthur shoves your chair in before pulling you toward the swinging doors. The wood creaks as they fly open, and in an instant, the warm glow of the parlour house is swallowed by the raging storm outside.

"Thought we were gonna wait the storm out - " you protest, half-shouting over the wind as he tugs you forward, rain pelting against your skin like tiny needles.

"We'll get a hotel room," Arthur grunts, barely slowing his pace. His grip on your wrist is firm but not rough, just insistent. "Storm’s supposed to last for days anyway, we can see how it is tomorrow."

You huff in protest, but deep down, you know Arthur is right. The storm is relentless, and lingering in the parlour house would have only led to more trouble. Thunder pounds overhead, shaking the very ground beneath your feet as a streak of lightning splits the sky, striking a field in the distance.

Arthur’s pace is brisk, his grip firm as he pulls you through the muddy streets. You stumble slightly, your boots sinking into the wet earth, but he doesn’t slow down. The rain lashes against your skin, soaking through your clothes as you struggle to keep up.

For a fleeting moment, you almost wish you had stayed back - kept playing the part of Arthur’s pretty wife, teasing the deputy just a little longer. You had missed the thrill of the con. But whatever rush had stirred inside of you, clearly hadn't had the same effect on Arthur.

As you near the hotel, the gunslinger finally lets go of your hand, shaking the rain from his hat before stepping inside. The lobby is dimly lit, dry compared to the wetness outside. Behind the desk sits an older woman, her gray, frizzy hair framing her sunken brown eyes. She greets you both with a thin, unfriendly smile.

"You two are lucky," she screeches, peering up at you over the rim of her wire glasses. "I was just about to close for the night."

Arthur reaches into his satchel, pulling out a fistful of bills. "Two rooms," he mutters dully.

The woman adjusts her glasses with a sigh. "Ain’t got but one left." Her gaze shifts between the two of you, judgment flickering in her tired eyes.

Arthur turns to you, his lips pressing into a thin line. He doesn't need to say anything - you already know what he's asking. With a small nod in his direction, you accept the reality of the situation.

"That’s fine," he mumbles, handing over the fistful of bills.

She plucks the last key from the wall behind her, placing it on the counter. "Upstairs. Last door on the left." Her eyes scan over your rain drenched clothes, lips pursing slightly. "For an extra five dollars, I can get you a dry chemise and a union suit for the night."

Without hesitation, Arthur hands her another handful of cash. "That’d be great. Thank you."

The woman disappears briefly, returning with neatly folded garments. As she extinguishes the oil lamp on the desk, you follow Arthur up the mahogany staircase, your fingers trailing along the ornate railing. Your gaze flickers to the paintings lining the walls. One, in particular, catches your eye - a familiar pond in New Hanover. Owanjila. A place you had spent countless summers with your family. A place that now feels like a lifetime ago.

At the end of the hall, Arthur slides the key into the lock, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The room is surprisingly spacious, dimly illuminated by the crackling fire in the hearth.

To your right, the fireplace dominates the space as it towers above a worn bear rug. A painted picture of a small cabin sits between unlit oil lanterns on the mantle and just beyond, a tall bookshelf, packed with dusty novels of all shapes and sizes leans against the wood wall. A rocking chair with a faded green cushion fashioned beside it.

On the opposite side of the room, a large bed sits against the window, overlooking the raging storm outside. The thick red quilt and mound of plush pillows looks inviting. Certainly better than the cots and hard ground you've been sleeping on for the past several years.

Arthur sets his saddlebag down near the bookcase before handing you the chemise. "This looks nice," he murmurs, more to himself than to you as his eyes steady on the bed, and then to the chair.

You nod, accepting the dry fabric. By now, you're soaked to the bone. Staying in these clothes any longer would surely invite sickness. And without a word, you turn your back to him, knowing he's doing the same.

As Arthur tugs off his boots, placing them near the fire, he speaks. "I can take the chair tonight."

It’s the gentlemanly thing to offer. And given the tension that still lingers between you, it’s probably the right thing to do. But as your eyes drift to the bed, you can’t help but think - it would feel too big just for you.

Yet, you say nothing.

With swift motions, you peel off your rain slicked shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin. Your skirt follows, pooling at your feet. It’s not the first time you’ve stripped in Arthur’s presence - but the circumstances are far different this time.

As you pull the soft chemise over your head, the fabric draping over your form, you turn slightly, just in time to catch Arthur struggling with the sleeves of the dark red union suit over his wet skin. His back muscles flex beneath the thin material, every large muscle visible in his frame.

You clear your throat, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Arthur hangs his gambler’s hat on the fireplace, watching you lay your damp clothes before the fire to dry. He does the same, moving absently, his eyes flickering toward you more than once.

Then, finally, he exhales, his hands falling to his sides as he realizes that right now is better than any to address everything that's happened.

"Y’know…" He swallows thickly, his gaze briefly dropping to where the thin fabric of your chemise barely hides the hardened peaks of your nipples. His voice lowering, "I been wantin’ to talk to you. About what happened all those nights ago."

You freeze. The air in the room shifts. Your eyes dart away, your throat tightening. "I -I don’t want to talk about it," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. Heat rises to your cheeks, shame burning through you like wildfire.

"I just wanna say -"

"Drop it, Arthur." The words snap from your lips, sharp and final. A lump forms in your throat, vomit rising in the back of your throat. "It was a mistake. And I’m sorry."

Arthur stiffens, his jaw clenching. "It weren’t no mistake to me." His voice is firm, louder this time.

Before you can react, he takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. His brow furrows, frustration etched into his features, but when his hands reach for yours, he caresses them softly.

Your lips part, confusion flickering across your face.

He sighs, shaking his head. "That night. That night by the water…" He exhales slowly. "I been wantin’ you a long time. And I want you to know that."

Your breath catches.

Did he have any idea how badly he had hurt you? How embarrassed you had felt?

He drags a hand through his damp hair. "But I didn’t want to tell you how I felt when we’d both been drinkin’ like that. Didn’t want you to regret what may have happened when it come morning."

A lump forms in your throat, and before you can stop it, tears spill down your cheeks. You had spent so long buried in anger, in bitterness -but now, all that’s left was the dull sting of sadness.

Arthur watches you carefully. "Didn’t realize how bad I messed up till you were gone," he murmurs. "Then you wouldn’t talk to me after that. And I just-" He shakes his head, his voice breaking ever so slightly. "I can’t stand this no more. You not talkin’ to me. Not trustin’ me." His eyes wide and regrettful, a strange demeanor for a ruffened outlaw like him as his thumbs roam over the backs of your palms. "Livin' in a world where you don't talk to me."

You silently gulp, realizing that in the midst of all this wind, rain, and chaos - his icy blue stare had turned into nothing but two warm pools of water.

"Arthur," your lips finally part, dragging your fingertips against the gritty trail of his freshly cut beard. "I've been real poor to you lately, you don't deserve that."

His eyes shut as he brushes his head against your hand like a cat, revelling in your touch. "I hate not talkin' to you, I hate it," he breathes. "It breaks my heart." The once hard and distant cowboy had turned soft and gentle at your touch, the polar opposite of his usual gruff demeanor and it had warmed your soul.

Now that you knew his rejection was nothing more than a miscommunication, your stomach settled for the first time in forever and the fiery heat that once burned in your chest for him was rekindled.

Your lips moved slowly towards him, closing the distance with a kiss. This time slow, meaningful, and sober. The sour bitterness of the past evaporating off your skin, replaced by nothing but pure need.

You felt seen.

Arthur’s hands comb through your damp hair, his fingers curling around your subtle waves as his lips move over yours, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. You taste sweet, like canned strawberries - as he inhales your scent: cherry blossom and clove.

He only pulls away when he realizes he has you pressed against the bed, pausing just long enough to toss you onto the clean, red quilt before settling beside you. His lips find yours again, doing nothing more than melding with them in slow, deliberate kisses. Through heavy breaths, he manages to murmur, "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

You grin against his mouth. "Sure, Deputy Callahan."

And there it was - that teasing banter that had drawn him to you all those years ago, making its way back into the moment. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Callahan," he playfully responds.

You gently swat his chest before he pulls you in again, this time kissing you with fire and urgency. Your lips dance against each other as your hand finds his, guiding it to your breast - a silent sign that it’s okay to touch you.

Without breaking the kiss, his fingers graze over you, his thumb flicking over your hardened nipple through the thin fabric of your chemise.

It isn't enough.

You drape your leg over his, and in one swift motion, you shift atop him, your chemise pooling at your thighs. Your long hair cascades over one shoulder as your lips stay locked with his, neither of you willing to part.

You feel him hard beneath your hips, his length poking at your core as you revel in his touch.

It was him - it had always been him.

You knew exactly what you wanted. With one swift motion, you pulled your chemise over your head, baring yourself to him once more -this time, sober, and with no doubts.

Arthur broke the kiss for a moment, just to take you in. You sat atop him, straddling his hips in nothing but your slick, damp hair. Lust and love flickering in your eyes, a sight that made his breath hitch.

"S'beautiful," he whispers before grabbing your head, pulling you into another kiss. Then, with a swift movement, he flips you onto your back, his tall, broad frame settling between your bare legs.

Your breaths come heavy, a smile playing at your lips as he practically tears off his union suit, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His gaze roaming over you - first your eyes, then your lips, then lower, taking in every inch of you. He lingers at the soft curves of your breasts, the way they spread slightly in opposite directions. Then lower still, to the thatch of hair resting just above the warmth of your heat.

His eyes feasted on you before he finally leans down, capturing your lips once more, tongue tangling with yours in desperate urgency.

It only takes seconds before you rock your hips up against his hardened length, a silent plea he couldn't ignore.

Arthur looks at you, his elbows resting above your head, his breath warm against your lips. He didn’t need words to understand what you want, but it had been so long since he’d fucked a woman who wasn’t after a few dollars from him that the feeling was almost foreign.

Slowly, he pushed into you, watching the way your lips parted, the way your brows pinched together as he filled you inch by inch.

Tight.

Just how he imagined.

Warm.

Just how he knew it would feel.

Loved.

Just how it should be.

He carved himself between your thighs, stilling for a moment as he buried himself fully inside you. He just watched you, savoring the moment, knowing that every mistake he had made in his past had led him to this - this perfect moment.

And in this moment, nothing in the world could touch the two of you.

"Arthur," you breath shakily, threading your fingers through his still dampened hair. The soft crackle of the fire filling the quiet space between your shared breaths.

"My woman," he murmurs before pulling back, only to sink into you once more.

Again and again, he moved - slow at first, savoring every sensation, then faster as his need overtook him. Your jaw slackens, your breasts moving in rhythm with each deep, deliberate thrust.

Bracing himself on one elbow, his free hand finds the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. He rubs slow, deliberate circles as he drives into you, each stroke deeper, heavier, until all you could do was hold onto him and let the pleasure consume you both.

"I'm gonna-" you gasp, your breath hitching as heat dances deep in your core, the ripening pleasure building under his touch. Arthur's fingers circle over your sensitive nub, pushing you closer, guiding you to the edge.

His blue eyes blur with haze, his mouth parting slightly as he watches you unravel beneath him - your legs trembling, lips quivering, your body utterly lost to the sensation. Only when he’s sure you’ve been properly worked over does he finally let go, spilling himself onto your stomach with a low, guttural moan.

Collapsing beside you, his chest rises and falls in heavy, ragged breaths, sweat glistening on his forehead as the song of flurrying rain and crackling fire play in his ears.

Arthur only pulls you into the crook of his shoulder to fall asleep after working you over three more times - once with the thrust of his hips, and twice with the flick of his tongue.

...

The next morning, you wake to a pleasant ache deep in your core, the soft patter of raindrops drumming against the roof.

You stretch, expecting to find the warmth of a certain outlaw beside you, his naked form tangled up in the sheets. But when you reach out, all you feel is cool, empty linen.

Your stomach twists. You sit up instantly.

No saddlebag. No boots. No clothes drying by the dying embers of last night’s fire. All remenates gone, as if he had faded into thin air.

Panic and sudden regret tighten in your chest - until the door swings open with a gust of cool air, and Arthur steps inside, fully clothed, a saddlebag slung over his shoulder and an apple between his teeth.

"Sorry," he mumbles through the crunch of the fruit, dropping the saddlebag onto the rocking chair. He pulls it from his mouth with a grin. "Tried to get back before you woke, but it took longer than expected for them to heat a bath."

Cheerfully, he sets a small, tied cloth in front of you. "Brought some breakfast."

You unfold the cloth, revealing fresh strawberries, a wedge of cheese, and salted beef. Reaching for a strawberry, you bite into it, its sweet juice dribbling down your chin as Arthur watches you in delight.

"Thank you," you murmur, watching as Arthur strips himself out of his clothes. You half expect him to stay in his union suit, but he shucks that off too, baring himself completely before crawling back into bed beside you, stealing a strawberry for himself.

"The storm doesn't look like it's clearing," he muses, resting his head in your lap. His eyes meeting yours, those familiar blues staring deeply into you soul.

"Went ahead and paid for another night," he adds, a slow, mischievous smile curving his lips. "And if rain means I get to lay naked in here with you all day, I hope the town floods."

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan smut #angst with a happy ending #rdr2 #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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