#arthur morgan fluff | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gullemec · 1 day ago

Text

Cowboy Clean

A Red Dead Redemption One-Shot

main masterlist ao3

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Summary: Arthur Morgan has been a thorn in your side from the moment you met him. Things come to a head when you find out he's decided to treat himself to a deluxe bath in Valentine.

Warnings: rivals to lovers, lots of bickering/banter, reader gets covered in horse shit lol, jealousy/possessiveness, vaginal fingering, brief hand job, unprotected PIV sex, creampie, fluffy fluff

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.9k

A/N: So uhhhh I did this! I have a bunch of ideas percolating for an Arthur Morgan x reader series but that's a long way off and and I couldn't get this scene out of my head. Enjoy!

You scoop a handful of cold river water to your chest, the sting of it smarting like a snakebite against your already chilled body. It washes away the last traces of lye soap, though you’re not sure what’s worse, the stink of sweat and horse dung, or the way this damn water has you shaking like a leaf. Gooseflesh blooms a constellation across your skin, a shiver coursing down your spine as the current tugs at your ankles. The sun’s trying its best, but it’s still late April, and the wind cuts through the cotton of your wet chemise like it ain’t even there.

You can just about hear Miss Grimshaw’s voice now, all iron and vinegar, barking from the top of the hill the moment you make your way back up to camp.

“You fixin’ to catch your death out there?” she’ll snap. “Or are you just plain stupid?”

Probably both, by her standards. Of course, she'd hollered at you just the same when you came slogging into camp earlier, half-covered in horse shit. You reckon she’s gonna have to choose her battles one of these days.

You’d been out hunting with Charles, trying to put some meat on the table for the rest of them sorry bastards, not that anyone seemed to notice, or care. He'd spotted a wild boar off the ridge, and you’d notched your bow in a heartbeat, drawing for a clean shot. But just as you exhaled and your fingers twitched to release the arrow, a damn squirrel went skittering across the trail, spooking your horse.

Freya’s new. Barely saddle-broke and ornery as all hell. You paid too much for her, and you knew it the moment you led her out of that stable in Valentine. But by the time she bucked you off and sent you flying into a heap of her still warm droppings, you were certain of it.

Charles, bless his soul, bit his tongue and helped you to your feet without so much as a snort. The same cannot be said for the rest of the camp. Especially not him .

Arthur Morgan.

That man’s been a burr under your saddle since the day you met, both trying to rob the same stagecoach.

You remember it like it was yesterday. Your shotgun drawn, face half-shaded by a wide-brimmed hat and red bandana pulled up over your nose, the hooves of your horse kicking up dust as you charged after the coach on the road to Emerald Ranch.

You were closing in when another rider came up fast from behind, his horse just a touch quicker, his draw just a little surer. You glanced over your shoulder and met his eyes. Cold blue, sharp as a whetted blade. You both hesitated, long enough to share a breath and a heartbeat. And then the coachman, scared stiff, dove from his seat and hit the dirt.

You didn’t think, you just moved. Leapt from your horse and landed hard on the driver’s bench, barely a second before the man vaulted up beside you.

You spent the next half-mile bickering at each other something awful, shouting over the clatter of wheels and hooves.

“I saw it first!”

“Hell you did, I pulled on the coachman!”

“Don’t matter none. I got on first!”

By the time you realized your horses were long gone and the stage had made it halfway to Emerald Ranch, it was too late to figure who won. All you knew was that you hated him then. You hate him only a little less now.

Eventually, the two of you reached a compromise, if you could even call it that. Neither of you walked away pleased. You split the money clip down the middle, argued over every last coin. The bag of jewelry you divvied up piece by piece, squinting at each item like it might whisper its value if stared at long enough. You got the short end of the stick with the ammo, but figured it wasn’t worth drawing steel over. Besides, you had your pride, and pride don’t need reloadin’.

By the time you trudged back to the spot outside Valentine where your horses were meant to be waiting, only his remained.

That goddamn, good-for-nothing, swaybacked old Thoroughbred. You could’ve screamed. Might’ve, if you weren’t so damn winded from the ride and the day and the company.

You’d spent the last hour wanting to shove his bandana into his smart mouth and shut him the hell up, but to your surprise, he didn’t ride off and leave you stranded. Could’ve. Should’ve, maybe, if he’d had any sense. But instead, Arthur Morgan looked at you all quiet-like, eyes narrowed against the setting sun, then offered his hand like it weren’t nothing.

"Need a lift?"

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, all suspicious, like maybe this was some elaborate scheme to gloat from a better angle. But he didn’t push. Just waited. Eventually you took his hand, scowling all the while, and he helped you onto the back of the old mount like a gentleman might. You felt ridiculous, perched behind him, clutching his coat like some damsel, your pride hitching in your throat.

“You got someplace to be?” he asked after a while, voice low, almost reluctant.

You didn’t. Not really. Not anymore.

“I ride with a gang,” he said. “A group, more like. We move around some. You could stay a day or two, if you wanted. Won’t twist your arm.”

You’d said yes, figuring you’d stay long enough to steal something worth your trouble. Just a few days. A week, tops.

That was months ago.

Arthur Morgan had offered you a lifeline that day. But damn if he wasn’t also a splinter under your nail.

Maybe it was lingering resentment from your initial meeting, both of you too stubborn to admit who had the better claim. . Maybe it was because Dutch and the others took a liking to you faster than they did him on some days, tossing you jobs that might’ve gone his way. Maybe it was the time you dumped a bucket of freezing creek water on his head after he kept you up all night snoring like a dying grizzly the night before a risky holdup.

Or maybe it was just the way things always turned to sparks and spitfire when you were in each other’s orbit for more than five minutes.

Dutch called it friendly competition , like that explained anything.

Hosea just shook his head and muttered that y’all were worse than Sadie and Pearson. And considering Sadie once threatened to scalp Pearson with a fish knife, that said plenty.

But the real nail in the coffin came just this morning.

You came riding back into camp, soaked with sweat, your shirt covered in brown stains thanks to Freya bucking you off of her. Your hair was a frizzy mess beneath your hat, and you smelled like the inside of a stable.

You barely had a foot out of the stirrup before you heard him.

Arthur was leaned up against a barrel near the fire, sharpening his knife and grinning like the devil come to dinner.

“Well, I always knew you was full of shit,” he drawled, voice loud enough to draw half the camp’s attention. “Guess now I know it for sure.”

The laughter that followed echoed like a buckshot.

You were halfway off Freya, shit-streaked and murder-eyed, when Charles stepped in. One arm looped around your middle, lifting you clean off the ground before your knuckles could connect with Arthur’s smug jaw.

“Easy now,” Charles murmured. “Ain’t worth getting blood on your boots.”

You kicked and cursed, and Arthur laughed harder, but you caught the flicker in his eyes when he met yours, something resembling apologetic. Like he knew he’d crossed a line, but couldn’t help stepping over it anyway. Like maybe he liked the look on your face when you were mad, wild-eyed and burning with fire.

You suppose that’s part of the reason you’re down here in this freezing river, scrubbing away the scent of horse and humiliation from your skin, and the memory of his eyes from your mind.

But the water’s cold, the sun’s sinking low, and some things aren’t so easy to scrub out.

Not the dirt.

Not the grudges.

And sure as hell not Arthur Morgan.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Headin’ into Valentine,” Arthur’s voice booms across camp like a gruff church bell, startling you from the cusp of a cat nap. You jerk upright with a grunt, blinking against the brightness bleeding through the canvas of your tent. “Anyone need anythin’?”

You groan and flop back down, curling in tighter against the bedroll. The sun’s baked the canvas just enough to make the little space feel like a warm cocoon, and for a blissful second, you debate pretending you didn’t hear him.

But then, unfortunately, you catch a whiff of yourself.

You wrinkle your nose.

You’d done what you could yesterday. Scrubbed up in the river, fought a losing battle with lye soap and a patch of muddy shoreline. But nature only gets you so far. And you’re starting to smell like Freya after a long ride in the rain.

Valentine has baths. Warm ones. With those fancy, perfumed soaps Twenty-five cents for the kind of luxury that could make a girl feel halfway civilized again. That ain’t pocket change, not when you’d worked damn hard for every dollar you had. But it’s not a crime to treat yourself once in a while, is it?

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you heave a sigh and roll off your bedroll, string of curses muttered under breath as you shove your boots on.

You squint through the midday sun until you spot him, just across the way, pulling a saddle from the side of the wagon that serves as both a wall for his tent and the gang’s general dumping ground. His hat hangs low over his brow, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth like he was born with it there.

“Wait up,” you call, stumbling as your foot catches in the tent flap. “I’m comin’ with ya.”

Arthur doesn’t even turn fully around, just casts a lazy glance over his shoulder and squints. “What business you got in Valentine?”

You roll your eyes and march past him, grabbing Freya’s saddle from where it’s resting near the hitching post. “I could ask you the same, Mr. Morgan.”

“I asked first,” he replies, that damn smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s got a life of its own.

“If you must know, I’m in dire need of a hot bath.” You toss the saddle onto Freya’s back with a dramatic huff. “Some of us like to smell better than Pearson’s two-day-old possum stew once in a while. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

Arthur snorts, adjusting the cinch on his own saddle. “Is that what this is about? You ridin’ all the way into town just to waste money on soap and water?”

You pause to glare at him over Freya’s back. “I ain’t wastin’ it. I’m investin’ in public health.”

“Uh huh.” He squints at you, cocking his head. “Or maybe you’re plannin’ to go courtin’ some poor soul in Valentine. That it?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I ain’t.” You adjust your hat and shoot him a grin that’s all teeth. “Why? You jealous?”

Arthur barks out a laugh, short and sharp. “Of the poor bastard dumb enough to fall for a lady such as yourself?” He pauses. “Assuming I can even call you a lady.”

You haul yourself into the saddle with a grunt, lean forward, and scratch Freya’s ears. “Just for that, Arthur Morgan, I’ll replace your soap with a bar of caked horse shit. See if you even notice the difference.”

He swings up onto his horse with the ease of a man who’s done it a thousand times, shaking his head. “You try that, and I’ll throw you in the river myself. Clothes and all.”

You click your tongue and nudge Freya forward, falling into pace beside him as the two of you ride out of camp. “You’d miss me the moment I was gone,” you say, voice light.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he drawls, but there’s no bite to it. In fact, that shit-eating grin’s been plastered on his face since the moment you came scrambling out of your tent.

You glance sideways at him, watching the way he shakes his head and laughs to himself like he don’t quite know what to make of you half the time. If you had to guess, you might be so bold as to say Arthur Morgan enjoys your company just as much as it irritates him.

And if you had a little whiskey in your belly and the moon was high, you might even admit you feel the same.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The ride into Valentine is as dusty, loud, and as unpleasant as the town itself. Chickens squawk. Mud squelches under wagon wheels. Some poor bastard’s getting screamed at by his wife outside the general store. The whole place smells like manure and moonshine and cheap tobacco.

Arthur reins in his horse outside the hotel and spits into the dirt, scanning the street like he’s already regretting bringing you along.

“Well,” he mutters, climbing down from his saddle. “Here we are. The height of civilization.”

You dismount Freya and toss her reins over the hitching post. “Astute observation, Morgan. Next thing I know, you’ll be makin’ sketches of the saloon piss bucket in that journal of yours.”

He gives you a sidelong look, lip twitching. “Only if you’re the one cleanin’ it out.”

You hum as you dust your trousers off. “Lovely. Maybe I will find someone better suited to my delicate nature while I’m in there.” You gesture toward the hotel. “Someone who smells less like cigarettes and horse sweat.”

Arthur snorts. “Best of luck to you. Now go get your damn bath before you scare the locals off.”

You’re halfway up the hotel steps when you pause, glancing back at him. He’s lighting another cigarette, already looking like he’s halfway to leaving you behind.

“You sure you don’t need a bath yourself?”

“Nah,” he says, taking a drag. “Got a few things to take care of. Heard about a bounty at the Sheriff's. Might visit the gunsmith, maybe the post office.”

You raise a brow. “You writin’ letters now? That’s sweet. Didn’t know you had a pen pal.”

He grins around his cigarette. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

You lean one hip against a porch post and shrug, a smug little smile curling your lips. “And yet you keep lettin’ me accompany you places. Kinda gives the impression you enjoy it.”

Arthur flicks his ash into the dirt and shakes his head, chuckling low under his breath. “Get in there, trouble.”

You tip your hat at him and push the door open, letting it swing shut behind you. The wood creaks under your boots as you cross the lobby, already imagining the feel of hot water and real soap, not the lye-smelling, skin-flaying blocks you’ve been stuck with as of late.

Still, as the hotel clerk hands you a key and points you toward the baths, you find yourself glancing back through the dusty window.

Arthur’s still outside. Still watching.

And when he catches you looking, he tips his hat just so.

Damn him.

You disappear down the hall before he can see you smile.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

This bath is worth every damn cent.

You sink into the water with a hiss, the heat prickling at your skin before settling into something delicious and divine. Your head falls back against the smooth curve of the deep tub, and you let your eyes flutter shut. The smell of campfire smoke and horse sweat linger in your hair, but now the sweet scent of rose and jasmine override them.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet, maybe. Without the constant chaos of living in a camp with twenty-odd other people. Without Arthur's gruff drawl, the barbs he throws your way any chance he gets.

You’d never admit it aloud, not even with a pistol to your head, but you’d spent most of the ride into town studying him. The way his shoulders moved when he rode, one arm slung back like second nature. How his forearms flexed when he adjusted the reins. That deep, lazy drawl of his when he leaned forward on his horse, whispering kindnesses to her.

That’s my girl.

It’s infuriating. The way he can be so damn irritating one moment and then have the gall to go and make flutters erupt in your belly like that.

You huff and dunk your head under the water, the heat blooming against your cheeks, muffling everything. When you resurface, hair slicked back and dripping, you reach for the bar of perfumed soap and lather up your arms.

You scrub harder than you need to.

Arthur Morgan. Thorn in your side, pain in your ass. And yet, somehow, unavoidable. Unignorable. He drives you up the wall but half the time you’d rather he pin you against it.

You shake your head, water flinging from your hair in fat droplets, and mutter under your breath. Get a hold of yourself.

Because it’s just a bath. Just a hot soak and some soap. You’re acting like it’s boiling you til you’re soft, all because the man has nice arms and talks to his horse the way you’d like him to talk to you.

You sink a little deeper, until the water brushes your chin.

… Still, you wonder what he’s doing now.

Probably leaned against the saloon bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, charming some barmaid with that half-smile he thinks makes him irresistible.

That thought shoots irritation through you.

You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You sigh and let yourself sink again, only this time, it’s not to escape the heat. It’s to escape the thought of Arthur Morgan and the way he makes you feel like you're always one step away from either throttling him or kissing him.

The water cools quicker than you’d like, the heat leeching away in slow degrees until you’re forced to admit defeat. With a groan, you climb from the tub, water sluicing off your skin, and wrap yourself in a linen towel that’s coarser than you’d prefer but does the job just fine. You scrub yourself dry, watching the bathwater swirl in lazy circles, now a cloudy shade of brown.

“Twenty-five cents well spent,” you mutter to yourself, smirking as you step back into your clothes. Clean skin under worn fabric is a small luxury in this life, where comforts are few and far between.

You take your time on your way out, fingers trailing along the wood panelling, relishing the way the wooden floor doesn’t kick up dirt beneath your boots like the camp’s packed dirt ground always does. At the front desk, you offer a quiet thank-you to the clerk, prepared to wander the main street of Valentine in search of Arthur, maybe needle him some more if he’s still loitering near the general store.

But then the man behind the desk stops you with a polite smile.

“Oh, if you’re looking for the fella you came in with, he just went in for a bath himself.”

You blink.

And then stare at him like he just told you he had a live rattlesnake wearing a top hat under the desk.

Arthur Morgan? Paying for a hot bath? After all that teasing? All that ribbing about you getting dolled up for some suitor in town? You’d half expected to find him outside rolling around in horse dung just out of spite.

Before you can gather a proper retort, or perhaps go storming down the hallway to wring his smug neck, a soft creak on the stairs turns your head.

She appears like a mirage in the desert.

Rouge on her cheeks, hair curled and piled high, her corset cinched tight enough to give a man ideas. Her chemise hangs off one shoulder, strap slipping in a way that seems both accidental and entirely intentional. She’s soft and sultry, gliding down the stairs like an apparition.

Your mouth goes dry.

The desk clerk straightens a bit, his tone easy. “Hattie. Gentleman in room two. Deluxe.”

She smiles, slow and syrupy, a curl of smoke practically floating in her wake. “Let me have a quick smoke,” she purrs, glancing at you with a wink sharp enough to cut glass. “Then I’ll be right in.”

She turns on her heel and saunters toward the hallway, hips swaying with practiced ease.

You're rooted to the floor.

Your thoughts, however, go flying.

That rotten, no-good, two-faced son of a bitch.

After all that grief, after the wisecracks and smirks, the whole you plannin’ to go courtin’? nonsense, he turns right around and orders himself a deluxe bath with a woman like that waiting on him?

The sheer audacity.

Your ears burn so hot they might catch fire, and you barely register the front desk clerk blinking at you, a little wary now.

“Miss? You all right?”

“No!” you snap, sharper than a pistol crack. “No, I am not .”

And with that, you storm outside, the door slapping shut behind you as you step into the dust and heat of the street, fury rising like smoke from scorched earth.

Arthur Morgan is about to get his damn comeuppance.

You don’t pause to think, don’t stop to weigh propriety or pride. You just follow the scent of tobacco like a bloodhound on the trail, stomping down the narrow alleyway between the hotel and the bank, jaw clenched tight.

And there she is.

Hattie leans against the frame of the hotel’s back door, a cigarette perched daintily between two fingers, lips pursed around it as she puffs. She’s got the look of a woman who’s seen too much and lets even less surprise her, but she startles when she sees you approach..

You draw in a breath, tempering the fury that wants to lash out in all directions. It ain’t her fault she’s the kind of woman men pay to have bathe them.. It ain’t her fault men pay for warmth and softness in bathwater and bed alike. And it sure as hell ain’t her fault that today, of all damn days, Arthur Morgan just so happens to be her customer.

“Hattie,” you say like you’ve known her all your life, your tone smooth as whiskey left too long in the sun. “Enjoyin’ your cigarette?”

She straightens slightly, eyes scanning behind you as though there must be someone else you're talking to.

Then she catches the pistol on your hip, the pants in lieu of a skirt, the storm in your eyes.

“Miss, please,” she says, lifting one hand defensively, “I don’t want no trouble.”

You blink, realizing what she sees. What you must look like right now. Mad enough to spit nails, armed, wild-eyed.

“Oh, Lord no,” you say quickly, raising both hands in mock surrender. “Ain’t here to rob you.”

She softens only a little, still eyeing you like you might go feral at any second. “Alright then… what are you here for?”

You reach into your satchel, fingers brushing over flint, bullets, an old piece of jerky, until you finally fish out your coin purse.

“What’s a deluxe bath cost these days? Extra twenty-five cents?”

“Fifty,” she says, flat as a skillet.

“Good God,” you mutter under your breath, grimacing as you tug the purse open. She shoots you a look. “Not that you ain’t… Not that your services ain’t worth that much.”

She smirks at that.

You hold out a shiny silver dollar, letting it catch the sun between your fingers. “I’ll give you this if you let me go in that room instead. Room two, with the gentleman.”

She cocks her head, narrowing her eyes. “You plannin’ on robbin’ him ?”

You sigh. Lord, you almost wish that were the case. Would be easier than the truth.

“Somethin’ like that.”

She takes one long drag, ash glowing bright, and watches you as she exhales slow and thoughtful. Then she leans forward and plucks the coin from your fingers like she’s done it a thousand times before.

“Second door on the right,” she says, tucking the dollar into her bodice. “Don’t make too much noise, ‘less you want the fella at the front desk pokin’ his nose in.”

You nod, one foot already inside the threshold. “You’re a good woman, Hattie.”

“And you’re a strange one,” she calls after you, her chuckle trailing smoke.

You move through the corridor like a ghost, boots soundless on the wood, heart pounding louder than it ought to. The door looms before you, seeming larger now. Steam curls from beneath it, thick with the fragrant smell of rose and jasmine.

You raise your hand to knock, affecting your best, most sultry voice. “Need some help in there?”

A pause.

Then that voice, deep and unmistakably Arthur. “Come in.”

You turn the knob and step inside.

Steam fills the room like fog on a mountain pass, the glow of a small oil lamp, casting everything in a dim amber haze.

Truth be told, you didn’t have much of a plan. You’d stormed in here thinking about tossing a bucket of ice water in the tub or maybe snatching his clothes and leaving him to drip-dry in shame. But those half-formed ideas vanish the second your eyes land on him.

Because there, sunk low in the tub, arms sprawled along either side like a goddamn painting, is Arthur Morgan.

His head is tilted back, hair slicked down, eyes closed. He looks peaceful more serene than you’ve ever seen him. And damn it, he’s glowing . Skin golden and wet, a few scattered droplets clinging to the scruff on his jaw. You stare. You forget to be angry. You forget how to breathe.

Then his eyes open.

He blinks once, slow, and sits up just a bit. Water laps at his chest.

“What in the hell…”

And just like that, the fire under your ass lights right back up.

“Arthur Morgan, you are a damn liar,” you snap, stepping fully into the room and letting the door shut with a click behind you. “Told me you didn’t want a bath, but that ain’t what I’m seein’.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “What’re you…”

“A deluxe bath, no less! That what brought you to Valentine? Didn’t want me gettin’ one ‘cause you didn’t wanna be caught playin’ cozy with some saloon girl?”

He tuts, jaw already tightening. “Now, how the hell’d you — ”

“I was there , Arthur! Stood right there when she got the order. Gave her a damn dollar to scram.”

That shuts him up. For a beat, anyway. Then his jaw works, and for a second, you think he might smile.

He leans back against the porcelain, eyes tracking over you slow. There’s a glint in them now, not teasing, exactly. It’s warmer than that, more curious. He’s not mad you’re here, just trying to parse why exactly.

“Well,” he says at last, voice thick with steam and something sweeter, “you gonna stand there accusin’ me, or you plannin’ on helpin’ me wash?”

Your breath catches.

The steam clings to your skin, beads at your collarbone. Your shirt's damp at the edges, clinging to your arms. You should turn around. You should . But your feet don’t move.

But there he is, reclining in the tub like some damn river god, lips parted slightly, water beading along the muscled curve of his shoulders, sea blue eyes fixed on you. There was challenge in his voice, sure, but there was something softer too.

“I’d like to get my money’s worth,” he says, softer now. “Reckon you would too.”

As if possessed by the steam and the knowledge that he is naked beneath the cloudy water, you cross the room and kneel beside him.

He shifts, sitting forward just slightly. “Could use a hand with my back.”

And damn you if your heart doesn’t do a little flutter at that.

You reach for the cloth perched on the rim of the tub. Dip it into the water. Your fingers brush the edge of his shoulder as you begin to wash, and you feel it, that sharp little inhale he tries to hide. The tension under his skin.

Warm water runs down the ridges of his back, over scars and sun darkened skin. He exhales, head dropping forward, and for a moment it feels like the world gets very still.

“I didn’t… I didn’t rightly know what I was doin’,” you admit, voice small now, honest. “Just knew I was mad. Came up here all fired up, ready to start somethin’. And then I saw you sittin’ here, lookin’ like that, and…”

You trail off, cloth pausing over his spine.

He turns his head, gaze catching yours. “And?”

You swallow. “And I didn’t want some other woman’s hands on you.”

The shift is instant. His whole expression changes. Softens. Like he’d been waiting for you to say it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe I don’t want that either.”

You scoff, but it comes out breathless. “Right. You paid extra for a deluxe bath ‘cause you didn’t want a woman touchin’ you. Makes perfect sense.”

His gaze flickers away. “I… hurt my back. Been tough reachin’ everything. Wanted to make sure it was done right.”

“Oh.” The irritation slips through your fingers like bathwater.

“Just wanted to smell nice, you know.”

“For who?” you ask, meaning it to sound playful, but it slips out softer than you intended. Barely a tease at all. “Plannin’ on courtin’ someone?”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak for a long beat.

“For you. Wanted to smell nice for you.”

Your chest tightens. A slow, hot ache unfurls deep in your ribs.

You reach out before you even know you’re doing it, brushing damp hair back from his temple. He turns into your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“I think about you all the time, Arthur,” you whisper. “More than I ought to.”

His eyes open. He searches your face, like he’s waiting for you to take it back.

But you don’t.

“Join me?” he asks, voice rough at the edges.

The hot ache in your ribs dives down to your core.

You could make a joke. Could throw up that wall again, tease him about not wanting to dirty yourself soaking in his dirty water. But none of that feels right now, not here, not with him looking at you like that. Like you hung the moon.

You rise slowly, taking a step back from the tub. Your hands go to the buttons of your shirt, and though they tremble, you don’t stop. One by one, you undo them, each one a step closer to something you’ve only let yourself imagine in the quiet of night.

Arthur bows his head, eyes shut tight like if he doesn’t look, he can keep control of himself.

“You don’t have to look away,” you say softly. “I… I want you to look.”

His eyes open, and what you see there undoes you. Like he’s looking at something sacred.

When you slip your trousers off, you swear the air gets thicker. Your chemise clings to your skin, damp from the heat, and when you finally slide it off, there’s nothing between you and him but the steamy distance across the floor.

Bare in body and soul.

You step toward the tub. The water laps at your ankles first, hot and silken, and then you ease down slowly, legs folding to the side so you’re facing him. The tub is small, and your knees touch beneath the water. The heat of him seeps into you like sunlight through your canvas tent.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, just watches you. He looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. His gaze moves slow, respectful, reverent.

Then he lifts a hand, wet and trembling, and cups your cheek with such tenderness it breaks something loose inside you. His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, slow and reverent.

“Let me wash you, too,” he says, voice thick.

You huff a quiet breath, a smile tugging at your lips. “I just had a bath, Arthur.”

“I know,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Ain’t about gettin’ clean.”

You nod once. “I’m yours.”

You know Arthur is not used to being given things without a fight. Not used to things being his. But you figure you’ve given him enough hell at this point. And maybe you’ve been his this whole time, since the day you laid eyes on him from across that damn stagecoach.

Arthur shifts forward slightly, the water sloshing gently around you. His hand slides from your cheek down to the curve of your jaw, then to your neck. His touch is careful, deliberate, like he’s memorizing you one inch at a time.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, like gravel soaked in honey.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you murmur.

He reaches for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and wringing it out slowly. You watch the way his hands move so gently, those rough and capable hands you’ve spent so long admiring wrapped around guns and knives and ropes.The way his chest rises and falls. It stirs something deep and aching in you.

He presses the cloth to your collarbone, dragging it gently across your skin. The heat of it makes you shiver, and his eyes flick to yours, gauging your reaction.

You don’t look away.

He trails the cloth over your shoulder, down the line of your arm, the curve of your elbow. When he reaches your wrist, he turns your hand over and kisses the inside of it, soft and slow.

“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this. Not slow.”

You let your head tilt, watching him. “Then take your time.”

He does.

The cloth moves down your chest, careful, reverent. He doesn’t rush, not even when your breath hitches as he grazes the side of your breast. His hand lingers, trembling just a little, and his thumb moves over to graze across your nipple. You lean into his touch, soft peak pebbling under the pad of this thumb, and into the space between you that’s growing warmer with every breath.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with wonder. “More than I can make sense of.”

He dips the cloth again and brings it to your thigh, dragging it slowly upward. Your legs shift in the water, parting slightly, an invitation unspoken but clear. His hand stills just above your knee, and he looks up at you, gaze searching.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod, your voice barely there. “Please.”

He slides the cloth higher, over your thigh, up the tender inside of it, so slow it makes you ache. You can’t hold back the soft sound that slips from your lips, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back, like he’s barely hanging on.

The cloth slips away, forgotten. He drops it over the edge of the tub, and both hands find your waist, drawing you gently toward him. The water shifts around you as you settle into his lap, straddling him, bare skin against bare skin beneath the surface. He’s warm everywhere, solid, a wall of hard-earned corded muscle beneath you.

You feel him, hard and hot beneath the water, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t grind against you or ask for more. He just holds you there, like this is enough. Like you are enough.

Your hands rise to his face, brushing the wet hair back again. “Arthur…”

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours. “You don’t gotta say nothin’. Just want to touch you. Feel you.”

But you want to say it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whisper. “Wanted you. ”

His breath shudders against your mouth, and then he kisses you.

Arthur Morgan is an outlaw, but when he presses his mouth to yours, you are certain he has only ever known tenderness. You are certain you have only ever known this feeling, of his body entangled with yours in a steaming bath, of being lulled into unreality by steam and the way he touches you.

It’s not hurried. It’s not rough. It’s deep, slow, devastating in the way it unravels you. His lips are soft, tasting of heat and longing. His hands grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself to this moment, like if he lets go, he’ll drown.

You deepen the kiss, one hand slipping to the nape of his neck, the other drifting down, skimming over the swell of his chest. He groans low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through you, and his mouth moves to your jaw, your throat, kissing a line down to your collarbone. Then he’s pulling a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently before turning to give his attention to the other.

“I could die happy right now,” he breathes against your chest, pressing kisses there.

“You’re not gonna die,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. “Not tonight.”

Arthur’s mouth continues to lather both breasts in open mouthed kisses, warm breath ghosting over your skin, and you arch into him, your body asking for more even before your mind catches up.

He groans again, quiet and rough, as if your reaction undoes him.

One of his hands skims up your back, broad and calloused, fingers spreading wide as he holds you close. The other trails lower, slow and steady beneath the waterline, tracing the curve of your hip. His palm slides over the swell of your thigh, and then inward, the pad of his thumb brushing just shy of where you ache for him most.

You gasp softly, breath hitching against his cheek. He stills, giving you space, giving you the chance to stop this, but you don’t want to stop. You need him to keep going.

You tilt your hips slightly in answer, pressing closer, your mouth brushing his ear. “Please, Arthur.”

That word, please , shatters whatever restraint he was clinging to.

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers tentative at first, but guided by your sharp inhale, your body’s silent instructions. He finds you slick, warm, already undone just from being close to him. His mouth finds yours again as he strokes you, slow and patient, like he’s learning every inch of you. Like he wants to remember exactly how to make you come undone so he can do it again and again.

He gathers your wetness on his thumb and guides it up to your clit, rubbing slow and gentle circles. His thick middle finger teases at your entrance, and he pulls back to look you in the eyes as he pushes in. You pout at the intrusion, a low whine escaping your lips. He pumps you a few times before adding another finger, and that’s when he knows he’s hit the sweet spot.

Your head falls to his shoulder, fingers digging into his back as he fucks you on his fingers. The water laps around you both, soft and rhythmic, masking the sounds of your breaths turning ragged, your gasps swallowed into the curve of his neck.

“You feel so good,” he mutters, voice barely audible, thick with awe. “So damn good…”

“Arthur,” you whine into his ear, his name never sounding so pure and yet so filthy. “Don’t stop, please.”

The pressure builds in you quickly, quicker than it ever has when you do this yourself, and in seconds you’re falling over the edge, fingers digging into his back, his name falling from your lips amid a string of muttered curses.

He pulls you back to look at you coming down, admiring his handiwork. He’d look smug if he weren’t so desirous, if his cock wasn’t painfully hard and resting inches from your still fluttering cunt.

Sensing this, you shift in his lap, seeking more of him, the heat between you almost unbearable now. His fingers still at your hip, holding you steady as you guide your hand between your bodies and wrap it around him, thick, hard, pulsing with need.

Arthur’s whole body shudders. His head drops back, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep from losing it right then and there.

“You’re killin’ me, darlin’,” he rasps.

“Then don’t wait,” you whisper. “I don’t want gentle. I want you. All of you.”

He grits his teeth, his hands finding your waist again, gripping tight as he positions himself. You rise up slightly, just enough to line yourself up, and then you sink down, slowly, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep inside you.

A broken sound, your name, slips from his throat, part growl, part prayer, and your head falls forward to rest against his, both of you shivering in the aftermath of your bodies connecting at the root.

He fills you perfectly. The stretch burns deliciously, your bodies slotting together like they were always meant to. Like maybe this was written somewhere in the stars long before you ever crossed paths.

You begin to move first, slow, rocking your hips gently, savoring every drag of friction, every pulse of pleasure that builds in your core. Arthur’s hands roam everywhere, your back, your hips, your breasts, like he can’t decide where to settle because it’s all too much, too good, too real .

His mouth is everywhere too. Your tits, your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your jaw. He murmurs things you can barely make out between gasps.

So beautiful, can’t believe you’re mine, I got you, I got you.

You find a rhythm, the water sloshing gently with each movement, and your bodies fall into a perfect, desperate cadence, like a prayer whispered back and forth, over and over.

When it starts to crest, when the pressure builds and coils tight, you bury your face in his neck, your moan muffled against his skin.

You feel it again, that pressure in your core, the pull that drags you into ecstasy. His cock seated so deep inside you, his mouth lapping at your sensitive nipples, his fingers exploring every inch of you like he can’t possibly have enough of you flooding all of his senses.

He feels it. Feels the way your walls flutter around him, the way your movements stutter. “That’s it,” he groans, hands gripping your hips harder, driving into you deeper now, chasing the edge right behind you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

And you do.

It hits like a wave, sharp, sweet, overwhelming. Your body clenches around him, pleasure sparking down your spine as you cry out his name. He follows a breath later, hips jerking, voice caught in his throat as he spills into you, hands trembling against your skin.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe. The world narrows to the quiet splash of water and the warm weight of his forehead against yours.

Then Arthur lifts a hand to your face again, brushing his knuckles along your cheek.

“You alright?” he asks, voice rough with emotion.

You nod, a dazed little smile curling your lips. “Better than alright.”

He kisses you, slow and deep again, a promise sealed with steam and sweat.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You both linger in the tub longer than any paying customer probably ought to.

The water's gone tepid, but neither of you seem to mind. Your fingers trail idle circles across his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing soothing beneath your palm. His nose brushes yours now and again, lazy little kisses shared between soft smiles.

Eventually, you shift, your legs tangling with his as you rest your chin atop his shoulder. “If we go back to camp now,” you murmur, voice low and drowsy. “We'll wake everyone up ridin’ in.”

Arthur lets out a soft grunt of agreement, nuzzling into your hair before pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then we’ll keep ‘em up all night, too.”

You lift your head, feigning a scandalized gasp. “Arthur Morgan!”

“What?” he says, completely unbothered, though the crooked little grin tugging at his mouth gives him away. “You think I’m lettin’ you crawl back into your tent after that?”

You shake your head, hiding your smile. “What’ll the others say?”

“Don’t much care,” he says, sitting up, groaning as he stretches. “Think we earned a real bed tonight, though. What do you think?”

He climbs out first, grabbing a towel and then another, insisting on drying you off himself, all slow and careful. You dress in his flannel shirt draped over your shoulders, the hem brushing your thighs. Your chemise’s neckline peeks out where you didn’t bother buttoning all the way, your hair still dripping down your back..

You slip out into the hall together, Arthur’s hand low on your back, guiding you toward the front desk. The clerk is still there, chewing on a toothpick and flipping lazily through a tattered newspaper. He glances up as you approach and blinks.

Arthur clears his throat. “We’ll take a room. Just for the night.”

The clerk squints. “Weren’t you just in there for the deluxe bath?”

“Was,” Arthur says evenly. “Now I’m payin’ for a bed.”

The man frowns, glancing toward the back. “Where’s Hattie?”

Arthur raises a brow. “Didn’t need her, turns out.”

The clerk looks between the two of you, taking in the damp hair, the loosely buttoned clothes, the unmistakable glow of two people who just did a whole lot more than bathe. His cheeks redden and he hands over the key without a word.

You make it halfway up the stairs before you bite back a grin.

“So,” you murmur, tossing a glance over your shoulder at Arthur. “How’d you enjoy your deluxe bath?”

He smirks, deadpan. “Bit underwhelmin’. Tub was too small. No champagne. Woman wouldn’t stop talkin’.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder against his as he catches up to you at the top of the stairs.

“Well at least you didn’t have to share it with a cowboy who dirtied your bathwater” you ask, playing along. “Maybe I’d have preferred your woman, seems awful sweet.”

“She was.” He pauses at the door, unlocking it. “Still talkin’ though.”

You scoff as he opens the door for you, stepping inside. “Ass.”

“Your ass,” he shoots back, swatting at your backside as he ushers you inside.

You don’t even make it under the covers before he’s got you in his arms again, falling back into the mattress with a satisfied grunt, taking you right along with him. You’re laughing as he pins you beneath him, one knee nudging your thigh as he brushes your hair off your face.

His gaze flickers lower, down to your collarbone. He dips his head there, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat, then inhales deep like he’s savoring you.

“You smell good,” he mutters against your skin.

You giggle. “Better than horse shit?”

He grins into your neck. “Oh, by miles.”

Then he nips playfully at your collarbone. “Still might have to take you back for another bath tomorrow. Just to be sure.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him closer with a teasing hum. “Well, if that’s the case… I suppose we better go for the deluxe again.”

And from the way he grins down at you, you’re certain he’s already plannin’ on it.

#arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fluff #fanfiction #fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction

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millersdoll · 9 days ago

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the need to be sandwich between them, have their biceps wrap around my neck and lick every inch of their bodies

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zae-heeyyy · 2 days ago

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Assuage

Summary: Arthur helps you relax. Pairing: Arthur Morgan X Female!Reader Word Count: 1,269 Tags: developing relationship, very light angst, fluff, Clemens Point, high honor

an: This was an anon request. Not a lot going on here. Simple and sweet. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!

Assuage: to lessen the intensity of (something that pains or distresses)

Sloshing buckets of water weighed a thousand pounds in your clammy grip as scorching heat spread like a brush fire from your stomach. This pain had been gnawing at you for weeks, and no doctor could give you a precise diagnosis or cure. Rest, eat frequently, avoid alcohol.

They didn’t know the lifestyle of a woman in the Van Der Linde Gang.

Obedience had never come easy, so last night, when Arthur offered you a swig of whiskey, his crooked smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, you couldn’t deny him. The golden liquid stung like hellfire going down. Still, a combination of its intoxicating effects and a new closeness to the cowboy soothed the deep-seated ache in your belly. As moonlight glimmered above the lake, you wiggled your toes in the sand and failed to stifle a yawn.

“Don’t let me keep ya’, Miss.”

“It’s no trouble, Arthur.”

When you shivered, part from the lake breeze and part from discomfort, he opened his arm like a drawbridge, inviting you into the safety of his castle. You scooted in, stiff, but when his hand found your stomach, heavy and warm like a compress, the tension drained like water bled from a moat. You didn’t move for the rest of the night, forged against his iron-like muscle.

Now, the next morning, regret was setting in. The whiskey irritated whatever beast had made its home inside of you, its claws burrowing deep. Trying to stay steady on your feet, you squeezed your eyes shut and froze. But the cramps expanded outward, turning all your muscles into stone. Before you could set them down, the buckets slipped from your fingers and crashed to the ground in a piercing clatter.

Catching the edge of a nearby table, you sucked in air through your nose, puffed out through your mouth, and futilely willed yourself invisible. But your prayers fell on deaf ears because, in another second, a pair of familiar hands sank into the padding of your hips.

“Hey, you alright?”

“M’fine, just spilled some water.”

As you reached for the fallen buckets, the ground came at you fast. Before you ate the dirt, Arthur hauled you backward into his unmoving brick frame.

“Y’shoar as hell don’t look fine.”

“I am, really.”

You tried to meet his unbelieving gaze earnestly, but the color drained from you as bile burned at the back of your throat. Arthur didn’t wait for another fabricated explanation before he dragged you away to the shade of his tent, grumbling.

“Can’t be pushing yerself so hard, woman. You crazy?”

His palms clasped firmly onto your shoulders, silently commanding you to stay put as he stepped away. You sank into the fluffy cloud that was his pillow, but it brought you little comfort as you drifted aimlessly through the storm of your pain.

His voice rumbled from the sky of the phantasmagoria you were lost in, and your mind followed the sound back to the waking world.

“You still alive?”

You whimpered in acknowledgment, and your eyes fluttered open to find him watching you.

“There she is.” His lips formed into a soft curve as he caressed your forehead with his knuckles. “You jus’ relax. I’m gonna go talk to Dutch and keep Miss Grimshaw off your heels. Don’t go anywhere, now.”

Your mouth parted as you tried to sit up, but he raised a brow and raised a finger, shushing you. Defeated, you swallowed and sank back down, staring up at the canvas of the tent and folding your hands over the source of your affliction.

Time dawdled on when you were sitting still. If only some mad scientist could invent a machine that took pictures of your insides, you could finally figure out what was wrong with you and fix it. Having folks, especially Arthur, fuss over you sat almost as heavy as the pain. Yeah, you’d rest, you told yourself—just until Arthur returned. Then you’d get back to it.

And when he ducked back into the tent, you tried to swing your legs over the cot, but he caught your ankle and settled it into his lap as he sank at the foot of the bed. With a sharp glance, he tugged at the shoestring of your boot.

“Spoke to Dutch. You’re on bedrest for the next few days.”

“But—”

With a swift pull, he removed the boot and dropped it to the ground.

“Don’t wanna hear it.”

A silent joust between your leg and Arthur’s grip ensued, and you lost quickly, pouting in your defeat.

“Arthur, I can’t just lay here. I have to—”

“Quit yer yappin,’ and let somebody help you for a change.”

Your other boot hit the ground, and he tucked your feet back together with assertive force, glaring at you.

“Whatever happened to a woman listening to her man?”

Your heart burst against your ribs, and oxygen fled from your brain, leaving you dizzy and wordless.

“Mmm,” he hummed in amusement. “That finally shut you up? Thought I was gonna have t’climb up there.”

When you still didn’t say anything, only gawked at him, his hand shot to the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“M’sorry, I just thought that we—the past few weeks—I should’ve—”

Even though the contraction of your muscles made the sore spot in your abdomen ache evermore, you managed to choke out a laugh. “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan, a sweet, sweet fool.”

As his smile returned, his shoulders relaxed, and he rolled his eyes playfully.

“I can get behind the fool part, but I don’t know too much about bein’ sweet.”

You wanted to laugh again, but your amusement was short-lived. You hugged your arms around your midsection, frown etched deep.

“You gone to a doctor ’bout that, yet?”

Arthur had noticed, after all, despite your best efforts to hide it from him, and you hated it— hated being another burden for him to carry on his shoulders with the rest of the world. And like he was reading your mind, he rubbed your leg reassuringly.

“You ain’t easy t’ignore. Not t’me.”

“Guess I ain’t doing a good job of hiding it.”

He shook his head and put his hand over yours on your belly.

“Don’t gotta hide anything from me, darlin. Ain’t got much, and I ain’t no doctor, but whatever you need, jus’ say the word.”

But that was just the thing—you didn’t want to say it—that you wanted to take him up on his offer to climb in bed with you. But the fear of missing the opportunity overpowered your fear of rejection.

“Stay, please? Just for a little while.”

Your heart plummeted when his hand left yours, but you watched as he took off his boots and joined you in the cot. He spooned you, both of you turning on your side, him rubbing soothing circles on your center.

“That help?”

Truthfully, it didn’t make the hurt go away, but you nodded anyway because another feeling, solace, was slowly forming beside it. You shifted to face him, using your arm to support your head.

“What?”

“Your woman,” you smiled, and he brushed your hair out of your face.

“If that’s alright wi’you, miss.”

Your eyes trailed down to his lips, and you closed the gap between you. He cupped your cheek as your lips moved in sync with each other. Sharp pain nagged at your insides, but his presence alone brought a semblance of peace to your tumultuous mind. You supposed you could spend the rest of the day like this, wrapped up in the cowboy. Dutch’s orders didn’t sound so terrible, after all.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 community #rdr2 photography #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 arthur #zaefic

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lonesomedovescry · 3 months ago

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somewhere out there, a universe where arthur didn’t die alone, bruised, battered and sick on a mountainside, exists in the crook of the northern star.

in this universe, he dies old and half deaf. years of unprotected gunfire and explosions had a tendency to kill the nerves in your ears. he dies with aching joints and sun-spotted skin, and blessedly, to the sound of you humming as you stroked the scar on his chin with the pad of your wrinkled thumb. you were nestled against him in bed, sharing the warmth of your old body and his old body and making a den of heat beneath the quilt of your shared bed.

he had been staring down at you and admiring the way the sun dappled the roots of your hair and the way your lashes brushed against your skin. even with the grooves of life upon your flesh you were the most beautiful thing he had seen.

“your name is carved in my ribs.” he had said to you quietly, breath heavy and hard to lift. “i was born to love you.”

you tilted your head up to look at him. an unspoken question welled up in your eyes with crystalline tears. as he squeezed you against him with the strength of the arm he had wrapped around your waist to give you a kiss on your forehead, you knew.

what a beautiful life you had together. through the shelling of the band and Dutch’s betrayal it had always been the both of you. you made a life beneath the wood in the homelands of Rain Falls, who had passed years before. children came and went, and so did grandchildren — who often pulled from Arthur the richest laughs you’ve ever heard.

you leaned up and kissed his jaw, his eyes, the apple of his throat. through each you whispered words of gratitude. words of love. words of promises.

“ill find you, morgan.” You said cloyingly, your voice wavering. “you’re not so clever as to hide from me.”

and you hummed, and sang quietly under your breath. and when his chest finally stopped rising and falling and the strong heart ceased, you knew you were to follow soon after.

#rdr2 fluff #rdr2 angst #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan angst

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cherryblossom-enthusiast · 9 months ago

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Unrequited (Arthur Morganxf! Reader) - RDR2

A/N: Whoever decided that there could be a button where Arthur Morgan says "good girl" how ever many times you want, I hope both sides of your pillow are cold.

Synopsis: Arthur loved Mary, didn't he? So, why was it he was spouting all this nonesense about loving you?

Warning/ Tags: Angst. But like SO MUCH FLUFF. Allusions to Sex. Mentions of violence. Coarse language. Kissing. Hurt/ Comfort. Angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 6.1K

Masterlist

Even now, Arthur Morgan was a lovesick fool for Mary Linton.

You shouldn’t have been surprised; you weren’t really. Arthur doesn’t talk about her much anymore, but you’d known him long enough to see he’d never really let that part of himself go. The part of him that loves. That dreams of something better for himself even if he thinks he’s the big, bad, scary man that he is.

And maybe in some aspect, he is that man.

Threatening, bartering, killing. Sometimes you look into his eyes and see nothing but a hard, desolate exterior that wouldn’t think twice about shooting anybody up so long as Dutch told him to do it. But the reality Arthur Morgan doesn’t want to accept is that there’s goodness hiding within the moulding of a gunslinger enforcer.

You can glimpse that goodness when he helps a woman on the road or gives medicine to a man dying from snake poison, and you can especially see it when he’s hauling his ass on his horse to help Mary even when he’s being pulled left and right to finish errands for the camp.

So no, you shouldn’t have been surprised that Arthur would ride out the earliest he could to help his past lover.

But hell, why did it have to hurt you every damn time?

He returns to camp just after the sun rises and light starts to colour the world around you. The air is still crisp, and the heat of the sun is non-existent on your skin. You’re brushing your horse’s mane when you hear the familiar holler of his voice towards Bill. You don’t look towards him as his horse trots towards the hitching post.

As he dismounts, he greets you, a little pep in the tone of his voice.

It irritates you immediately.

“Mornin’.”

You grit your teeth and put on the brightest smile you can muster. “Mornin’!”

He takes a moment. His eyebrows crease. “Something matter?”

“Uh-?”

“Nothing it’s just-“ he breaks to think about the right words to say. “You don’t look- Never mind.”

This only encourages you to grow your façade stronger. “So,” you start “what’d Mary need this time?” It comes off a little pettier than you intended it to be. He doesn’t deserve that, hell, Mary didn’t deserve your bitterness either, fine woman she was.

That little fact seemed inconsequential however every time he uttered her name and the familiar feeling of jealousy pricked, downright stabbed itself in your gut.

He picks up on your tone, not appreciating it one bit. The displeasure that carves into his expression almost makes you wince and the fake smile that’s plastered on your face twitches the slightest bit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You take the coward’s way out, you always do.

You break eye contact and continue to brush away the embarrasment. You’re rewarded by a loving whinny and it almost distracts you from the ice-cold awkwardness you’ve built around this conversation. “Nothin’, just asking.”

Whether he believes your fib or doesn’t, he doesn’t let it show. But him moving on has you thanking God regardless. He takes out a brush, starting to work on his own mare’s mane. “Good girl.” He whispers. Warmth creeps up your neck as your ears tingle towards the baritone timber of his voice. It makes you lose all self-respect for yourself. He sneaks a look at you for the tiniest bit of time before continuing your conversation. “Her brother was involved in some weird religious group.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep,” he sighs “buncha turtle lovers.”

That gets a genuine chuckle out of you even though you don’t understand it. When you glance towards Arthur’s direction, the indifference has faded away from his features and all that’s left is a sarcastic smirk in its place. All frost has melted away and all too quickly you’re back to the ease that usually came with your dynamic.

You can’t help but throw a snide joke his way. “Gosh, if you’re still this involved in their family drama, you should just make it official and propose again.”

The idea haunts you, of course, it does. But you weren’t going to let Arthur know that. The more you joke, the more it becomes real, the more your true feelings become buried underneath a pile of age-old lies and supportive nonsense. Because at the end of the day, if it would make Arthur happy, you’d keep biting your lip and pushing him towards that happiness.

Love worked funny like that.

His smirk falls and you’re worried you pushed it a tad bit too far. “I tried once and I don’t know if it’ll ever happen.” He turns almost sombre, like thinking back on old memories that were equal parts sweet and bitter and this bothers you in a different way.

“I sincerely think if you were to propose to her right now, she’d say yes with no questions asked.” You hope he sees the genuineness in your intentions.

He merely gives you a scoff, slightly shaking his head. “Yeah well,” he trails off. “It’d never work out now.”

You decide not to continue pushing. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to dig deeper into the situation and even in your sorry narrow-minded state, you could understand and respect keeping your mouth shut when you needed to. You lick your lips and stick another sickly-sweet smile to your face. “Well, you continue on moping, but I can’t say I’ll be sticking around to see you grumbling around.”

That gets him to snort. “And where will the rough and tough princess be today? Helping a rabbit off the road? Wait-“ he pauses for dramatic effect “Talking to the birds and singing em’ a song?” He makes himself chortle quietly at the idea.

“I have a date.”

That gets him to stop cold turkey. He’s only met with a smug appearance on your end. “You?”

You fake great offence and snap at him. “Hey! Even I can seduce someone if I try!”

“No, I know- I” He appears shaken up about your revelation and for a moment, the tiniest fraction of a second, you could almost see the tensing of his jaw. “With who?”

It’s your turn to leer at him. “Why’s it matter?”

“It doesn’t I-“ he stutters “I just-“

You raise an eyebrow. “Well if you must know, he works at the hardware store.” You say as you recall the day you met the gentleman. “I helped him carry out some tasks and he gave me a daffodil in exchange, of all things.” You pointed at the flower currently tucked in the band of your hat. “Cutest thing.”

“Is that right?” He gruffed out.

“Mhm, so I’m gonna escort him and his granddaughter to a birthday party out in Strawberry.” You giggle. “He said he needed a ‘fighter’ with him because of his ‘old bones’ and ‘lumbago’” You roll your eyes. “Sounds like Uncle.”

This seems to take Arthur by surprise. The dark clouds in his eyes clear out and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Wha-?”

You bite your lip to keep your internal laughter from spilling. “Listen, I offered.” You explain. “He’s been giving me discounts at the store and that girl is just the sweetest thing and well-“ you shrug, “I couldn’t say no like the goddamn softie I am.”

The blades in his eyes dull at the statement. The mysterious scrunch of his shoulders from earlier disappears. He steps away from his horse and walks around his mare to shorten the gap between the two of you. It reminds you that he’s tall, much bigger than you are. “That bleedin’ heart of yours is gonna get you killed one day.”

He mutters his words lightly and yet, there’s some odd sadness you don’t understand attached to it. He puckers his lips as if he wants to say more on the matter yet can’t.

You put on your best Arthur impression, puffing up your chest and scrunching your face. “Well, somehow this don’t suit me, now does it?”

He wouldn’t even have to touch you.

At that, Arthur chuckles deeply. “Nah, you obviously ain’t tall enough to be me, shortcake.” He jabs you playfully at the shoulder and in response, you over-exaggerate the motion of being pushed back.

Though, if he really wanted to, Arthur could have you on your back in less than a second.

Before you can go further down that rabbit hole of thoughts, you carry on with the train of humour. “Besides, heard from Jerry there’ll be plenty of cute fellas around to keep me entertained.”

The clouds start to roll back in his demeanour, dare you say with a touch of thunder this time. “You gonna be looking at other men?” The lightness in his voice is gone, only replaced with the venom from before.

You’re befuddled at the quick-changing atmosphere, but don’t go back on what you said. “All I’ve got to look at are you folks all day,” you quip “A girl needs a change of scenery every once in a while.”

He crosses his arms, clearly not amused. “We not pretty enough for you?”

“Well, you are certainly, but I don’t know about Pearson.”

You purse your lips immediately and silently curse yourself at the admission. That same old shit-eating grin makes a comeback. “Is that right?”

You push his arm back, but unlike him, you hardly get the man to move more than half an inch. “Oh shut it.” You quickly un-hitch your horse and mount her. All you want to do is wipe his lips so it turns back into his usual frown, but you’re afraid you’d just embarrass yourself further. “I won’t be back for a while.” You pull your horse away and pat her on the side. “Didn’t know children’s birthday parties could take so damn long.”

“How long will you be gone for?” He mumbles, voice noticeably quieter.

“However long it takes for a fella to get me off.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. The sun highlights the tips of his ears go red. “Wha- What?” He strained out like he wasn’t quite sure of what he just heard.

A real, true laugh comes out of you then as you spur your horse into action, cantering away from camp. You don’t wait to hear the rest of what he has to say. His flushed look is enough of a prize to take with you.

You replay it all the way to Strawberry.

------------------

It was well past sundown when you return. Truthfully, you don’t even know what time it is, all you knew was that you were gone long enough that laying down on your cot would be much appreciated by your aching muscles. There’s a light breeze and you take your hat off, shaking out your hair.

The party was a success. Jerry and his granddaughter got to and from Strawberry safely, and really, that was all you could wish for when you were being hunted constantly because of the bounty on your head. You knew you offered, hell you were pretty self-approving when you did. But even then, you made sure to ask if Jerry really wanted a gunslinger as an escort, to which he replied, “Oh, shove it.”

Wonderful man.

The rest of the camp, well those that were here anyways, aside from Bill who was back on guard duty, are already fast asleep. The crackle of the fire is the only sound filling your ears other than your own footsteps.

There’s a small oil lamp turned on in the corner of your vision, brightening the blue hue and you instantly know the only bastard who would be up at this hour.

He’s drawing again. His brows are focused in that way you loved so much and he only looks up from his journal once you amble closer towards him. You almost hate that you’ve disrupted him. You could watch him draw for hours and hardly get bored.

He closes the book and looks up at you. You nod towards his hands. “You’ll have to show me what you’re working on at some point, Picasso.”

Arthur lets a huff through his nose. “Not gonna happen.” He motions you to sit beside him and you take him up on his offer. You catch a whiff of his scent, something like tobacco mixed with old leather. It may have been slightly repulsive to anyone else, but this was Arthur, and all it made you feel was safe. “You was gone a long time.” He points out, a bitter tinge to his voice. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your head at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “You just went off and didn’t come back until now.” The bitter tinge morphs into something like annoyance. “I was worried.” He mumbles low.

“Oh, I was fine.” You bump your shoulder against his, but it again, doesn’t make him sway. “Besides, I had a fella with me.”

His hand, the one closest to you, balls up at his side. He’s always been hard to read, but he clearly isn't happy at your revelation. You had half a mind in this late hour to stew in that fact. “Did you now?”

“Sure, one of them single fathers.” You let a small laugh escape you and shake your head, kicking the dirt with your worn-out boots. “Don’t worry, I’d never steal one from a married woman.”

“Was he…cute?” He mutters.

“Never thought I’d hear the word ‘cute’ come out of Arthur Morgan’s mouth.” You catch a glimpse towards him and again note the same pink twinge on his ears, probably embarrassed at being called out on something so stupid.

You finally start to feel that familiar flutter in your stomach hidden behind all that supportive “do what makes you happy nonsense”.

No, you couldn’t have that.

So, you bury it down.

It just became easier that way after all these years.

“That ain’t the damn point.” He continues to grumble. “Was he?”

You ponder the question for a short while. “I mean, he was alright in the looks department, not cute-“

He cuts you off quickly. “Just alright?” He scoffs lightly.

You remember the aforementioned single father in question. His looks are the last thing on your mind. He was alright, not cute, not ugly. Sure, you wouldn’t want to sleep with the man, but-

“He was damn good with his kid, and I thought I’d like to get to know someone like that more.” You reveal through a whisper.

This causes Arthur to frown, but his expression softens. Some of that constant bitterness fades away. “You- “he cuts off and thickly swallows. “You weren’t doing anything strange were you?”

You can feel a prickle of heat in your face at the question. “I mean, we talked sure, but if anything, I just maybe wanted to indulge in a fantasy.” You shrug.

He snaps his gaze back towards you. “A fantasy?”

“What it’d be like-“

God, why was it so hard to say? “Being normal, having a family.”

The silence that follows is thick and you immediately scold yourself for ruining a perfectly airy conversation just like this morning. You regret it, you do, but you can’t deny how nice it is to finally get that dream off your chest. It wasn’t original, what woman at camp, save Mrs. Adler, didn’t want that stability?

The feeling of riding was freeing. It gave you the grace of flying during a time when you were being held down and that will never change. But nowadays, you find that instead of being held down, you want to be held close. To be called important, matter to someone, so that when you felt lost soaring, you’d always have a beacon home.

“Damn it, you can’t be sayin’ things like that.” He forces out a murmur, a shred of his usual gruff tone.

“You ever think about that?” You tread lightly. “Having kids? Building a farm out somewhere and just-“ a deep sigh escapes you. “living and not surviving?”

It takes him a while to answer your question.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.” The vulnerability colors his voice and it starts to trip you over the edge.

You nod, pursing your lips. “With Mary?” You meekly ask, the crickets chirping making the exchange more awkward. You almost cringe at the silence of it all.

He tenses at her name and it seems like you get your answer.

“With Mary? I mean-“ He tries to dissuade you with absolutely no conviction in his voice. He pauses and curses under his breath. Arthur shakes his head, closing his eyes a moment. “Y’know, it ain’t always about Mary.”

You scoff in disbelief. “Arthur, it’s always been about Mary.” Sighing deeply, you bite your cheek at the acidic truth. “Even when you met Eliza, it was still about Mary.”

He’s taken aback by your statement and a subtle look of frustration overcomes his features. “No, it hasn’t.”

You want to say more, but your sardonic nature halts at his stoic reply. It’s like your heart stops, a coldness and a shrill wake your senses from the inside out. “What?” Your brain halts, all thought ceasing to exist except to process his next response. He tries to avoid eye contact, but you seek his gaze as you tilt your head sideways. “Arthur, what do you mean?” You repeat more sternly, begging to get a straight answer.

He throws you a stick of dynamite.

The smoke clears and all that’s left is the destruction that caters right in the center of your chest.

“What about you?” His voice is hoarse like this is the most difficult thing he’s ever had to squeeze out of his mouth. “What about when it became you?”

Ka-boom.

There’s no longer just a flutter in your stomach, there’s a whole damn circus, and it decides to release the butterflies you worked so hard to keep from their magical chest of caution.

You shake your head and your body goes rigid. You move away from him and stand abruptly as you place your hands on your hips. He’s quick to follow you on your feet. A sarcastic laugh leaves your throat before you can stop yourself. “Arthur-“

“No, let me finish.” He steps in front of you and holds your shoulders square, turning your body towards him. Even in your bubbling anger, you hate the way your skin immediately melts under his touch. His eyes and actions are pleading for you to stay, so you let him speak, biting your tongue to keep yourself from interrupting. He stumbles over his words. “It’s been you for a long damn time.” He admits. “But I was, I don’t know-“You notice the light sheen of sweat gracing his forehead. “I was scared to say something.”

“If this is some dumb joke-“

“No!” He immediately denies like he’s appalled you would even think of it in that way.

“Well,” you sneer “I’m sorry if I have a hard time believing that.” You remove his hands from your shoulders stiffly and start to trudge away back to your horse.

In the years you’d known him, Arthur had been a force, even more so when he was younger and reckless. He was stubborn as a mule and despite keeping the peace for the most part, there was a strut in his step when he walked because he knew he had the power to change that fact whenever he wanted and get away scotch-free. Arthur was arrogant in that way, always threatening people with a smirk or an edge to his voice.

But this is the first time you see him flinch and it happens to be at your curt words.

A lump catches in your throat, but you’re too annoyed to care, all but continuing the short distance back to the hitching posts. Arthur is hot on your tracks, not letting up one bit. Maybe Bill was overhearing, maybe one of the girls stirred awake. It didn’t matter, you couldn’t care less. You just wanted to get the hell away from here.

His catches up to you in no time, his strides much longer than yours. He steps in front of your path and when you make a move to step aside, he mirrors your actions. You click your tongue, glowering at him from beneath your lashes. “Look,” he starts “now I know you may not like me, but I-“

That gets your anger rising to incomparable heights. “Not like you?!” You practically shout out. Looking around, you remember where you are and it’s the only reason your voice lowers. “Arthur, I’ve liked you since the day I met you!”

His eyebrows pull together and his nose crinkles. Arthur’s face morphs into something like agitation from its previous confusion. “So, why all this attitude?”

You’re dejected. “Why all this attitude?” You softly hiss. “Why all this attitude when I’ve loved you for years and all I’ve heard about is Mary?”

Arthur winces. He steps back from you, recoiling like he’s just been shot by a sniper rifle.

Good, you think. He should feel like a right asshole.

“’Why all this attitude’ he says!” You giggle manically at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. “Where do I even start?” You begin to rant, hands back on your hips to give you some sort of anchor from sinking towards the ground. “I don’t know Arthur, maybe it’s because while I’ve been here stewing in self-pity, you were always out seeing her. Maybe, it’s because every time you were young, drunk, and broken, you’d come back whispering her name, mistaking her for me, and I was the one helping you pick up the pieces.”

Your heart was racing a million yards a minute, but you couldn’t stop now. All the hurt and sorry baggage poured out like molten lava, burning with years of intensity. “Or maybe-“ you point an index finger at him and snap sarcastically as if you’ve just discovered a newfound truth “Maybe, it was because I worked so damn hard to tell myself I wasn’t in love with you and you just-“ your voice breaks.

Arthur doesn’t interrupt you at any part of your monologuing. Just like usual, you can hardly decipher his emotions except notice the colour draining from his face.

“So, I’m sorry that I don’t believe you when you say It’s been me.” You continue. “You’ve given me no reason to believe otherwise.”

You sidestep him, not taking a single look back in fear of him seeing the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You unhitch your horse, giving her a slight pat before mounting her again.

- - - - - - - - - - -

You don’t see or speak to Arthur for a few days after your argument.

You don’t have much energy to talk to anyone really.

So, you somehow end up back at a familiar field surrounded by evergreen trees and flowers. The crystalline water of the hot springs gleams in your eyes and a chill wind sends shivers up your spine.

You set up camp and stay a while. The serenity of the woods is welcomed. You don’t consider yourself the best hunter, but fishing didn’t require the same amount of dexterity. It's quiet, peaceful even. All you hear is the chirp of the birds and the steady flow of water.

It gives you time to cool off, reflect on everything that’s happened.

The more time you spend out here, the more hesitant you are to leave. It's a nice reprieve from the perils of civilization and you find yourself slipping away, trying to grasp a sense of comfort that's unimaginable for you most days.

Tends to happen when you're an outlaw, you suppose.

But one day, as you’re laying under the shade of a tree, feeling the blades of soft grass beneath you, you hear heavy footsteps starting to approach.

There's no need to bother even acting surprised.

Arthur takes a seat beside you with a deep sigh. He leans back, using his hands to support him.

The both of you are silent for a while, not one peep out of your mouths. You expect it to be uncomfortable but having him by your side brings an ease you haven’t felt in days. Arthur continues to stare up at the sun starting to descend in the horizon and you follow suit, eyes trained to the sky above.

“When I met you, I thought you were nothing more than a naïve, innocent little thing.” He starts, baritone drawl catching you off guard. You don’t realize how much you’d missed hearing it until now. “You were this small girl I needed to protect. “

You glance towards him and notice the small smile now gracing his lips, his eyes glossed over like remembering memories from so very long ago. “You could barely ride a horse, hell, you could barely mount one.”

The genuine warmth in his voice continues to chip away any frustrations left within you as you recall those days like snapshots in your mind.

“Every day, it was something new with you.” He laughs out, making your heart traitorously skip a beat. “You were learning the ropes of it all, and for a while, you were just a ratty brat who wanted to try on boots that were too big for her.” He pauses and you look at him more clearly this time, head turned towards him fully in an effort to really listen to what he has to say. “But Mary, she-“ he swallows “I could just turn my thoughts off with her.”

He gives out another sigh. “I loved her, I did.” He admits. “It was so easy loving her at the time. We had no expectations of one another, and then all of a sudden that shifted and I don’t know if I could have been the man she needed me to be.”

You ache but it’s not because he mentions his past lover’s name.

“So I ended up actin’ like a goddamn fool. Boozin’, sleeping around.” He groans, obviously not proud of his previous ventures. “Dutch and Hosea, they couldn’t pull me out of it. I mean, they tried everything, but then-“ He releases a relieved chuckle. “Some woman I’d never met before poured a bucket of cold water over my head and pulled out her revolver, threatening to shoot my dumb ass if I didn’t get up.”

You snort as you’re reminded of that day.

It was dry and humid, overall making it a miserable summer afternoon. Arthur stumbled back into camp smelling like he was doused in moonshine, groggy and slurring his words together. Even Hosea, forgiving as he was, cringed at his sorry state.

You just about had it.

After collecting some from the nearby stream, you pushed Arthur down and doused him in ice-cold water. He sputtered, clearly not happy about what you just did and attempted to get up to confront you. You pulled out your gun before he could and shot right between his legs onto the dirt below. “If you don’t pull your damn weight around here, I’ll make sure the next shot hits!” you shouted, utterly disappointed.

“Good times.” You mutter and Arthur’s smile widens.

“Sure.” He agreed. “When my eyes started to clear, I swear to god I thought I was looking at an angel.”

You had a hard time believing that too. “You looked at a woman who just shot at you and thought she was angelic?”

He tries to find better words. “I guess you looked ethereal all together.” He tries to explain. “Like you were something I’d see at the pearly white gates of judgement.”

You sat amused at his thoughts. “That so?”

He’s finally able to make eye contact with you and revels in that fact. “My vision was still a little hazy and you just stood over me, posture straight, hat on.” He takes his hand and scratches his chin. It’s a tick for when he’s nervous. “Your hair had a glow to it from the sun and your eyes, they just- had this fire in em’ I’d never seen before.”

His shoulders drop and the mood suddenly turns mellow. “When we were ridin’ around and ended up at this clearin’, you just took off without me and I realized how much you’d grown into yourself right under my nose. You didn’t change much, you were still the same old, sunshine, animal-lovin’ princess, but the way you carried yourself? Asserted yourself more? God-.”

He holds your gaze as he continues and it’s like the world holds its breath for whatever he has to say next. “You rode off, hair wild, not looking back at me one bit and I just couldn’t stop starin’ at you because I thought you were such a damn sight.”

“It made me wonder-“ his words trail off. He stops for a while and you let him. You know how much courage it was taking him right now to admit this to you, letting down those guarded stone walls he loved so much.

You lick your lips, and in an act of your own bravery, you settle your hand on top of his, to which he visibly softens upon. “Made you wonder?” You urge.

“If that’s what Mary felt like, seeing me go all those times.” He finishes. “Because I hated it. I hated every time you got on that horse and left, and it would only hurt less whenever you came back.”

Arthur’s hand starts to clench, but you flip his hand in yours so you can interlock your fingers properly. You give his hand a squeeze and the tension eases off.

“But then I hear you wantin’ to go off with some man and all I could do was mope like a sorry idiot because what if-“ His throat works. “What if you rode off and didn’t come back this time?”

“Oh, Arthur.” You softly coo.

His hand starts to make small slow circles over your hands. “You know I realized something when I last saw Mary that I didn’t before.”

You’re expectant to hear what it is.

“Every time it got a little too rough between us, she was done with me.” He perceived. “I don’t blame her, she deserves someone to make her happy, but I wasn’t gonna change fast enough in her eyes.” He squeezes your hand tighter. “But you- you didn’t expect me to change on a dime. You were patient, you understood that I didn’t want to start a family not because I didn’t want to, but because I was afraid of feeling that pain again.”

After clenching his jaw, he takes his other palm and cups your cheek with the utmost tenderness a man of his size could muster. “With you, I feel like I can be something else, something good.” You lean towards his touch, begging that if this were a dream, you never wanted to be woken up. His gaze is soft on your features, highlighted by the starlight above.

“I fell in love with you a long time ago Arthur Morgan.” You confess. “I keep running away because no one holds me close enough to keep me somewhere.”

You feel a lump in your throat as you remember all the times you rode off wanting to hear him shout "Wait!", but he never did.

“I know and I’m sorry for that sweetheart, I really am.”

Tears start to escape your eyes and you don’t bother wiping them away. “Loving you hurt so much Arthur.” You whimper. “I started to pack all of those feelings away if it meant I didn’t have to ruin what we already had.”

He presses his rough lips to your forehead and leans back. “I know sweetheart, I’m sorry.” He tilts your chin up with a finger. “If I could go back and change the way I handled it all, I would.”

“Give me something to believe that this is real. That I’m not just making this up in my misery.”

Arthur takes a moment to look at you before he speaks. He takes the time to figure out how he’s supposed to approach what he wanted to convey “Close your eyes for just a second.” He mumbled, his voice pleading.

You don’t question it and do what he wants you to do. You fully accept you’d be one of those pathetic individuals who’d follow him off a cliff if it meant staying with him and keeping him safe.

In the darkness, you feel him pick up your hands and place them on his chest. Under your palms, you feel the fast thrum of the beat of his heart and the laboured way his chest rises. You stay like that for a few seconds and match your breathing to his.

“Okay,” his voice cuts through your thoughts “now open your eyes.” You follow his command and you open your eyes to Arthur with a tender expression. You feel his breathing get faster, like he’s almost waiting for a reaction.

You tilt your head. “What?”

Arthur chuckles quietly at your question. “This is me trying to prove I’m serious about you.” His hands are still around your wrists, keeping your palms on his chest in place.

“By what? Letting me feel you up?” You jokingly say. “Arthur, who do you think’s being lugging your heavy ass around when you’re drunk, cause it sure as hell ain’t Uncle-“

Even in the darkness that surrounded you, you can sense his embarrassment. He starts to sputter to quickly get words out “Wha- no, that’s not what- I- you-“ He stutters, clearly flustered at the comment. He sighs. “Now, that’s not what I meant and you know it, sweetheart.”

“So then, what?” You push. You’re not trying to be obtuse in any way, but you want to hear a proper answer.

Arthur swallows awkwardly. “I’m just- I want you to know that my heart beats for you.”

It puts you in such a complete state of shock, it renders you speechless.

Just a couple of days ago, you would have been thirsty to hear those words drip out of his lips, but now that you’ve actually heard him say it, you don’t know how to exactly respond.

“Sweetheart?” He calls, voice laced with worry.

You slowly lean down and press your ear against his chest, wrapping your arms around him. He smells like gun smoke and mountain air. The fast bu-dump of his heart is intoxicating, making you break out into a smile.

After a few seconds, he slowly places his own arms around you and pulls you in closer. His hold is firm. Secure. A bandwagon of bandits or federal agents could show up this instant and he wouldn’t let anything or anyone so much as even look at you the wrong way.

He tucks your head under his chin. “I can’t give you a house, or children, or land right now, but I want you to know you have my heart.” He places another soft kiss on your forehead. “You’ve had it for a long time and it’ll always be yours as long you’ll have me.”

“Well, I never thought Arthur Morgan was capable of such sweet words.” You tease.

You feel the rumble of his chest as he freely laughs. “Well, there’s a lot we don’t know about each other it seems.”

You give his statement some thought. “Maybe we can start to find those things about each other out.”

He nods against you. “I’d like that.”

You sniffle and follow him in letting out a laugh. “I’ll end up falling asleep here if we keep this up.”

He snickers at your comment. “I guess I’ll just have to carry you to bed then, huh?” He teases back, his tone light and playful.

You push away from his chest and fix your gaze directly at him, a dazed smile on your face. “I guess you’ll just have to, Arthur Morgan.”

His breathing hitches, obviously not expecting to be accepted on his offer. “Yeah, I suppose I will, sweetheart.”

You place a kiss squarely on his mouth and he reciprocates it almost immediately.

You grasp his face with your hands and do something you’ve been wanting to do since the day you met him.

His lips, though slightly chapped are soft and his stubble that he hasn’t shaved for weeks tickles your cheeks, poking you in a pleasurable way. You taste the tobacco on him and though you don’t smoke, maybe through kissing him you get the appeal. Fingers thread through your braid that’s falling apart by the second.

For the first time, you don't hold the butteflies back.

You part your lips to deepen the kiss and allow him to explore your mouth with his tongue.

It becomes hungry. Insatiable. It's years of pent up frustration and confusion exploding into a possession that consumes your whole body. He groans and you barely notice when he scoops you up, hooking his arm under your legs. “God, we could have been doing this earlier.” He growls.

As you giggle against his lips, Arthur continues to carry you, walking briskly towards your tent.

And the world around you stayed silent that night, except for a few hushed noises.

- - - - - - -

A/N: Yee-haw. Pls interact, I need to to talk to more RDR people lmao. pls.

#fanfiction #smut #x reader #fluff #fanfic #rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 community #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #Arthur morgan fluff #Arthur Morgan Smut

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ak319 · 5 months ago

Text

Lovesick A.M x f!reader

--★ Rose Hats and Rough Hearts

(AN: So, a fic idea I have serves as an inspo for this one-shot. The reader is a morally gray character and doesn't like being part of the gang. Anyway, enjoy reading!.) Syno: When her sharp tongue turns on Dutch, Arthur wonders if she’s gone too far, or if he’s fallen too deep. Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), pining, angst, fluff. ✰ -11k.

“Well, wasn’t that easy? Been a long time since I enjoyed a robbery like that,” Hosea chuckled, tugging down his bandana.

Arthur glanced at the bag tied to the horse, heavy with valuables, and gave a small nod. “Definitely.”

The two rode at a leisurely pace, the quiet night stretching around them like a blanket, the stars casting a soft glow over the landscape. Arthur’s eyes drifted as they moved, catching on a patch of bushes nearby.

Roses.

Even in the faint starlight, their delicate shapes stood out, and an idea bloomed in his mind.

“Uh, Hosea,” Arthur started, breaking the calm, “I’ve got an errand to run.”

“An errand? At this time of night?” Hosea raised a brow, his tone lightly scolding. “You oughta rest now, son. You’ve earned it.”

“No, no, jus' need to head into town for a bit. Won’t be long, don’t you worry.”

Hosea paused for a moment, then gave a knowing smile and nodded. “Alright, if you say so. Just don’t go gettin’ yourself into trouble.”

He handed Hosea the score and with a final farewell, the two parted ways, Arthur veering off towards the town, his thoughts already on the next step of his plan.

Arthur arrived at the shop and dismounted, but instead of heading inside, he lingered by his horse, running a hand over the animal’s neck. Was this even a good idea? Why was it all so damn complicated?

There’s no harm in buying something, right? Just a harmless gesture. He could figure out what to do with it later... later.

For days now, it had been the same cycle.

Don’t think about her. Just don’t.

There’s no harm in it, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t look at her, it’s strange. Keep your distance.

A few stolen glances don’t mean anything when she’s far away, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t buy her a gift. What kind of fool even does that? Who is he to her, anyway?

And here he is, standing outside the shop, heart pounding like a damn fool, a love fool.

“Yes, sir? How may I help you? By the way, there’s a 15% discount on the winter stock. Perhaps you’d like to try the waistcoats?”

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, his eyes drifting around the shop. Was he in the right place? He scanned the shelves and displays until his gaze landed on the wall.

Yes, there it was. The item he’d noticed before.

“Can you show me that hat?”

The shopkeeper immediately retrieved it with a practiced hand and held it out with a smile. “Our latest and most popular piece, sir. Only $22.”

Arthur took the hat, turning it over in his hands. The black leather gleamed, unscathed and pristine, a far cry from his well-worn one. His eyes lingered on the rose corsage affixed to the middle, subtle but striking.

He stepped toward the mirror, setting the hat on his head, and studied his reflection. It was a fine hat

"Goes perfectly with your outfit, sir."

Arthur’s lips curled into a faint smile, but it quickly faded as he turned back to the shelves. “I saw a scarf, too. The one with the, uh... rose pattern.”

“Oh, the women’s one! Let me fetch it for you.”

The shopkeeper moved swiftly, his hands deftly retrieving the scarf. He prattled on about its fine quality and craftsmanship, but Arthur barely registered the words. They flew past him like horses leaping over a fence.

His thoughts were elsewhere, on you. On how the scarf would look wrapped around your neck, the way it might frame your face. The image was enough to push him to hand over the dollar bills for both items, not even noticing he’d given more than what was asked.

The shopkeeper’s voice called out behind him, but Arthur had already turned, mounting his Irish Draught, Clover, and riding off without a second glance.

He’d be wearing the rose hat, and you’d be wearing the scarf. The thought sat heavy in his chest, a strange mix of warmth and unease. Was he really going to give it to you now?

The wind tugged at his coat, but it couldn’t scatter the doubts and questions circling his mind. Was this... a confession?

Would you, confounding as you were, with your quicksilver moods and quiet distance, accept anything from him? You, who rarely spared him more than a glance, choosing instead to linger with the girls, Molly especially.

It ate at him sometimes, the way you seemed so unreachable. Always just out of his grasp, moving through the camp like a wisp of smoke, untouchable and wholly your own. And yet, he couldn’t stop watching.

Couldn’t stop wanting.

You didn’t belong here, not like him, at least. You carried yourself with an air of defiance, tethered to the camp not by loyalty but necessity. A reluctant, bitter presence that had no reason to look twice at someone as rooted in this life as he was.

He saw the way you didn’t fit, the way you wanted to leave. And maybe that’s why the thought of you wearing the scarf--his scarf now--stirred something fierce inside him. The idea that, for once, he might give you something that tethered you to him, however briefly. Better than being tied to someone else. God, you have made him so selfish.

He clenched the scarf tighter, his jaw set. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He didn’t know much about you, except years ago when one day he came to the camp and discovered that Hosea and Bessie had found somewhere, taken you in as a baby, and raised you as their own as they always wanted a child. Nobody in the camp knew where they found you except perhaps Dutch but it was never told properly and he didn't pry much too, no one really did. Everything had been fine-peaceful, even, until Bessie passed.

After that, you’d wanted out. To leave the camp, carve out a life of your own, away from the shadow of the gang. But Hosea couldn’t let you go. He was your father, after all, the one who had protected you, shielding you from the blood and grime of their world just as Bessie had wished for.

And then there was himself whose hands were drenched in blood.

All of this screamed doom. Yet, he was doomed... doomed by his stupid feelings and that desperate longing to have someone to call his own, to have someone waiting for him. A foolish wish, considering the life he’d led, the blood he’d spilled, and the world he was tied to.

He slowed the stallion, the weight of bubbling anxiety and frustration pressing down on him. God, it was all a mess. Even if he could manage to stop thinking for a while, to quiet the storm in his head... when he'd return to the camp and see you again, just going about your business, sulking in some corner after an argument, or throwing those sharp, witty remarks, especially at Pearson as you cooked, that pull, that ache, would come rushing back.

Curiosity was the root of it all. He just wanted to know. Why? Why were you like this? Was it because of Molly, how she’d twisted your heart with her bitterness, making you turn your back on Dutch and the rest of the gang? Or did you simply not care at all about any of them?

He huffed at the thought of the stew you probably made, not out of love, but out of duty, or maybe a touch of malice. If it tasted so good, made with nothing but spite, he couldn’t help but wonder how much better it would be if you made it with love.

❀˖°

With a final pat to Clover’s neck, Arthur made his way back to camp, greeting the men as he passed. But there was something off, a silence hanging heavier than usual. He made his way toward Dutch, figuring he might have some thoughts on the score with Hosea.

"Dutch?"

The older man turned his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze fixed on the lake.

"Arthur."

Before Arthur could speak, Dutch continued, his tone slow, almost contemplative. "You know we’re a family, right? That everything we do is for each other, not just for ourselves..."

"Of course, Dutch."

Dutch chuckled softly, the sound more gravel than humor, before crushing the cigar underfoot casually. "Some people, immature people, just can't seem to understand that."

With that, Dutch turned and walked back to his tent, leaving Arthur standing there.

"Is... something the matter?"

"Thing? No, someone is the matter." Dutch’s words were sharp, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Arthur.

Arthur gave him an impatient look, silently urging him to get to the point. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the evening. Not at all. He’d been hoping to retreat to his tent, to let his mind drift into thoughts of you, to finally sit and think about the gift he’d picked out for you, wondering if you'd even notice if you'd even like it. He could already picture himself, the soft scarf fabric between his fingers, tracing the rose pattern as his thoughts wandered, imagining what it would feel like to wrap it around your neck... his gift for you.

Dutch exhaled sharply, clearly agitated. "Hosea has let her get away with too much. You know what she did? When Hosea returned to drop off the share from your little endeavor, she-" He cut himself off with a frustrated growl. "She thought I wasn’t here. She came charging out, and started an argument, telling him he was doing the wrong thing--the wrong thing! Can you believe that?"

Dutch shook his head in disbelief. "She actually had the nerve to say that, Arthur. And that instead of doing this--helping us all--he should be out saving for them both and getting away from this life. "I swear, Arthur... turning one of my most trusted men, a friend, against me? Over some damn bills? But Hosea... being Hosea...what does he do? Runs out of camp to bring her back."

"So what did you suggest?!" Hosea’s voice cut through the tension as he entered the tent, his eyes flashing with frustration. "Let my daughter go out in the wild alone? At night? How could you do that, say 'get lost' just like that? Knowing she will take it seriously? She grew up right in front of you!"

"Oh, so it hurt her ego, huh?! Like I care. For me , nothing’s worse than a selfish, disloyal piece of trash that you just had to take in because-"

"Enough! No! Don’t you dare bring that up."

With a heavy sigh, Hosea turned on his heel, walking away from the confrontation, leaving Dutch to seethe in silence.

Dutch watched him go, muttering under his breath, "Take those damn dollars you bestowed on us, Hosea, and gift her a house, for all I care! Fine by my ass!"

Arthur’s mind was a tangled mess, unable to process the whirlwind of events. So much had happened, so many emotions he could hardly keep up. Confusion clouded his mind, frustration clawed at his chest, exhaustion weighed down on his bones, and fury burned in his gut. But none of it made sense. He couldn't even figure out who--or what--his anger was really directed at.

Was it you? Was it your reckless, thoughtless actions that set this all in motion? Or was it Dutch's words and how casually he was ready to kick a girl out, kick you out, just like that?

It was at both.

It was both, but more than anything, it was you. Because you’d started it, hadn’t you? You always had a problem with Dutch’s authority, even when you kept your sweet little mouth shut. It was in your eyes, those eyes. The eyes he could never get enough of, the ones he craved to meet his own. If only for a second. A second where the same longing, the same hunger for something more, reflected back at him.

But instead, there you were. Acting like everything was just... nothing. Like none of it mattered. Like he didn’t matter. You went out there recklessly and carelessly, as if you could just walk away from everything. From him. How fucking could you? What if it had gotten worse and someone just decided to harm you because of your damn tongue in the camp and even Hosea couldn't do anything-

"Arthur?"

"U-Um, yes?"

"What do you think? Hm?"

"About...what happened? I--it’s... yeah, she shouldn’t have said that," Arthur muttered, the words clumsy and heavy on his tongue.

Dutch hummed, a slow and pointed sound, as though weighing Arthur’s response and finding it just barely acceptable. Arthur didn’t wait for more. He muttered a farewell and slipped out of the tent, the cool air doing little to clear the haze in his mind.

His eyes found Hosea almost immediately. The old man was sitting on his bedroll, his posture stiff and guarded. His eyes screamed of hurt, Dutch's words had affected him deeply. After some seconds his eyes would flicker at your tent. The sight made Arthur’s chest ache. Hosea’s protectiveness was undeniable.

Because no matter how much Hosea wanted to protect you, Arthur wanted something deeper, something more selfish.

What the hell am I even thinking? he chastised himself, shaking his head. She’s not my responsibility. She’s not mine.

He wanted to say something to Hosea, to offer comfort or at least commiseration, but his feet wouldn’t move. Instead, he turned away, retreating to his own tent with a heavy sigh. Once inside, he shut the flaps, placed his hat on the table, and dropped onto the cot with a grunt of annoyance.

Reaching for the scarf, Arthur held it above him, the dim light tracing over its soft, silken material. He let it graze his face, the faint scent of the shop lingering on it, but it was his mind that did the real work. He imagined the fabric tangled in your hair, how it would feel wrapped around you as he held you close. He could almost feel the tickle of those strands against his skin, his breath hot against the side of your neck.

The thought of having you here, in his arms, that close, his hands gripping you, pulling you to him, ignited something fierce inside him. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the idea that you could be his, fully, if only you’d let him. He clenched the scarf tighter, frustration and something darker simmering in his chest.

With that vision playing in his mind, he let the scarf fall, draping it across his face and chest, the weight of it somehow both comforting and unbearable.

Lying there in the dark, his lips brushed over the fabric absently, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. It was maddening, the way you consumed his thoughts without even trying. Even now, with frustration still simmering under his skin, all he wanted was to see you, to watch your expression, even if it meant enduring one of your scowls.

You little menace, I swear one of these days I might just lose my patience.

But you didn’t care, did you? You’d stormed out, reckless and fiery, with no thought of him or anyone, not even yourself. And here he was, lying alone, haunted by the feeling of silk and the ghost of a life he’d never have. With a frustrated grunt, Arthur shifted onto his side, clutching it closer, the tension in his body growing. He couldn't help but think if he had been here earlier, he would have tied you to him, not out of malice, but out of desperate, aching need. The kind of need that he couldn’t push down, no matter how much he tried. The kind that made him crave something from you that you didn’t even know you had to give. Something more. Something that would finally make you stay.

Sleep wouldn’t come easily.

He wanted you to feel it, to bear the same punishment he carried every night. To know what it was like to lie awake, tormented by the thought of someone you couldn’t have, unable to chase the fleeting peace of sleep because they haunted you in ways you couldn’t name. He wanted you to understand how it felt to be unraveled by longing, to have your very being tethered to someone who wouldn’t even look your way.

But then...what was he even saying?

Why did he keep forgetting the truth? That you didn’t deserve his anger, his silent pleas for recognition. That the fault wasn’t yours for not seeing him, no, it was his for daring to want you in the first place. Of course, you wouldn’t ever look at him that way. He was older, too far removed from your world, your interests, your life. And he knew, deep down, that you wouldn’t ever imagine, not in a thousand years, that someone like him could ever be interested in you. Even he could admit it, this was all stupid, unexpected, and nothing more than a fantasy.

And still, knowing this, he couldn’t stop himself. The heart never makes sense, does it? It doesn’t listen to reason or its owner, dragging you where it pleases, no matter the cost. Even he, a man who prided himself on control, had been reduced to a mere servant of its whims.

His fingers curled around the scarf as if it could somehow hold the pieces of him together. As if its softness could soothe the fire that burned inside him, one that you had lit and would never know.

Meanwhile, you lay in bed, staring at the worn canvas of the tent above. You weren’t leaving this tent. Not now. Not later. Not for anyone. They could all be damned for all you cared, it had all been damned ever since your mother died.

She was your anchor, the one thing tethering you to any sense of stability. And the moment she was gone, the world had cracked open, spilling truths you’d long suspected but never wanted confirmed. You weren’t really theirs. You weren’t their daughter.

Hosea refused to tell you why or how you ended up here, tucked into the folds of their chaos. But the truth was, you didn’t care anymore. You were tired. Tired of the games, the blind loyalty to Dutch’s every whim, the endless cycle of running and stealing and pretending any of it had meaning.

All you wanted was a normal life, a roof over your head that didn’t leak when it rained, a place where fear didn’t cling to the walls like smoke. But that dream stayed out of reach, just like everything else. Hosea wouldn’t let you go. He was scared to lose you, to lose something that was never even his.

Pathetic.

That’s what it was. That’s what they all were. And maybe Molly was right, Dutch’s charm was nothing but poison, bleeding into everything and everyone

"Bastard..."

You wanted a job, something stable to call your own. Or, if that wasn’t in the cards, maybe just to find some rich fool to marry so you could finally live in peace. Far from all this chaos. But no, these people couldn’t leave well enough alone, they had to loot every rich soul they came across.

Leave someone for me to marry at least, you scoffed bitterly, lips curling in a faint, humourless smile.

Sigh.

Dream on, (Y/N). Dream on.

Hosea’s familiar voice drifted in from nearby, low and steady as he spoke with Abigail. No doubt she was serving him food since you hadn’t bothered to. The sound grated on you, making you roll your eyes and turn to the other side of your bedroll. It wouldn’t be long, two days, maximum, before Hosea came to lecture you, or worse, dragged you out of this tent himself.

He was always so damn strict when it came to pulling your weight.

But right now?

Screw it. Screw him. Screw all of them.

Let them fend for themselves.

❀˖°

"Why do you do all this?"

Not did that. Do this.

Arthur’s voice was low, almost fragile, but there was a weight to it. A question layered with meanings he couldn’t bring himself to say outright. He just hoped you’d hear it, the real question, underneath the words. His gaze stayed fixed on the worn soles of your shoes, watching as you scrubbed at the dishes with an edge of restrained aggression that didn’t go unnoticed.

The sight would be funny to anyone in the camp right now. He was reduced to barely speaking above a whisper when it came to you, his usual steady tone faltering in a way it never did with anyone else. Whilst you were the only one who wasn't afraid of even him. While others tiptoed around him, wary of the weight his presence carried, you treated him with the same indifference, the same biting sharpness that you spared for everyone else.

Dammit, he fucking loved it.

It wasn’t fear he wanted from you, not respect or even obedience. It was something, anything, that showed he wasn’t just another face in the camp to you. It made him feel like that was all he was. Just another man under Dutch rule.

And it was maddening.

"I could ask the same question to everyone here," you replied, voice steady but sharp, like a blade dulled just enough to wound without cutting too deep.

"But you know the answer."

"And you do too," you shot back, turning slightly to glance over your shoulder, "but here you are. Playing the mediator of sorts."

Arthur exhaled sharply, his gaze falling to the ground as if the weight of your words had struck him in the chest. For someone who claimed to want nothing to do with this place, with these people, you had an uncanny way of stirring up trouble within it.

Perhaps you wanted that. You wanted to get kicked out.

He wanted to throw the thought out into the open, let it snap between you like a taut rope. But the bitterness in your tone, the heaviness in your stance, made him hesitate. Throwing oil on the fire wasn’t going to do either of you any good, not today.

"You’re wasting your breath on someone who isn't listening to whatever you have to say."

"Then I’ll just keep talkin’ until you do."

"Do whatever, I don't care. This place is full of people barking orders and trying to be big. Pft. How adorable."

At least spare me a glance. Just one.

"If you don't care about yourself, then at least do it for Hosea..." His voice was strained, laced with a desperation he couldn't quite hide.

That made you turn, finally, but the look you gave him was anything but kind. Your gaze was sharp, cutting, laced with a mix of disdain and challenge. "Oh, so now you're worried about me being a bad daughter or something?" you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "I wonder if you all think the same way when you're out there making other daughters cry, making women widows and destroying families without a second thought."

This was the longest conversation you both had. Ever. And damn it was a wrecked one.

Your lips curled into a humorless smile as you snorted, mocking. "Tsk, I bet that's an exception, right? Family only exists here." You pitched your voice to mimic Dutch's smooth drawl, the mockery biting. Then, as if dismissing him entirely, you turned back to the washing, your hands moving with renewed fervor, the sound of water splashing filling the silence.

Arthur stood there, jaw tight, the weight of your words sinking into him like stones in a river.

He stood rooted in place, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He wanted to say something, needed to say something, but the words lodged themselves somewhere in his throat, refusing to come out. Maybe it was the truth in your words that had him stunned.

Before Arthur could find a way to steer the conversation elsewhere, Hosea stepped into the fray, his tone calm yet firm. “(Y/N)...dear, today or tomorrow, you’ve got to apologize to Dutch and bury this hatchet.”

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly, looking off to the side, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. His heart thumped unevenly as he anticipated your response.

You turned to Hosea sharply, your expression a volatile mix of shock and simmering fury. “You want me to apologize to him?! For what?. Just for talking to you about something I’ve wanted to for so damn long?!”

Arthur’s head snapped back in your direction. He could see the fire in your eyes now, blazing and relentless, and it struck something in him. That fire, he both loved and hated it, craved it and feared it. It was the very thing that made you impossible to ignore, yet it was also what pushed you farther from him. And still, he couldn’t help but think how maddeningly beautiful you looked right now, even if it tore him apart to watch you lock yourself away further from everyone, including him.

“It’s not about what was said, it’s about how it was said. Dutch... he’s not perfect, but he’s trying. We all are.”

“Trying? Trying to keep us all in line like dogs? Sure, that sounds like areallyl noble effort. If you want to grovel to Dutch, go ahead, Papa. But don’t drag me into it.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his fingers brushing against his holster as if searching for something to ground himself. He knew that your words were not only directed at Hosea but him too.

“You’ve got too much pride,” Hosea muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.

"And you’ve got too much blind loyalty."

Hosea held your gaze, his own softening but remaining firm. "Look, let me say this again, this isn’t about the words you said, it’s about the way you said them. You can stand by your beliefs without tearing everyone else down in the process, sweetheart."

"So what? Dutch can tear everyone down, but when someone calls him out, it’s suddenly a problem?! That’s rich."

"It doesn't matter!" Hosea’s voice rose slightly before he caught himself, lowering it to a pleading tone. "And quiet down, don’t create a scene, again. Have mercy on your old man, at least. For now, we’re in the camp, and as long as we are, Dutch shouldn’t be disrespected like that. You can be as angry as you want with me, but please, just apologize to him. He’s always been like an uncle to you... (Y/N)."

You let out a bitter scoff, your lips curling in defiance. "And he's the one who clearly doesn't want me here but--fine...fine Papa," your hands slammed the plate down in the basin. "I’ll do whatever you say. Because, apparently, my words are nothing but bullets of disloyalty now. The same words that were once adorable wishes to you."

Your words hit like a lash, leaving Hosea standing frozen as you stormed off toward your tent. Arthur watched the older man, his chest tightening when he saw the same hurt settle in Hosea’s eyes, the kind of pain that only festers in the heart of someone who loves deeply and feels powerless.

"I wish..." Hosea began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling under the weight of emotions he rarely let show. "I wish I never told her the truth... that she’s not my child. Maybe it messed her up... It broke me more than it broke her."

Arthur stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the dirt as he hesitated for a moment before closing the distance. Hosea turned his head slightly, and Arthur's heart clenched when he saw the glint of tears streaking down the older man’s face. It was the second time Arthur had witnessed Hosea cry, the first being after Bessie's death.

"It... it terrified me," Hosea whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I kept thinkin' last night, what if one day I'm not here, and Dutch just turns on her like that? Sure, the women might object, but that’s it. They’re powerless against him. No one would stand up for her... and she'd be all alone..." He sniffed, wiping his eyes, trying to regain control. "And that’s what broke me, Arthur."

It broke me too...

"Jus' don't think about all that happened. Forget it and don't worry Dutch will forget about it. He won’t hold onto it, not like that. And she... she’ll forget too. You’ll see."

Hosea let out a dry chuckle, wiping a stray tear from his weathered cheek. "She? I don’t think so. Not about this. When it comes to this topic, she won’t let it go." He paused, leaning heavily against the wooden counter, his shoulders sagging, "I want it too, Arthur. The house, the quiet life… I want to give her that. But it’s not easy. It’s not."

He gestured vaguely toward the camp, the flickering lantern light catching in his tired eyes. "Leaving all this behind, all of you, it’d feel like... like a betrayal. Even if I left on a good note, it wouldn’t sit right. Do you get what I mean?"

Arthur nodded, his posture relaxing now that you weren’t there to sharpen the tension in the air. "Yeah," he said softly. "I think we all... kind of want that." His words trailed off, his thoughts unraveling into something more personal. Something he couldn’t bring himself to say.

I do. I want it... with you. Maybe. No...

Only.

Hosea turned his head to study him, Arthur caught the look and quickly shrugged it off, letting out a small exhale as if to clear the thought entirely. "Jus’ don’t let Dutch know," he muttered with a faint smirk. Hosea returned the gesture. " 'Course not. Let's go have some coffee, boy." He reached to pat the man's shoulder but Arthur’s hand shot out, grabbing Hosea’s with a suddenness that made the older man freeze. His eyes, wide and questioning, met Arthur’s with a flicker of concern.

"Um--there’s... something that I want to..." Arthur’s voice faltered as he cleared his throat. His gaze darted to the ground, to the side, anywhere but Hosea’s eyes. The same sheepish, uncertain look Hosea had seen a hundred times, but now it felt different.

Hosea arched a brow, waiting for him to continue. "Well, go on then. What did you do?"

Arthur’s mind was a mess, his thoughts tangled with nerves and fear. What the hell am I doing? His heart raced as his hand shook slightly. What the hell am I about to do?

His breath caught as he reached into the inside of his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric of the chest pocket where he’d hidden it. It was a decision that had plagued him for days, one that felt impossible to avoid now.

He pulled out the scarf--silken, covered in his scent, soft to the touch, but now burning in his hand like a symbol of everything he couldn’t say.

For her.

It’s for her.

"I- I bought this..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying the words aloud made them too real, too vulnerable.

Hosea’s face was unreadable at first, but then he saw the scarf, and a brief chuckle escaped him, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I thought it was clear I’m a man, Arthur."

The joke hit Arthur like a slap, and he couldn’t help but feel his chest tighten. God, this was harder than he’d imagined. His throat went dry, his fingers tightening around the scarf as if it could somehow anchor him, give him the courage to keep going. But he was drowning in hesitation.

Arthur’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, his entire body trembling with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. The thought of Hosea’s reaction, the uncertainty of what might follow this moment, made him question if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Would Hosea kill him? Would he laugh at him? Or worse, would he pity him?

Hosea’s eyes bore into him, patient, yet expectant. "Well, boy?"

Arthur’s mouth went dry, but he forced the words out. "It’s for... (Y/N)."

For a moment, there was a stillness, and then to his shock, Hosea’s expression softened, eyes widening, almost in a kind of jubilant surprise.

Hosea took the scarf from Arthur, his hands gentle as he examined the gift. A sense of something unspoken passed between them, something Arthur couldn’t quite name, but it was there in the way Hosea’s gaze softened. "Really?"

Arthur barely had the strength to nod, his eyes avoiding Hosea’s, his face burning with embarrassment and a kind of fear he couldn’t even process. Was this really happening? He was spilling it to him, of all people, your father.

He nodded again, his voice barely a whisper. "Yeah..."

Hosea’s hand reached out to pat Arthur’s arm in an almost fatherly gesture, a gentle smile forming on his face. "Well then... I’ll be sure to give it to her. Thank you. Y’know... you’re the only one I trust after me."

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, the words sinking in like the heaviest of weights. It felt like he’d won a game, but one he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

Arthur’s throat tightened at the thought, his breath catching. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d attached to the simple scarf until now. It was just a piece of fabric, yet the meaning behind it had become so much more than he’d ever expected.

"Just... tell her to, you know... don’t burn it at least," he muttered, his chuckle awkward and thin. But the words weren’t a joke. They were the truth, and they hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

The image burned in his mind, you, angry, perhaps unaware, throwing it into the campfire or tearing it apart with a pair of scissors. The thought was almost unbearable, each possibility worse than the last. The way his hands clenched into fists at his sides showed just how deep the fear ran.

He couldn’t let that happen.

If you did something like that, if you so much as damaged it, he... he didn’t know what he’d do. His thoughts spiraled out of control. Would he lash out? Would he burn the whole camp down if it meant getting you back, getting that thing back, untainted by your disregard? The intensity of his protectiveness shocked him, made his pulse quicken.

He forced himself to exhale, slow and controlled, but the tightness in his chest remained.

"Tell her," he repeated softly, though his voice cracked with something that felt more desperate than he'd intended.

"I will, I will. Don't you worry."

❀˖°

You nearly sewed your own finger, but kept going, the needle trembling slightly in your hand as you tried to focus. Jack sure knew how to break his damn button every week. But you never minded of course. That adorable little kid is like your brother. You couldn't remember the last time you’d felt calm enough to sit still and stitch something--anything--together without your mind wandering.

"I’m proud of you, y'know. You apologized. Thank you." Hosea’s voice broke through the silence, as he sipped his coffee. His words sank into the quiet of the tent.

"Of course you are."

His response was a low chuckle, tinged with affection. He knew you loved him and valued his advice,. His mind played the memories of the times when you always waited worriedly whenever he went on jobs and made sure he was looked after in the camp. Bandaged him. Never slacked off because you knew he hated that...well apart from the times when you were mad. Then even he couldn't convince you to move an inch of stone. Though, he couldn't be proud to have you as his daughter even if both of you clashed at moments like these.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Even if you’d done it for Hosea, for your own reasons, you couldn't shake the irritation that still lingered beneath your skin. But he was happy, and that was enough for him. His approval always mattered to you, more than you’d ever admit.

The silence stretched out between you as you continued to sew, the rhythmic motion almost comforting. But Hosea’s gaze shifted, the way it always did when something was on his mind. He glanced at the closed flap of the tent, his attention drawn to the world outside. Then, after a moment, he spoke again.

"Here," Hosea said, holding the item out to you, his expression tight, as if he wasn't entirely sure how you would take it. You eyed the scarf suspiciously before taking it, your fingers brushing against the fabric, your thoughts clouded.

"Wow! Thanks...it's so pretty."

Hosea shifted on his feet, averting his gaze, as if the next words were stuck in his throat.

"It's...from Arthur."

"Wha---huh? Why?"

Hosea looked away again, the embarrassment and discomfort evident in his posture, but the message was clear. You felt the shift in the air, a kind of pressure that built between you both.

Your blood ran cold, and you couldn't stop the words that spilled from your lips. "Wha- excuse me??! Did you... did you just sell me or something?!"

The words landed, and Hosea's head snapped back, his face darkening, his jaw tight with frustration.

"What even---Are you out of your mind? Listen to me. I am not going to be here for you forever, and I worry for you, even if you think I don't! And him, he’s the only one I would trust to-"

"What are you on about?!" you cut him off, your voice rising with anger. "Am I some child that needs to be babysat?! I won’t stay here forever, either, Papa! Hell, I won't! And you’re here finding ways to bind me here?! I understand everything! Don’t think I’m a fool!"

You couldn’t stop yourself. With a burst of pent-up fury, you threw the scarf on the floor, your hands shaking with the force of your frustration. "Handing me to some old lap dog, you’re out of your mind! I can't believe it, have some shame!."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you both, as Hosea stood there, his hand still frozen in the air where he'd offered you the scarf, his eyes full of something raw, hurt, frustration, confusion. Hosea opened his mouth, but no words came. His gaze softened, his lips parted as if he were trying to find something to say. But the words you had just spoken hung heavy in the air, too loud and too real to take back now.

"You think I want this for you?" he finally whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice strained with frustration. "I just want you safe, damn it. Safe."

"If you want that, then find someone else, someone normal. A proper suitor, maybe? A decent citizen? Like Mama would have wanted!"

"And you think a 'normal citizen,' or the rich kind you dream of marrying, won’t ask about our background? Won’t dig into our truth? You want something built on lies, instead of what’s real? The most honest person you could have is right here, willing to do anything for you. I raised that boy, and I damn well know he will never disappoint me."

You rolled your eyes, fed up with another one of his lectures. "Yeah, because after spending half my life with outlaws, I've definitely lost the chance to be with anyone 'normal,' haven’t I? Then I'd rather die alone! Every man here is raised by you in some way but that doesn't mean that I have to trust them let alone be with THEM! You are being delusional! Whatever--just give it back, for God's sake," you snapped, your voice thick with frustration as you turned away, trying to put distance between yourself and the scarf as if it could somehow erase the conversation.

Hosea didn't move to leave. He just stood there. After a long pause, he shook his head gently, as if reconciling himself with something painful. "No, no I won't. Gifts are not meant to be... given back."

He picked the scarf up, his hands cradling it carefully as if it were something fragile, and for a moment, you could see him lost in thought, his eyes distant, remembering something else.

"I remember... the first time I held you in my arms," he murmured, his voice softer now, the anger and frustration fading into something more vulnerable. "You were my gift, too. You still are."

Your heart stuttered for a moment, the memory of being held like that, cradled in his arms when you were small, a time before all the complexities of your relationship had gotten so tangled. The warmth of his embrace felt distant now, like a fading echo.

Or it's just his way of manipulation.

"Papa, please, why are you even siding with him-"

"Enough, because I know better and I know you better," he interrupted, his voice firm this time, though it cracked slightly with emotion. "Just keep it." His words hung in the air, and he turned to leave the tent but paused just before he stepped outside.

He looked back, his gaze meeting yours for a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something deep, filled with regret, but also resolve. "If I couldn't, or am unable to give you the life you want," he said softly, each word deliberate, "my heart says he will."

"Oh please, wait till you see when he kicks me out one day on your beloved Dutch's orders."

Hosea didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you, his expression a mixture of sorrow and a kind of quiet resignation, before he finally turned and walked out of the tent.

He would never be able to make you understand that Arthur would be the last person to do that.

❀˖°

The days that followed felt heavier, like a fog had settled around you. Arthur's presence, once easily ignored, now seemed to infiltrate every corner of your space. He started lingering around more often, always appearing at the most inconvenient times when you and Hosea were sharing a quiet meal or having (tea/coffee). At first, you thought it was just a coincidence, maybe just a shared moment of camaraderie, but the more it happened, the more uncomfortable it made you.

Arthur wasn’t doing anything overtly wrong, of course. He sat quietly, politely joining the conversation when spoken to, sipping coffee, offering a nod here and there.

It bothered you. You loathed it.

Is this some sort of indirect courting? Were you imagining things, or was this his way of trying to ingratiate himself with you? Was he trying to get Hosea's approval? To intimidate you? Or, perhaps, was it something more direct? Was he trying to... what, win you over? Hosea, for all his kindness and wisdom, didn’t mind Arthur’s company, even encouraged it.

The words Hosea had said echoed in your mind, lingering like smoke. "If I couldn’t, or am unable to give you the life you want, my heart says he will."

You scoffed internally, trying to push it away, but the more you thought about it, the more it gnawed at you. Was that really true? Hosea seemed to believe it, but you weren’t so sure. Arthur? The golden boy of Dutch’s gang? Or was Hosea just trying to soften the blow, making it sound like there was hope when in reality there was none?

Why can't he get it that I don't want to stay here or get associated with anyone! Especially someone so older and worse the most obedient to Dutch of them all.

You rolled your eyes, staring out into the distance. And why the hell would he go after you? Out of all the people in the camp, why you?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Still, a small part of you wondered... Should you ask him?

But what if you were wrong? What if Hosea was just speaking out of some misplaced hope? You didn’t know. And that uncertainty, it made you uncomfortable. Because you weren’t one to be uncertain. You didn't like it.

He just wants someone young to play with now that he's lonely.

Arthur stared at the journal in his lap, the unfinished sketch of eyes glaring up at him, imperfect and frustrating. He let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh, his pencil hovering over the page, but he couldn’t seem to get it right. The eyes, those eyes, kept staring back at him, their gaze too empty, too raw. The frown on his face deepened as he bit his lip, his mind spiraling in frustration.

But that frown, that damn cute frown, it wouldn't fade. It never did. The curve of your lips when you were irritated or deep in thought, the way your brows furrowed as you focused on something else... It was almost intoxicating how endearing it was. Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about it, and worse, he couldn’t stop wanting to be the one to make that frown disappear.

If only you'd look at him once with a smile, he thought bitterly, the words tasting both sweet and impossible.

Because deep down, Arthur knew, he'd do anything. He’d break the sky and bring the world to your feet if you ever gave him that smile.

He longed for that.

But no, that’s just a dream, Arthur thought with a resigned sigh, closing his journal and resting his hands on his knees. You wouldn’t even notice me that way. I'm just some damn fool in Dutch’s gang.

❀˖°

It was another evening, quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crackle of the campfire. You were chopping vegetables at the makeshift table, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood filling the air. Hosea sat a few feet away on an overturned crate, sipping his coffee with a watchful but calm expression.

Arthur appeared at the edge of the clearing, his hat tilted low and his hands shoved into his pockets. You barely glanced at him, focused on your task.

“Evenin’,” Arthur mumbled, his voice unusually hesitant.

Hosea nodded in acknowledgment, setting his cup down. “Evening, Arthur.”

Arthur glanced at you, then back at Hosea. His jaw worked for a moment, as though wrestling with what

And then you heard the words. Full of hesitation.

“I was wonderin’... if I could take her out. Just, ya know, get her outta this camp for a bit. I figure... she could use some air.” His words hung in the air, but his eyes seemed distant, almost like he was hoping for a miracle.

Wow, just great. They are going to pretend that I am not even here now huh?

And you hadn’t been in the mood for any of this. "I am absolutely fine staying here, got it?"

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stared at your hunched frame, your defiance practically radiating off you. His voice softened, though there was a trace of frustration. “You’re not fine. Not always, and not here.”

“What do you know about what I need, huh? You think you can just waltz in here and decide things for me? I said I am not going so I am not!”

Arthur took a step back, but not because he was intimidated. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “Ain’t about me decidin’ nothin’. You don’t even gotta like me. But you deserve better than to keep hiding in this damn camp, snappin' at everyone tryin' to care for you.”

"You’ve got some nerve asking me that. I don't need anyone taking me anywhere. Just 'cause you brought me a damn scarf doesn’t mean I owe you a thing."

Arthur seemed to bristle at your sharp reaction, but Hosea leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the both of you with a quiet smile. He wasn’t offended, he understood.

Your glare didn’t falter, but Hosea cleared his throat before you could respond. “He’s got a point, my dear.” His tone was calm, and measured. “A little ride won’t kill you.”

You crossed your arms. “I said no Papa and that means, NO. Stop forcing things on me."

And of course, Hosea didn't miss your taunt and somehow Arthur too.

The younger male stepped closer again, his voice lower now, almost pleading. “I ain't Dutch. I ain’t gonna force ya into anything. But sometimes, you gotta trust someone’s tryin’ to help, even if it don’t make sense at first.. Just...give me a chance...please.”

Before you could reply, the unmistakable sound of Dutch’s boots approached. “Well, isn’t this cozy,” Dutch drawled, stepping into the space with a deliberate slowness that made everyone tense. He looked from Arthur to you, a sly smile curling on his lips. “Arthur, you’re not causin’ any trouble now, are you?”

“Just talkin’. Nothin’ more.”

Dutch’s gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile growing sharper. “Talkin’, huh? Always knew you had a soft spot, Arthur. You got that puppy-dog look about you. But...you sure you’re barkin’ up the right tree here?”

The air went cold, and you froze, your grip tightening on the knife in your hand. Dutch’s words stung, a mixture of insult and insinuation that made your face burn with anger and shame.

“Dutch,” Hosea interjected, standing up from his crate, his tone calm but firm. “C'mon...don't say that."

Dutch laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave y’all to it. Just a little friendly advice, Arthur. Watch where you step. You wouldn’t want to trip.” With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off, his laughter echoing behind him. Hosea shot Arthur a brief look before following after Dutch, likely to smooth things over or ensure the situation didn’t escalate further.

Arthur lingered awkwardly near the table. His fingers toyed with the brim of his hat, his eyes darting between you and the ground as though he couldn’t quite decide where to settle. He hesitated, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach out to you, his face a mix of guilt and frustration. “Look, I-”

"What? Just go away."

Arthur flinched, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he muttered, his voice low and almost apologetic. “Just...ignore what he said.”

"But what he said was right."

"No, it wasn't." He looked up then, the defensiveness clear as day in his eyes. “It ain’t like that,” he said, his voice firmer now. “Dutch--he just likes to run his mouth. Don’t mean nothin’.”

“Doesn’t it? You didn’t exactly deny it back there.”

“Look, I ain’t tryin’ to make your life harder. I thought maybe... I don’t know. Thought you’d wanna get out for a bit. Thought it might help.”

“Help with what, exactly?” You gestured around you, exasperated.

“I just… I thought it’d be nice. Thought maybe you’d... enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it? Arthur, I don’t even know what you’re trying to do here. Why you’re trying so hard.”

His jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides before relaxing again. “Maybe I am tryin’, don’t know why you think that’s a crime.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it, I didn’t ask for you or anyone to care.”

He laughed softly, a bitter sound that barely reached his lips. “Yeah. I know. But it ain’t somethin’ I can help. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You’re making it more complicated, you know.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’d rather be here makin’ things complicated than not be here at all.”

You didn’t know what to do with him, with any of this. So you did what you always did, you deflected.

“I’ve got work to do,” you said, pushing off the crate and brushing past him towards the wagon. As you walked past him, your voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp as always.

"Why don’t you take all this energy and use it on something worthwhile? Perhaps finding the right tree." You chuckled tauntingly as you went inside the wagon.

He didn’t try to stop you, didn’t say anything else, not wanting to draw too much attention to the scene. With a heavy sigh, he decided to go for a ride.

❀˖°

When he returned later that night, most of the camp was either finishing up their dinner, indulging in late-night games, or sitting quietly by the fire.

He didn’t sense your presence anywhere, and he figured you were probably in your tent, finally savoring some solitude after a long day of work and being surrounded by the others. But he also knew that Dutch’s words from earlier weren’t easy to shake off, especially for you. Your blood was likely still boiling. Worse, you must be hurt too.

Taking advantage of everyone being preoccupied, his steps naturally gravitated toward your tent, your sanctuary. A place he had only ever dared to dream of being close to. What was it like inside? He often wondered. Would the air inside smell faintly of you? Would he ever be someone who belonged in your space? He imagined a future where he could step into it freely, with no hesitation, no uncertainty. A time when he wouldn’t even need to knock when he could enter with a smile on his face and a gift in his hand, your relationship so natural and warm that it felt like home.

But maybe that was the point. You didn’t need anyone in that space, and a part of him liked that. Liked that you existed here, hidden away, out of reach of the world’s harsh gaze. It wasn’t fair or right, but it soothed something deep and primal in him. If he had his way, the world would never touch you. You’d stay tucked away where only he could find you as if this tent was built for the two of you alone. Still, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to see you in his world, in his tent, on his bed, wrapped up in everything that was his.

Hidden away, yes, but hidden with him.

He cleared his throat, his eyes too shy to even glance fully inside, though the tent flap hung half-open.

"Who is it now?"

"Me... I--uh...can I?"

A soft, irritated sound followed, then your voice gave reluctant confirmation. “Leave the flap wide open.”

He obeyed, pushing the fabric aside, the cool night air spilling in. Then he stood there like a fool, frozen for several seconds as his eyes found you sitting on the edge of the cot, one leg bouncing with impatience. Enchanting nonetheless.

“Well? What now?”

The sharpness of your tone jolted him back to his senses. For a moment, he still couldn’t believe you’d allowed him inside. Maybe you were too tired to step out yourself, but he couldn’t help feeling grateful anyway.

Taking a cautious step closer, his gaze drifted and landed on the scarf in the corner, dangling from the back of a chair.

At least you kept it.

You kept it.

That was enough for him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped to his knee in front of you, his height aligning perfectly with yours now. The act wasn’t one of submission but of devotion, a silent acknowledgment that your hatred, cold and unyielding, loomed larger than the fire of his love. And yet, he stayed there, resolute.

If he had to kneel to earn even a fragment of your gaze, he would. If being this close meant bearing the weight of your disdain, so be it. Because in this moment, it wasn’t his pride that mattered, it was you.

Your first instinct was shock. His sudden closeness threw you off, but as the silence stretched and his hesitation became almost unbearable, you decided to speak, cutting through the tension.

“I think you’re only acting like this because Dutch reckons it’s the best way to keep me in line. So that you can scare me or something. Y’know, keep me stuck in this camp so Pa’s happy, Dutch is happy, and my life here is just that much more miserable.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed immediately, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. “No,” he said firmly, his voice quiet but resolute. “It ain’t like that. It ain’t even close to that.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he searched for the right words. “Do I look like someone who’d think that way? Or...who’d go along with somethin’ like that? Do you really think Hosea would do that to you? Think about you like that?”

“You ain’t some animal we gotta control, alright? You’re...more than that. Always have been."

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I know...there’s a whole lotta differences between us. But...I can’t help myself, y’know? I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried.” His words faltered, and he cursed under his breath.

Damn, I forgot half of what I wanted to say.

You tilted your head, watching him struggle. Internally finding it quite entertaining in a way.

He took a deep breath and pressed on, his voice quieter but no less earnest. “I don’t deserve this, I know that. Hell, you don’t deserve this, either. But one thing I can promise you, right here, right now...I’ll make this better. I’ll try every damn day to make your life here bearable, to give you somethin’ better. Until...”

He stopped himself, biting back the words he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear. “Until I can give you somethin’ far better than all this.”

He paused, his jaw tightening before he met your eyes again. “And no one, not a damn soul, will have the guts to disrespect you here. Not while I’m around.”

“....Not even Dutch?”

Arthur swallowed hard, but he nodded firmly. “Yeah....not even him.”

Without thinking, he reached out and grasped your hands, his touch rough but grounding. He held on like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of trust, of understanding, of...hope.

"But why though? All of a sudden? And me?"

"I...wish I knew. But I am helpless right now. Helpless against these questions and these...feelings."

His eyes searched yours, desperate and pleading, but your words cut through him like a knife.

“If this is all true, then...why didn’t your lover, what was her name? Oh yeah, Mary, who even loved you, stick around?”

Arthur flinched as if you’d struck him. His heart trembled at the weight of your words, your tone unclear, was it innocent? Genuine? Or just plain cruel?

"That...that was different."

“Okay but if she didn’t trust you enough to stay, then why should I? We’re not even-”

He moved before you could finish, his jaw tightening as he stood. With a single step, he reached for the scarf draped over the chair. Silent and deliberate, he placed it on the bed beside you, his every motion measured.

You watched him, confused and uncertain, as he pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket. He smoothed them flat and placed them in the middle of the scarf. His hands moved deftly, folding the fabric around the money with a care that felt almost reverent.

Finally, he turned to you, kneeling once more. His rough, calloused hands gently wrapped around yours, closing your fingers firmly over the bundle. His touch was warm, grounding, yet carried the weight of something far greater.

“Here, this...this is the only proof I can give you. I’ll keep fillin’ it, day by day, until we’ve got enough to leave. And you’ll keep it safe. You’ll keep it with you. It's yours. Only yours."

And I am too.

"I know...that the money is not gonna come from honest ways which you hate of course, but...there's no other way it can be done...but it will be done, alright?"

His breath hitched as he leaned closer, his shadow falling over you like a shroud. The proximity made your heart thrum unevenly, though you’d never admit it.

You stared at the scarf in your hands, his grip firm but trembling ever so slightly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up, to meet his eyes. A dozen questions churned in your mind, your heart caught between disbelief and something else you couldn’t name.

Why was he doing this? Why for you? Damn, you never pegged him for such a fool. Well...does this mean you will at least get to escape this hell if you just close your eyes and accept whatever this is?

Mhm...not bad of a deal.

It was as if he could sense the weight of your weariness. His voice softened, low and earnest.

“I just want you to greet me every time I come back…and every time I go. With that smile of yours.” He paused, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the vulnerability of his words was too much. “That’s all I ask of you...that’s all this idiot asks of you.”

And to have you in my arms every night.

The thought came unbidden, a longing too deep and too dangerous to voice aloud.

No. It was too much to ask.

You blinked at him, caught off guard, your lips parting slightly as if to respond. “Um...I don't--” You cleared your throat, but the words still wouldn’t come.

When you finally looked up, he saw it, emotions swirling in your eyes, unguarded for once. Fear, confusion, a flicker of nervousness. But there was something else, something softer, something innocent buried beneath it all. His heart, racing only moments ago, steadied as if your gaze alone could calm him.

Unable to stop himself, he leaned closer, closing the space between you. His lips brushed the top of your head in a tender kiss, one that lingered longer than it should have.

You flinched a little but didn't pull away, and that, to him, was enough. A sign of acceptance, no matter how small.

The scent of your hair, the warmth of your presence, it was intoxicating. For the first time, he felt hope unfurling in his chest. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours once more. He didn’t say anything else, not wanting to break the fragile moment, and instead rose to his feet. His shadow stretched across the tent as he turned toward the flap, his steps deliberate and slow.

And just before he stepped out into the night, he glanced over his shoulder. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

Tonight, he might finally be able to sleep.

Arthur lay down on his cot, an idiotic smile tugging at his lips as he stared at the hat resting on the table. It wasn’t just a hat, it was your approval, your silent acknowledgment, your acceptance. For the first time in a long while, he felt...hopeful.

And now, he thought, he’d finally be able to wear it.

❀˖°

The outlaw's gaze drifted to the sketches, one was complete, your softer expression, that innocent curiosity you had when your guard wasn’t up. The other remained unfinished, a portrait of your infamous frown. Not that he hated it, hell, that frown had a charm of its own, sharp and stubborn. But something about leaving it incomplete felt right. He decided it would remain that way. He didn’t want to immortalise that side of you, not in his art or heart.

Arthur reached for the softer sketch, running a thumb over the lines as if touching the paper could bring you closer to him. He studied it, his heart aching with an almost unbearable tenderness.

No, you deserved better. You deserved to keep smiling. And if it took him a lifetime to make that happen, so be it.

Hosea watched from a distance, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Arthur hugged your stiff form, bidding you farewell. He observed the way Arthur's demeanour had softened, the usual rough edges of the man becoming more relaxed in your presence. The smile and the way he tipped his hat to you before mounting the horse were enough to confirm the change that had occurred in him.

Arthur's gaze briefly flicked over to where Hosea stood, his eyes meeting the older man’s. With a small, almost sheepish nod of acknowledgment, Arthur gave a quick tip of his head. It was subtle, but Hosea had known him long enough to recognize the shift in his posture, the lightness in his eyes.

The mentor's smile deepened, though there was a softness to it that spoke of more than just amusement. It was the kind of smile a father would give when he saw something unexpected in a child, something tender, something hopeful.

It was good to see Arthur's content again. What truly surprised him, though, was that it was his daughter who had made it possible after all this time. The last person he imagined to ever do that and that made him chuckle quietly.

A match made in heaven indeed...

(AN: •⩊• u better interact for high honour++)

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dmitriene · 21 days ago

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Arthur Morgan brushing your hair in a platonic way by the fire until it accidentally turns into sex because why not

the fire's soothing scent comes from gradually burning logs that have been piled up in a circle on the ground and the branches thrown over the top, exuding an enveloping warmth over where you sit between arthur's spread, muscular legs, slotting the curve of your back against his broad chest as he divides your hair between his long, nimble fingers, smoothing and disentangling through them, sometimes forgetting about the comb that lies next to him on the log.

arthur is as warm as the fire, as if you were to put your hand down and let the bright, stretching flames burn your delicate skin, however, his warmth suffuses right into your veins, rushes through the bloodstream and stays in every nook and cranny of your body, causing you to lean closer to his chest like a cat absorbing sunlight, feeling the vibration of a rough, hoarse laugh that runs through every muscle in his body as he allows you to curl into his form and cuddle closer.

continuing to weave your strands together and then unravel them, taking a comb to run over the ends, paying attention to the small shudders of your body as he sweeps over the area of your head that gives you a scatter of goosebumps, and so on, the arcane until your hair is docile, strands no longer tangled, streaming downwards without knotting together, allowing him to put the comb aside, bowing his head forward, squaring his body and nosing in the top of your head, leaving there a soft, lower descending kiss.

your shoulder quiver, and you feel arthur's face nudging in between your hair, fingers pushing your strands out of the way, allowing him to press his chapped lips to the skin on the curve of your neck, arching to the side towards every touch and kiss, your lips parting in a languid sigh, forgetting that there are many eyes around you, unable to resist, not with the way he looks at you, hungry, piercing to the very muscles from which you are composed, when you catch a glimpse of his blue green eyes within your peripheral vision.

the orange glow of the fire smoothes the features of your face, sets your eyes on fire, softening and making them even warmer than before, and arthur is grateful that he is sitting, because otherwise, his knees would have already buckled, and he would have fallen exactly at your feet, without a twinge of conscience, without worrying about the people around you, just like now, when he covers your delicate skin with spreading, stubble tickling kisses and playful bites, making you gasp, wrenching to hide your warming face against his stretched out shoulder.

arthur can't hide the sudden spark of an arousal, resist the molten heat soaring through his stomach, the heaviness of groin, where his cock swells under the fabric and underwear, filling with blood, pressing into the small of your back, lower, where he can feel the swell of your ass even through all the layers of skirts at your dress, and his hips canting forward to chase the ghost of a plushness that hides beneath, stutter, when he realizes that this is not a place to do so, groaning low against your shoulder blade, where he nuzzles in, before gathering you up in his arms.

the low snickering and teasing from some of the men in the vicinity are just a passing buzz through your ears, as arthur carries you through the camp towards his tent with long steps, you know you're going to have to be quiet, and he's going to help you do that, because you lose and swallow all the words when you meet the gaze of his eyes, eclipsed by dilating pupils, full of carnal need, all dedicated to you, his tongue filling your mouth with greedy force and drawn out, gravelly moan.

you're all sopping wet through your undergarment, soaking beneath the skirts that arthur works on to discard, rip in sherds that would decorate the floor beneath, press his calloused fingertips against the plushness of your skin, leave the indents of his touch on you, while ravaging you whole, spread the tender lips of your cunt around the sheer, engorged girth of his cock, listen in to your hiccups of his name, before silencing you, feeling the sting of your teeth's against his shoulder, as he puffs warm breath against your sweating temple, grunts sweet names, working you to your orgasm.

main masterlist. quidelines.

#𐔌 . 𝘫𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 .ᐟ #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #arthur morgan comfort #low honor arthur morgan #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan drabble #arthur morgan rdr2

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yourspacecutie · 6 months ago

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Me and that one guy that’s not real (I’ll be the knight if I have too.)

#arthur morgan fluff #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan x reader #javier escuella x reader #bloodborne x reader #kieran duffy #kieran duffy x reader #sean macguire #sean macguire x reader #dutch van der linde #dutch x reader #john marston #rdr2 x reader #im just a girl #elden ring x reader #idv x reader #alfred bloodborne #invincible x reader

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dilf-luvr-4evr · 2 months ago

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Can you imagine how fascinated Arthur gets whenever his shy wife is ovulating 🤭 (suggestive content but mostly fluff! Still, mdni!!)

Arthur’s photo by restingmadface on pinterest <3

There’s a certain time frame every month, Arthur noticed, when you’ll get incredibly insatiable. He doesn’t quite understand it. But he’d be a damn fool to not just let it happen.

Tonight is one of those nights. Where you eyed him like a leopard, every sway of your hips full of intent.

“Hey handsome,” a greeting so sultry without you even meaning to. Your body is just exuding need in waves. Just like the vibrations of a purr.

He got shivers from your whisper. When you barely traced his arm with your fingers and your lips almost brushed his cheek, he felt ticklish all the way down to his cock.

“You think too much of me, darlin’,” he chuckled. Tried to be nonchalant about it but hell if this little welcoming act didn’t make him giddy. Let the man breathe, for Christ’s sake, he just got home! Or don’t <3

“But you are handsome,” you smiled, kneeling between his legs. Your shy demeanor was nowhere to be seen.

And he really was handsome, that delicious husband of yours. Nearing 200 pounds of muscle, juicier than any cattle. The span of his back more majestic than any bird. Kind eyes like those of a deer, as blue and inviting as a river.

“Just what do you think you’re doin’ hm?” He teased, admittedly always a bit puzzled when you’re bold like this. His thumb gently caressed your cheek as you looked up at him. You’d usually be blushing like crazy, not one to initiate anything even after years of being together. At least only very subtly.

But no no, don’t you worry. He ain’t complainin’ one bit. He’s bad enough to admit that he could get used to this. Coming home all tired to his pretty wife on her knees.

Ready to pounce.

“Been thinkin’ about you,” you admitted, hands starting to crawl to his thighs. Biting your bottom lip as if baring your canines.

May God give him strength.

“S’that right?” He drawled, leaning forward to kiss you. His eyes were full of adoration as much as yours were carnal. Your head tilted back as his hand engulfed the right side of your jaw, his fingers parting through strands of your hair like rocks do to a stream. “Need somethin’ from me?”

You answer with a hum. It didn’t take long before your kiss was pushing him down on the bed, your hand not forgetting to undo his pants. You could feel the rumble of his laugh against your lips. It’s gonna be a long night.

And Arthur’s going to wake up with scars down his back. As well as a bite mark on where his pulse lies 🤭

my masterlist

thank you for reading!! 🫶🏼

#reader is freaky 😝#can you tell im obsessed with the panthera genus #Will reader get cubs 😳#I actually love this one HEEHEE #posts this and runs #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption community #rdr2 community #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fluff

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stottlemorgan · 12 hours ago

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if u feel sad abt arthur think abt him drinking a hot chocolate and the foam clinging to his mustache and making him look silly 💔💔

Oh my Lord oh my Lord thank you for this beautiful little image I'm crYING I had to write a blurb

"Arthur, you-"

Your words are swallowed up by a bubbling giggle, a hand coming to your mouth. Arthur's eyes narrow, and as if to torture your tickled heart, his lips purse. The thick glittering cream coating his moustache slowly starts to soak into the hair, giving it a milky hue. He was thoroughly enjoying the hot chocolate you'd made for the camp but now his nerves, his dislike of being seen, have his demeanour cooling much like the drink in his hands.

"What? What're y'gigglin' at?"

"It's just-" Your hand comes to wave near your face, a trying gesture, but he remains befuddled, "You got-" A playful squeak tightens in your throat and you carefully cradle your own mug, making sure not to spill anything. Arthur glances down to your mug, and then to his,

"What- d'you put somethin' in this?"

"No-! No, no, you- you just got- You got some-" A little humming chuckle forms in your chest.

Arthur rolls his eyes and takes another hearty slurp of the warm, sweet drink, smacking his lips a little yet still failing to notice the thick cream gracing his top lip.

"If you ain't gonna answer me, at least quit lookin' at me like that."

This causes your giggling to soften into gentle breaths, your playful expression faltering slightly with confusion.

"Like what?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, opting instead to shift in his cross-legged position in the dirt next to you. He gives you a quick once over, taking in the way you clumsily cradle your mug, the flush of your neck and face from laughing, your eyes dancing with mirth. A gentle sweetness blooms in his lungs, soft vines snaking up through his throat causing blood to rush to his face. He ducks his head, his hat leaving you with just the view of his mouth. His voice quietens, yet holds a slight frustration,

"Like there's somethin' you ain't tellin' me, somethin' stupid-"

"Hey-!" You snap, light and grinning, "I been tryna tell you. You got cream on your damn face."

Arthur's eyes cross as he dumbly tries to look at his own mouth. You bark out a laugh so suddenly that he jerks and almost spills his drink.

"It ain't that funny-" He murmurs distractedly, frowning. Before he can recover or tend to it himself, you've put your mug down and crawled close to him, reaching towards his face. Before he can pull away, your hand graces his jaw, and your thumb smushes into the cream at his top lip.

Arthur's grip on his mug approaches vice-like, his shoulders solid with a surprised tension. You smile at him, your gaze dropping to his mouth, before drawing your hand back and wiping it on your clothes. You sit back on your feet with a little huff. Arthur's brow is raised, his eyes staring at nothing in particular. He blinks, his face burning, and he finds himself wanting to ask you if you're sure you've gotten it all. Yet, all he can muster is an awkward grunt, too wrapped up in the way some of his moustache has stuck a little to his skin, the way he can smell your soap.

"Thank you."

Thank you for the inspiration, I've been feeling so crappy about my writing lately and this was so much fun <3

#pen pals #my writing #arthur drabbles #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x you #stottlemorgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan fluff

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rdrclo · 18 days ago

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hellooo! i love your writing and i wanted to send you a little fluff prompt if you’re interested:)

i would love to see arthur praising and being gentle with reader as she does tasks around camp or out on mission when its hard for her.

thank you for your time and continue your great work<33

I LOVE this idea sm the second it came through i got straight to it😭

I hope this is what you wanted, i tried to make arthur really gentle and he is SUCH a kiss arse here, in the best way possible though .. lots of admiration☺️

Stitches (the good kind)

Arthur Morgan x Reader

Arthur Morgan asks for a sweet favour, and with the way he admires you so openly, you couldn't dream of telling him no.

1.8k words.

You're sitting on a crate near the campfire, needle darting in and out of a torn shirt. Your fingers move quick, the rhythm second nature after years of patching up worn fabric. Arthur watches from a few feet away, arms crossed, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

"You're real good at that," he murmurs, breaking the quiet.

You glance up briefly, giving him a small smile. "Had plenty of practice."

Arthur steps closer, crouching beside you. "Still. You're quick, but don't seem to.. nick yourself. Steady." His voice is low, admiring.

You shake your head, focused on your work. But Arthur watches the way your hands move, the way the firelight catches in your hair, and when he speaks again, it's even softer.

"Don't reckon I ever told you how much I appreciate you." His gaze lingers, warm and unwavering. "You take care of everyone. Always fixin' things— not just clothes, this whole damn camp." He chuckles, shaking his head. "I dunno what we'd do without you."

Your stitches falter for just a second, fingers tightening around the fabric. But before you can find the words to answer, Arthur reaches over, thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles.

"Just sayin'," he adds, voice low and genuine. "Ain't a soul here as good as you."

You swallow, throat tight, and let out a small breath through your nose. Arthur's hand is warm, calloused from years of hard work, but his touch is impossibly gentle. It lingers just a second longer than it should before he pulls back, clearing his throat.

You force yourself to focus on the shirt in your lap, but your fingers suddenly feel clumsy. The fire crackles beside you, sending little sparks into the air, and in the distance, you hear someone laughing—probably Sean causing trouble again. But right now, it all feels far away.

"You mean that?" you ask quietly, still not looking up.

Arthur exhales, a slow, deliberate sound, and then he shifts, sitting fully beside you instead of crouching. His shoulder brushes yours, solid and warm. "'Course I do."

There's something about the way he says it, so sure, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. You finally meet his eyes, and for once, Arthur Morgan—the man who can talk his way out of anything, who always has some clever remark ready—is silent. Just watching you.

You clear your throat slightly, suddenly feeling quite flustered. Arthur is a handsome man, with a kind heart deep inside, and of course you've known that since you met him. But you never thought of him as... a suitor, he never seemed to be one for romance, however now, there's a particular ache on your heart you're struggling to ignore.

"You ain't gotta say nothin'," he murmurs. "Just... wanted you to know."

A gust of wind sweeps through camp, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver down your spine. Without thinking, Arthur shrugs off his coat, draping it over your shoulders before you can protest.

"You're shivering," he says simply.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "You always this gentlemanly?"

Arthur grins, eyes twinkling in the firelight. "When it comes to you? Yeah. Reckon I am."

Your heart stumbles over itself, warmth pooling in your chest. Arthur doesn't move away—just sits there beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the coat.

And for the first time in a long time, camp feels a little less cold.

The fire crackles between you, casting soft, flickering light over Arthur's face. He's quiet for a while, his gaze drifting from your hands to the fabric in your lap, watching the way your needle moves through the cloth with effortless precision.

Then, as if the thought just came to him, he tilts his head slightly and asks, "Hey... can you do that thing with the patterns?"

You pause, needle hovering just above the fabric. "Patterns?"

Arthur gestures vaguely with one hand. "Y'know. The fancy stitchin'. The, uh... what's it called?"

"Embroidery?"

"Yeah, that." He nods, a little sheepish, and you can't help but smile at the way he says it—like the word itself is some foreign concept to him.

"Why?" you ask, amusement laced in your tone.

Arthur shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. "Was thinkin'... maybe you could do somethin' on my shirt cuff?" He rolls up his sleeve, revealing the worn fabric of his favorite work shirt. "Nothin' too fancy, just... somethin' to remind me of you."

You blink at him, caught a little off guard. "Really?"

Arthur shrugs, glancing away like he's embarrassed. "Yeah. If you don't mind."

There's something oddly endearing about the request, and before you even think about it, you nod. "Alright. What do you want me to stitch?"

Arthur hesitates, looking down at his wrist. "Dunno,"

You hum in thought, running your thumb over the cuff of his sleeve. "I could do a little horseshoe," you suggest, glancing up at him. "For luck."

Arthur's lips quirk up at the corner. "That'd be real nice."

You reach for your needle and thread, and Arthur extends his arm toward you, holding his wrist out with quiet patience. His hand is steady, palm open, waiting.

It's such a simple gesture, but something about it sends warmth curling through your chest. He trusts you.

You take his wrist gently in your hand, and Arthur just watches you, eyes softer than you've ever seen them.

"Hold still," you murmur, threading the needle.

Arthur chuckles, the sound low and warm. "Ain't goin' nowhere."

And as you set to work, Arthur stays quiet for a while, his arm relaxed in your grasp as you work. The firelight casts long shadows over the camp, flickering against the edges of his face, highlighting the creases around his eyes. Every so often, you glance up, expecting him to have lost interest, but no—he's watching you with quiet fascination, like there's something about this, about you, that he doesn't quite understand but likes all the same.

His wrist is warm beneath your fingers, solid, steady. You take your time, making each stitch careful and deliberate, but you can feel Arthur studying your hands, the way your fingers move with practiced ease.

After a moment, he exhales, shaking his head slightly. "Hell."

You glance up. "What?"

Arthur huffs out a small, amused laugh. "I just.. ain't never seen hands work like that. So fast, so sure," His voice is warm, appreciative, and when you don't respond right away, he keeps going. "Most folks, they rush things. Try to get through it quick, don't care how it turns out. But you..." His gaze lingers on your fingers, the needle gliding effortlessly through the fabric. "You take your time. Make sure it's done right."

You feel heat rise to your cheeks, but you keep your focus on the stitches. "S'just how I was taught," you murmur, but Arthur only shakes his head again.

"No, it ain't just that," he says, voice softer now. "It's 'cause you care. You put somethin' of yourself into every little thing you do."

Your breath catches for just a second, but you cover it by adjusting the cuff in your hand. Arthur must notice, though, because his smile turns just a little more knowing.

"You do that with everythin', y'know," he continues. "Not just this."

You raise a brow, still trying to keep the focus off yourself. "Oh yeah?"

Arthur nods. "Yeah. Always lookin' out for folks. Always doin' the little things no one else bothers with." His voice turns thoughtful. "Ain't a lot of people like that."

You bite the inside of your cheek, fingers tightening slightly around the fabric. "Ain't nothin' special about me, Arthur," you mumble, half hoping he'll let it go.

But he doesn't.

"Nah," he says, firm but not unkind. "That's where you're wrong."

You feel his gaze, steady and unwavering, like he's trying to make sure you really hear him. And when you glance up—just for a second—you see it in his eyes. The sincerity. The quiet admiration. The way he looks at you like you're something good in a world that ain't got much of that left.

Your fingers falter slightly, but Arthur doesn't move, doesn't rush you. He just watches, patient, waiting, until you clear your throat and return your attention to the needle.

You keep stitching, heart beating a little faster, and Arthur—satisfied with whatever's just passed between you—leans back slightly, a small, contented smile on his lips.

"Reckon I'll be wearin' this shirt a whole lot more," he muses, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. "Glad to know my work won't go to waste."

Arthur chuckles, tilting his head as he watches you work. "Ain't a damn thing you do that's wasted, darlin'."

And just like that, the warmth in your chest spreads a little deeper, a little fuller.

You pull the final stitch through, securing the thread with a practiced flick of your wrist before snipping it with the small pair of scissors you keep tucked away in your sewing kit. With one last sweep of your fingers, you smooth over the little embroidered horseshoe on Arthur's cuff, making sure it sits just right.

"There," you murmur, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust. "All done."

Arthur lifts his wrist, inspecting the work. The horseshoe is small, subtle, stitched in a thread just a shade lighter than the fabric. It's nothing flashy, nothing extravagant—but something about it fits him perfectly.

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Damn," he mutters, running his thumb over the stitches. "That's real nice."

You watch him carefully, waiting for him to make some teasing remark, but none comes. Instead, he just stares at the embroidery like it's something worth keeping, something worth treasuring.

"You like it?" you ask, voice quieter than before.

Arthur glances at you then, something unreadable in his eyes. "Yeah," he says simply. "I do."

The warmth in your chest spreads, creeping up your throat, and you quickly turn your attention to packing up your sewing things, trying to find something—anything—to do with your hands. But Arthur doesn't move.

After a moment, he clears his throat. "Might have to get you to fix up more of my things," he muses, rolling his sleeve back down. "If you don't mind."

You huff a small laugh. "That so?"

"Yeah." Arthur's voice is light, teasing, but there's something softer underneath it. He leans in just a fraction, lowering his voice like he's telling you a secret. "Like having traces of you around me."

Your hands still for just a second, but Arthur just smirks, tipping his hat as he stands. "Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice warm, before turning toward his tent.

You watch him go, your fingers still tingling where they'd touched his wrist. And as you sit there, you can't help but smile—because now, whenever Arthur Morgan rolls up his sleeves, there'll be a little piece of you stitched right into his life.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan fluff #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fic #rdr2 arthur #fluff #rdr oneshot #oneshot #rdr2 fanfic

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emmcfrxst · 1 year ago

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arthur is definitely the type of guy to say “let me ask my wife” whenever someone says something which doesn’t even involve his wife in any way like he is such a husband ykwim? once he is in love that man is infatuated fr fr

SOOOOOO TRUE he is SUCH a wife guy he will take literally any opportunity to remind everyone that you’re his wife pls 😭 he uses the term more often than he does your name when in conversation with other ppl he’s like “oh yeah my wife—“ and everyone at camp just sighs heavily because here he fuckin goes again

#i was literally abt to make a post saying how much of a wife guy arthur is we r connected spiritually #blvck-heretic #answered #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan imagine #rdr2 fluff #rdr2 imagine #red dead redemption 2 fluff #red dead redemption 2 imagine

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heartsickspider · 22 days ago

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(soft) arthur morgan aftercare headcanons <3

arthur immediately cocoons the two of you in blankets after sex, regardless of how hot and sweaty the both of you are.

touch, touch, touch - he wants to hold you close and feel your skin against his. gentle forehead kisses, tracing soft patterns across your body with his calloused fingers, braiding your hair, spooning, etc.

despite not being super verbal for a long while after sex, arthur will ask to make sure you're okay in that raspy drawl of his. "you alright, darlin'? i didn't hurt ya, did i?" he's a bit overbearing with it, but he just can't stand the thought of accidentally harming you in any way.

arthur always takes the opportunity to sketch you in your blissed-out and half-lidded state. pages of his journal are dedicated to drawings of you curled up in bed next to him flushed, sleepy, and content as hell.

acts of service - arthur does everything in his power to make you feel comfortable afterwards. he'll get you water or food, clean you up with a cool washcloth or draw a bath, massage your sore muscles... literally anything.

sometimes, arthur will hum softly as the two of you are cuddling.

this man definitely keeps some salve on hand for any love bites or marks he might have left on you.

arthur reads to you to help you fall asleep afterwards. he knows how much you love hearing his inner thoughts through his journal entries, so oftentimes he'll read you a recent passage. other times, he'll read from a book the two of you are enjoying together.

also, he definitely uses your chest as a pillow (he’s a silly man that loves boobs).

a/n: i love soft arthur sm, he consumes 98% of my thoughts 😔 howeverrr, i’m thinking of potentially writing some low-honor arthur stuff as well?? idk why that makes me so nervous lol, but lmk if you'd like a low-honor version of this and i will try 👀

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zae-heeyyy · 27 days ago

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Peregrine

Summary: Arthur misses your birthday. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,124 Tags: angst, smut, high honor Arthur, oral, pnv, fingering Warnings: 18+ MDNI

an: A request fulfilment for my dear Kenny @emerald-ranch. I kinda added in the birthday thing, I hope that was alright! It became clear to me as I was writing this that I 1000% have a thing for Arthur on his knees...XD anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Peregrine: having a tendency to wander

The length of Arthur’s absences varied like the frequency of rumbles during a storm. Dark clouds hung heavy over every departure, and your tears threatened to drop like rain down a window.

“I’ll be back soon,” he always promised while kissing the top of your head and squeezing you tight. Some trips were short cracks of thunder, ending just as fast as they began; others would roll on for days, the heavy rain flooding the rushing river that was your anxiety.

But in time, he’d arrive with blood, dirt, and sweat staining his shirt and the scar on his chin covered by his overgrown beard. Outstretched arms would warm you like the afternoon sun. You’d breathe him in, sighing contentedly despite scents of gunpowder and musk clinging to him.

This time was different.

The sun fell below the horizon for the fourth time since he’d departed. Glass bottles clinked as camp buzzed with the lively energy of celebration—a celebration for your birthday. You tried everything to enjoy yourself, forcing air through your vocal cords to mimic a laugh, stretching your lips and showing your teeth to fake a smile, all while trying not to panic.

All the possibilities of his absence spun in your brain in a demonic sacrificial waltz. Was he still alive? Did he get arrested? Was he captured by Pinkertons and tortured while the rest of you partied the night away? Or worse, was he out there, perfectly content with being away knowing you were desperately waiting? To keep yourself sane, you rationalized. He was out finding food and making money. He had mouths to feed and people to take care of. Survival was more important than a birthday.

Whether they were too drunk to notice or respectfully giving you space, nobody protested when you slipped away to Arthur’s tent for the night. Tears spilled down your face and onto his pillow as the last hours of your birthday ticked by.

The stench of dread infiltrated your dreams and ruminated even in your waking hours. Nothing you did could free you from the pain of missing him. At high noon, heavy footsteps prompted you to look up from the growing line of yarn in your lap. You’d memorized the sound of Arthur’s walk like your favorite song, yet the man standing before you felt like an imposter. He wore a familiar cattleman revolver on his hip and long silky locs of hair rested over broad shoulders like always–though more tame this time. And despite their vibrant colors, the wildflowers in his hands dulled in comparison to the bright white, freshly pressed shirt he wore.

And your heart plummeted like a stone in a lake; while you were crying yourself to sleep on your birthday, he saw to himself instead of you. Privy to your dismay, the cowboy’s features lowered into a frown.

“Darlin,” he started, quiet and hesitant. “I–I ain’t got an excuse.”

You huffed, losing your stitch count and refusing to meet his eyes. “The king has returned.”

Leaves and twigs cracked under his uncomfortable shuffle as he faltered, “thought we could go for a ride, to–”

And you didn’t let him finish. “M’busy, Arthur.”

Silence hung in the air while he thought of a response. “M’sorry.” He said, then continued when you didn’t acknowledge him. “I’m sorry, and that should’ve been the first thing outta my mouth.”

“Yeah, it should’ve,” you agreed grudgingly. The threads of intertwined yarn were jumbled and lopsided now, a tangled reflection of this whole week. You threw the needles and yarn down into the grass beside you and finally brought yourself to face him. He wanted to smile finally seeing you, but instead, something like a sigh of relief rolled out with his words.

“Time just…got away from me,” he admitted. “I’m a self-serving idiot bastard, and I’m just…sorry. Just lemme make it up to ya’.”

You thought for a moment, then glanced over your shoulder at Grimshaw, trying to find an out.

” But I got chores,” you told him.

“Don’tchu’ worry ’bout that.” He extended his free hand out to you, and dammit, yours was in it faster than you could deny yourself. The outlaw lifted you up from your seat with one arm and locked yours and his together as he drew you away from camp. And you had to give credit where credit was due because he pulled out all the stops: a ride in a stolen stagecoach, wine, dinner, and a room. He spoiled you in the only ways he knew how, but still, you couldn’t rid yourself of the uninvited guest, unadulterated hurt, that squatted in your bones.

“How was the party?” He’d asked.

“Fine.” You replied, pushing food around on your plate.

“Charles told me the girls managed to get you a cake.”

“They did.”

And the conversation trailed off like it had so often tonight. Every time you glanced at him, the hair, and especially the shirt, hate-filled magma churned within, and you couldn’t hold it any longer, your words spewing out like lava.

“S’a fancy shirt.”

His chin touched his chest as he fiddled with the top button. He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off for the second time tonight.

“Glad you had time to stop and pamper yourself. Nice shave, fancy hair, new shirt. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was your birthday.”

You didn’t mean to sound so crass, but now that the pot had boiled over, stopping the overflow felt damn near impossible.

“I thought–”

“Thought?” A curt laugh halted his attempt to explain himself. “It’s hard to imagine you doing any of that.”

And he hung his head, an old dog with his tail between his legs–shameful that he’d disappointed the one he loved the most.

“And you paid for a bath too. Tell me, was it twenty-five cents or fifty?”

Your chair screeched against the floor, and you jerked back before he could answer, fleeing to anywhere but that table with him. The room key Arthur gave you in the stagecoach burned a hole in your pocket. You trotted up the stairs, searching for 2C and ignoring his calls from behind you. The least you deserved was a night behind closed doors, locked away from everything, even if it meant locking him out in the process.

Warm light burst out as you crossed into the room. Lit candles lined the fireplace mantle, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. A brand new day dress draped across the chair, a decorative hair comb resting atop it.

“Saw it in a window.” His words poured out smoothly like aged whisky, the sudden sound causing you to jump but prompting the skin on your arms to prick up all the same. And you were embracing each other without another thought—your fingers intertwining behind his neck, his hands settling on your hips.

“M’sorry, sweetheart. Ain’t ever gonna forgive m’self for lettin’ you down.”

And you listened patiently while he devolved into his long-winded explanation.

“Was hoping to make a quick house call. Get in n’ out in one night, quick and easy. And I did, but some goddamn bounty hunters found my trail on the way back. Spent a day hiding out, and knew I wouldn’t make it back in time. Figured I oughta bring something nice back with me, you deserved that much.”

Your eyes drifted to the buttons of the shirt again, and he tilted your chin to look back up at him.

“I saw the dress in a window, and let the man sell me the shirt too. Wanted to be at least a little presentable–somebody you’d wanna look at. Ain’t much I can do about my face, but...”

Chuckling under his breath, he snaked a hand into yours and flicked your stuck-out lip. “Then I saw a sign outside the barber. Buy some pomade and get a free comb for your lady,” he touched his hair and rubbed the grease between his fingers.

“Then I got the key, laid everything out nice, stopped for some flowers, and thought I was prince charmin’ off to sweep you away to the ball–well, the room, more like.” He scratched his neck nervously and shook his head. “I thought you’d think a stagecoach fancy enough to make you forget how much I screwed up. No magic pumpkins ’round here though,” he shrugged. “Just an idiot, head-over-heels, hoping you can find it in you to forgive him.”

And frankly, you’d forgiven him the second you stepped foot into the room. Trying to fight your smile was a losing battle.

“You’re right about the idiot part.”

The gunslinger let out a breathy, almost laugh, before taking your hands in his and ushering you to the bed. Relief ran through you. After four long nights, you could finally submerge yourself in those eyes, blue and gold-like specks of sunlight reflecting on the sea.

“Please, forgive me, darlin’, I’m beggin’.”

Rough pads of his fingers traced over your knuckles as he waited patiently for your response. You crossed your legs and bounced your foot playfully.

“I don’t know, I seen dogs beg for scraps better than that, Arthur Morgan.”

And while your words were harsh, both of you were smiling now. He grunted, a sure sound of him swallowing his pride, then sunk to one knee, then another.

“Sweetheart,” the pet name came out thick and rich like honey, “M’sorry. Lemme fix it.”

His hands gripped both your knees, squeezing them lovingly, his touch so reassuringly familiar. He scooted in closer, guiding your legs apart and settling them on either side of his shoulders.

“I can do that thing ya’ like.” he offered, his chipped tooth smile brightening his face.

You ran one hand through his hair and brought him in by the collar with the other, pecking his lips once, then twice. On the third, you slowed down, lingering with your mouth against his, savoring the all too fleeting feeling of home. Soft giggles slipping between your lips interrupted the moment. Arthur stared up at you with nothing but devotion in his eyes, that laugh like the sweetest medicine, healing his diseased heart long riddled by self-loathing and loss. His right hand had started slow circles on your thigh, reminding you of his proposition.

“Thing I like? Don’t know what you mean, Mr. Morgan.”

But you were shimmying yourself back onto the bed, and he was grabbing at your bloomers at the same time. He lifted his brow knowingly, and hummed a “mhm,” while you lifted your hips, helping him take the garment off and toss it to the floor.

You bunched up your skirts around your waist and looked down at your lover as he lay on his stomach between your legs. His beard grazed your inner thigh, sending thousands of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Squeezing your eyes shut, you sighed in relief, releasing four nights of pent-up anxiety as his lips found your center.

And minutes later, just after letting you come down from the first one, he got to work on another climax, fingers pistoning steadily while he whispered all the things he loved about you in your ear. He was on his side next to you now, his own arousal nudging your thigh. The gruffness in his voice sent another surge of pleasure through you.

“You know, I never stop thinking ’bout you when I’m away.” You fluttered around his fingers, and your hips arched a little higher off the bed, “always thinkin’ ’bout you like this, all pretty and spread open for me.”

His thumb started fast circles on your clit, and you braced yourself for another tidal wave as his passionate speech continued.

“Next time y’miss me, get on that cot, spread these pretty thighs, think about what I’m doing t’ya, and use those fingers to getcherself off, can you do that for me?”

Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open, but only sounds of absolute ecstasy came out of you.

“Whatd’ya say, darlin’?”

And with that last question, the dam broke, your orgasm busting out around his fingers. Your sounds were the most divine opera, rising in pitch with every “Yes, Arthur,” as you melted.

And he wasn’t done with you yet. Despite being miles away from camp, both of you made a home with each other. Home was the trail of raised skin that followed his touch and pairs of eyes meeting in love-filled exchanges. Home was the first few flutters of your pussy as he sheathed himself deep inside you. One night or even a week’s journey wouldn’t deter him, for he’d claw his way through the fiery depths of perdition to get back home to you.

#wrote the last sentence in my Castiel voice lol #i thought his hands looked so heavenly in the coach pic #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 community #rdr2 arthur #read dead redemption 2 photography #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #zaefic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan angst #arthur morgan fluff #request

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