#eliza and arthur's first time

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter Six: Eyes Like Mine Next Chapter: Seven Summary: Arthur makes a trip into town, hoping to help alleviate some of Eliza's burdens and we also get a taste of Eliza' and Arthur's shared past... Warnings: Mature themes, language, spice, MDNI Word Count: ~13,500 A/N: I want to preface this with the note that I am using parts from my headcanon fanfic "Red Dead Revelation: A Good Thing" for the flashbacks. Granted the POV is altered and it has more detail and moments that weren't in the story, but I just couldn't help myself. I just love the story and I can't bring myself to reimagine Eliza and Arthur's relationship and how it was formed, etc. There's also quite a bit of spice up in here. As for the scene where Arthur and Eliza are intimate for the first time, I thought about continuing it, but I think it's nice where it ended. Would you rather have had me keep going? Let me know your thoughts!

There she is, Arthur thinks to himself. Just as fresh and brown-eyed as he last saw you. You’re calmer, but still anxious as before, your eyes focused on the path in front of you, not even realizing he has been leaning against the hitching post by the sheriff’s office. You just stepped out from the mercantile empty-handed, coming out as quickly as you went in. 

A gust of icy wind comes up, blowing your worn scarf right off your neck. “Not again…!” you groan and nearly bump into a man as you chase after it. 

Arthur feels a warmth in his belly. He never thought he’d be this excited to see you. You were a sweet, young, curious creature. A beautiful girl who interested him. You made him feel like a hero after he rescued you and it felt good to feel important after the sick blow to his heart a couple of years ago. It was about time someone noticed him, saw something different in him. 

But you didn’t know. You didn’t know that he is a wanted man. An outlaw. A vagabond. 

And that was the reason he had to leave.

He wanted to give you a proper goodbye. He wasn’t sure he could promise to see you again, but if he could have left you with a kiss, more for his memory than for yours, maybe you’d come to forgive him and maybe forget him. 

But even after a year, he couldn’t shake you out of his mind. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you.

So, after a series of robberies and plans, he found the time to sneak away and return to Utah territory. 

He can’t stay too long, but he wants it to be long enough. Long enough to explain it all to you. 

His smile broadens as he struts down the open street, walking up behind you. He can’t wait to surprise you, to see your reaction as he calls out to you. 

“Hey, brown eyes.”

Just as you pick up your scarf, you shoot straight up and he hears you hold your breath. Turning slowly, your eyes meet. 

You just stare at him, pale-faced and dumbfounded.

He chortles, resting his hands on his gun belt. "Ain’t you gonna say hello?" He can feel the tension building between you but he needs to keep his confidence. But what did he expect? Did he really expect you to come running to him? Maybe. Maybe deep down that’s what he really came here for. To see if you really missed him after all. 

But you still stare at him, and slowly, your eyebrows furrow. 

Oh, hell. She’s mad, he thinks to himself. 

He loses his smile and hurriedly takes a step toward you. "Look, I'm sorry–"

"No," you interject with an open palm. "Don't. I should go." You turn to walk away. 

No. No. No. He can’t let it go like this. Not like the last time. He messed up then, thinking he could kiss you. But it became clear that you didn’t feel that way. After all, a door slamming in his face would be enough to wake anyone up. 

He quickly catches up to you and takes your hand. You whip around to look at him quickly, giving him a sharp glare.

He swallows and speaks quietly to you, not wanting to make a scene. The last thing he needs is attention and trouble. "Come with me. I need to talk to you," he whispers.

Your eyes meet and he can already feel the pull in your arm lessening. Your eyes soften, those beautiful doe-like eyes. He might be able to see stars in them if he stares long enough. 

And if he wasn’t listening, he wouldn’t have heard the soft, “okay” parting from your lips. 

He starts to lead you gently, back towards his horse, and you follow. His heart beats a little more steady now. He just needs to find someplace quiet so that there are no nosey ears.

Once you both reach the horse, and your eyes fall on her, your eyes brighten. "Boadicea...!" you greet quietly, but still unable to contain the excitement in your voice.

Arthur can’t help but smile. "You remembered."

Eager to get going, he puts his hands about your waist, and you gasp softly. "Oh!" But you don’t resist him, so he hoists you up onto Boadicea’s back with ease. Once he makes sure you’re sitting comfortably, he steps sideways and reaches up for the saddle horn. Gripping it tightly, he hoists himself up, careful not to kick you as he swings his leg over. 

"Hold onto me," he says low and soft as he looks at you over his shoulder. He waits and feels your hands glide across his sides, followed by your arms as you wrap them about his torso. His heart flutters a bit, almost instinctively and he clears his throat to jostle his thoughts. 

With a quick tap of his spurs, Boadicea gallops through the street, avoiding pedestrians with ease.

After what feels like a long ride, Arthur pulls the reins and Boadicea comes to a smooth stop. He checks your surroundings, seeing the expanse of the mountain landscape before him from the top of the hill where he stopped. There are a couple trees nearby and he figures he can either tie Boadicea off or let her wander around to graze. 

He tries to dismount but finds you still holding onto him for dear life, your face buried in his back. He laughs and pats your hands. "You can let go now, Eliza."

He feels you untuck your head away from his wool coat and look around. You're quiet for a moment, no doubt looking around to see where he’s taken you. “I've never been here before."

"I figured you don't get out much."

"No..." you sigh, inspired by the view. "It's beautiful."

When he feels you let him go, he gets off with a smooth motion. Coming around to the side where your legs are hanging off, he extends his arms out to you. You scoot forward, leaning over and placing your hands on his shoulders. 

You feel how muscular he is as he takes you by the waist and eases you down. You avoid eye contact, lest he see right through you, as you back away. Your eyes continue to avoid his gaze as you walk toward the couple of trees on the hill. Approaching a tall aspen, you wrap your arms around it and press your body into it as you cast your eyes upon the horizon. 

Arthur feels the urge to go near you, envying that damned tree, but he waits a minute and looks at you. There is something different about you. That liveliness that he has grown fond of is now like a flame dying out. He thought he could still see a glimmer in your eyes, when you stared at him in that muddy, ice covered street, as though it was just waiting for something to help it break through.

But he knows he had something to do with it. You didn't part amicably, even though he tried. He wishes that he told you that he was leaving, but you would've asked why. And the why isn't something easy to swallow.

And you, through the silence, begin to wonder about why he brought you here.

He must be married...or have a family, you think. That's what he wants to tell me. Why else would he bring me out all this way?

He wants you to look at him, to say something. The tension building is unbelievable!

He can bear it no longer. He unclenches his fists and takes calm steps toward you. You keep your face towards the sun, your back to him as you still cling onto that tree. 

"Eliza,” he speaks softly. He’s only ever used that voice with you. He can’t find it in him to be gruff or intimidating, something he has been trained to do. It’s what he’s done to get his way, just intensify his gaze and point a gun, and boom, he gets what he wants. 

But he can’t do that with you, even if he wanted to. He has to wait, like a starving animal, hoping that he gets a crumb of your attention. 

Answering his hopes, you finally let go of the tree and turn around. Those eyes, those beautiful, brown eyes can peer into his soul, he knows it. 

So it is best to come clean. “I wanna tell you the truth. I haven't been fully honest wit’chu." You don’t say anything, your eyes simply blinking. He takes off his hat and plays with its rim nervously. "My name ain’t Tacitus Kilgore.” He looks down and licks his chapped lips, trying to will the words to come out. He’s already started so he knows that he can’t back out now. “It's Arthur. Arthur Morgan. I...lied to you because...because I'm a wanted man."

He sees your eyes widen for a second and you take a step back. Arthur feels his shoulders droop. Here it comes. 

You lift your eyes as you lean back into the tree, your hands behind your back. He doesn’t feel like anything he can add will ease the news, so he just stands there, waiting expectantly. 

“What did you do?" you ask quietly. 

He’s had an answer prepared for such a question. It is the truth, but maybe not all of it. "Rob the rich. They don't need it and so we take it for the ones that do."

Your brow pinches. "Who's 'we?'"

"Our gang. There's...four of us.” Four men. Then there’s Susan, but she’s another story. “We had to leave on account of our trail bein’ picked up. That's why I was gone."

Your brow pinches even tighter, your freckled face wrinkled as your eyes cast downward and look from left to right. You’re thinking. Was it something he said? Of course, it was. You are recalling something, the evidence of deep thought in your expression. Then, suddenly, your eyes widen and your chin lifts to look at him again. "It was you, wasn't it?" you ask pointedly.

"Was what?"

"The Bank of Lee and Hoyt."

So you know. Word travels fast, so it would make sense that you would have heard by now. "...Yes."

"Why are you telling me this?" Your eyebrows furrow and you walk a few steps away from him, turning your back to look at the landscape. "It would have been easier for you to just never come back. Now that I know who you are..."

Now, he’s worried. Serves him right for thinking that things would be different. He should know better than to get his hopes up, especially when it comes to women. "You're not going to say anythin’, are you?" he dares to ask.

You look back at him over your shoulder. He studies your face, hoping to get some kind of hint as to what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. The seconds feel like minutes as they pass between you. He has to wait for an answer. He needs to know how much time he has to pack up his things and leave.

But it is then that you shake your head slowly, a hint of a soft smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "No."

He grins slightly, relieved of your answer. He ventures to walk closer to you and you don’t move.

Your eyes follow his movements carefully. "Did you kill anyone?" you ask. 

"At the bank?"

"Yes."

He shakes his head, happy to tell you the answer. "No, I didn't. But that don't mean that I won't shoot those as need shootin’."

Your brow pinches in the most curious way again. "But why?"

Arthur sighs, empathetic to your innocent questions. You’re so innocent, so pure hearted, not altered by the world’s cruelty, at least to his knowledge. Even so, he’s confident you don’t hold a candle to his woes. Your life is too simple. "There's somethin’ you need to understand about the world we live in—and I've been in a large portion of it.” You both stand near toe to toe now, the smoke of your breath reaching his chest as he looks down at you. “This world is corrupt by greed and people starvin’ for power. Think about the war."

You nod. You weren’t born until after it ended, but that doesn’t mean you are ignorant of it. Bessie told you about the tragedy of her husband, how he was never the same when he came back and only found death as a cure to his agony, leaving a wife and son in its wake. War lasts long after it’s over. Arthur doesn’t doubt you’ve heard stories from your coworkers or even your folks when they were alive.

Arthur continues, "I don't have to tell you how unfair it is that many go hungry and without while a small few get to live it up in their fancy houses. So we got to do somethin’ about it."

It is then that your lips purse together, pouting, and your eyes flicker in anger, though your voice still calm. "And robbing banks is the way to do it? Poor people had their money stored in that bank.” You press a hand into your chest, right over your heart. “People I know."

But Arthur isn’t persuaded. He’s been raised to think the way he does. He lived with the short end of the stick for years, living hand to mouth when all he had were scraps from trash cans and a dead mother and father. What right does anyone have to take more than what’s due them? He steps toward you, sweeping his arm at the expanse of the landscape. "Do you really think it's theirs anymore once they give it to ‘em? Should the world fail, do you think they'd just give it back?"

You don’t answer. You don’t know how. He sees the puzzled look on your face and reaches for you. You don’t move away, and so he takes you by the arms and looks you in the eyes, those beautiful, earthen eyes. "You see, Eliza, I believe that there’s gonna be a day when we ain’t bound by man-made laws and greed. Where we can be free to explore and live in an untamed wilderness. We've become too civilized and with that comes more evils than ever was. We wasn't ever meant to live surrounded by stone and brick."

Your lip trembles and your eyes glisten as they look down again. You’re overwhelmed, ideas and thoughts running through your head at a hundred miles an hour. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Just so you can understand my life and what it is."

You look back up at him and as you blink, little tears trickle down your ruddy cheeks. "But why does it matter whether I do or not? You could have carried on as though you were never here.” You look away and wipe the tears with the back of your hand. “Yet, you still came back."

You’re right. For whatever reason, and he isn’t sure he will ever truly know, he came back. "Yes, I did."

He still holds onto you but lessens his grip. You move your arms and grab both sides of his coat collar and tug on it for a moment. You stroke the wool of his coat as though it were dusty as you run through the thoughts in your head. He remains still, letting you have your thoughts and to keep them.

All he can think about is how deeply he’s entangled in this life, and how dragging you into it could very well be his greatest sin. Yet, here he is, unable to stay away, drawn back to you as if roped and tied by some unseen force. He knows he cares for you. You are different from most of the women that he has known in his life. More different than the one who broke his heart a couple of years ago, a woman who couldn't love him for who he was.

Perhaps a part of him had hoped that by sharing his worldview, you might see the appeal of it. Maybe take the chance that Mary was never willing to. He wants to prove to himself that it is possible. He can have both. Love and Liberty.

You flatten your lips as you try to suppress more tears. You don’t want to come across as immature and stupid. You haven’t cried in months, you wouldn't allow yourself to do it, and now you are trying all that you can and feel yourself weakening.

Arthur remains silent. The way you clutch at his coat and choke on tears shows him how this all affects you. He begins to wonder if he should leave you alone. He's putting you at risk for even telling you his name.

"I missed you," you sob as you lean into him and bury your face in his chest.

Arthur can feel something in his chest. Here is this young, beautiful woman who is opening her heart to him. He is scared, though he'd never admit it, but he is willing to try to let you in.

With a hesitant sigh, you slowly wrap your arms around him, your face still hidden in the crook of his neck. You feel his warmth seeping into your body as he leans into your embrace, his strong arms enveloping you in a gentle hold. It's like being cocooned in a safe haven, protected from the outside world.

In response to your touch, he tightens his grip and presses his lips against the top of your head, his resistance to touching you breaking down slowly. Time stands still as you both hold each other tightly, cherishing this quiet moment between the two of you. "I...I missed you, too," he admits.

"Really?" your muffled voice sounds.

He moves away, revealing your sweet face to him. He smiles and uses his right hand to lift your chin. And then he sees them: those brown, doe-like eyes of yours. You make a small, sweet smile and the feeling in his heart swells. "Really," he answers.

You place your hands behind his neck and pull him to you.

And you kiss.

The world seems to hold its breath as your lips meet. Time stands still, suspended in the air around you. He lifts you up with a gentle strength and pulls you closer, his kiss enveloping you in warmth. His senses heighten as he inhales the familiar scent of you, amplifying the intensity of the moment. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, drawing him even nearer to you. The outside world fades away as you melt into the embrace, each second feeling like an eternity of bliss. He can feel your heart pounding, even with all of the thickness of the layers you both wear. Can you feel his? Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad if you could.

After a moment of bliss, you part, gasping for air.

"You missed me that much?" Arthur exhales. You only giggle. "I'll take that as a yes."

You nod vehemently, completely at a loss for words.

***

Arthur pulls the reins gently and Boadicea comes to a halt. He pauses a moment to watch as the sun continues to rise and peek its way through the surrounding trees and in between the buildings of this small town. He left pretty early this morning, managing to slip out from under you as you had slept in his arms last night. 

He didn’t mind it. It was a nice change compared to the hard ground he has been sleeping on. It was as though you had melted in his embrace, your expression soft and relaxed for once. 

He wishes that it was just you and the children. No one else. Just you, Isaac, Alice, and the untamed sky. He needs to keep hoping he will get you there and not listen to the nagging feeling that keeps creeping up. 

He’s afraid he can’t leave. 

Or won’t. 

How well does he know himself? Sure, he tried to leave, that ring in his pocket still burning a hole, but if it weren’t for the imminent danger you and the little ones were in, would he have really managed it? Would he have made it without Dutch or anyone else hunting him? 

He doesn’t have the time to sit around and think about it. He dismounts Boadicea with a swing of his leg and lands on his feet with a hard thud. He hitches the mare to the hitching post and gives her a gentle pat on the neck before heading toward the general store. As he walks up the wooden steps he sees two women sitting on a bench just beside the door. They eye him with soft smiles and he tips his hat. “Ladies,” he says softly. 

Just as he passes them to reach the door, they look at each other and giggle softly. He’s surprised he has that effect on civilized women. He was just being polite and unassuming. If he’s going to do any robbing in this town, he’s going to need to put on a good impression. 

But that’s not what’s on his mind. 

He lets himself in the store, hearing the little bell jingle. At the front counter is an old man, with an apron and rolled-up sleeves. He’s either the store owner or employee. No matter, he is the one Arthur needs to speak to.

But what he has to ask, he isn’t ready to ask a stranger.

But here he is, anyway. 

The old man lifts his head from whatever it is he’s doing and upon seeing the brutish-looking Arthur his eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “Oh! Well, h-hello. How can I help you?”

Arthur takes a look around to make sure no one else is in the store. It will be much easier this way. 

He swallows and calmly walks over to the front counter. The old man watches him carefully, placing both hands on the counter’s surface. 

“Yes, sir, erm…” He clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. “Erm…do you…?”

The clerk raises a brow and almost leans forward. “Yes…?”

Just come out and ask, Morgan! 

Arthur chuffs, letting a puff of air leave his lips. “Do you have bottles? For feedin’ babies?” He shifts on his feet and leans close toward the clerk. “I got a baby daughter and…”

The clerk stands upright, exhaling a breath of relief as he smiles broadly. “Say no more, sir. We have a little selection of glass bottles that you can choose from.” He moves from around the counter waving Arthur on. “Just follow me.”

Arthur follows the clerk down a narrow aisle lined with an assortment of goods ranging from sacks of flour to cans of beans. The scent of leather and tobacco pervades the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of medicinal herbs packed in small jars along the shelves.

At the end of the aisle, the clerk stops in front of a small display of baby supplies—a modest assortment of diaper cloths and cans labeled “infant formula”. Arthur pinches his brow, not having ever seen such a thing before.

The clerk gestures to a display of glass bottles. “This here what you’re lookin’ for?”

Arthur nods but points to the cans. “What’s that stuff there?”

There is a gleam in the clerk’s eye, eager to make his little sales pitch. “Only the most convenient product for mothers and their little ones…!” He reaches to take one of the cans and holds it for Arthur’s viewing. “Add a little bit of water to this, shake it real good, and you’ve got instant food for your baby daughter!”

Arthur isn’t convinced but out of curiosity, he takes the can and begins to read the ingredients. “cow's milk, wheat flour, malt flour, and potass—potass-I-um bicarb—”

The clerk pronounces it for him. “That’s potass-ee-um bicarbonate. Essential minerals for a healthy, growing baby!”

Arthur frowns. He’s known folk to use the milk from a goat or cow, something natural, but to have milk from a can? While he isn’t above chugging down a can of beans or peaches, feeding his baby girl something he can't even pronounce doesn't sit right with him.

He turns the can over in his hands, examining the label as if it might reveal some shady information. "It ain't... it ain't got nothin' bad for her, does it?" His voice is thick with concern; after all, the whole purpose of him coming into town was to get provisions that will help make your responsibilities easier. “I had fixed to go get a cow or a goat, but…” His voice trails off as he looks back at the display of bottles, still clutching the can of formula in his hand.

The clerk, sensing Arthur's hesitation, leans in closer, lowering his voice to a more reassuring tone. “No sir, nothing bad at all. It’s all tested and safe. See, it’s got the approval stamp right here.” He taps on the label where an embossed seal can be made out. "Many mothers out this way swear by it, saves 'em the trouble when times get tough or milkin' cows ain't possible."

Arthur gives a slow nod, his eyes lingering on the seal as though trying to will it to disclose more than it could. His gaze then shifts back to the clerk, a mix of suspicion and necessity clouding his rugged face. "Reckon it could save time," he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. Still, he can’t shake off the unease coiling in his gut.

The clerk clicks his tongue, eager to make a sale, but still willing to give any customer a peace of mind. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you just buy one can, try it out and see if it is something you want to stick with? Get your goat, if you want, but at least know you have an option.” He gives Arthur a good pat on the shoulder. “I’d like to help a father such as yourself.”

Arthur's hand tightens around the can, the metal cool under his grip. He nods stiffly, the lines of his face set hard like the clay soil that cracks under the relentless sun. "Alright," he grunts, "I'll take one." He turns to the clerk. “How much?”

“Fifty cents,” he answers. “The glass bottles are a dollar each.”

Arthur, looking back at the bottles, points to ones shaped like a bulb, with a wider base that curves into a narrow neck. He isn’t sure if it matters, but he reaches out and grabs two of them. “They come with the…the…”

“Nipples?” the clerk finishes. “Yes, they do. Easy to clean. Boil them in hot water to sterilize them.”

Arthur nods. That he can do.

The clerk then points behind him in the direction of the counter. “Let me wrap those up for you. Wouldn’t want the glass to break.”

Arthur follows the clerk to the counter, his steps heavy, his mind racing. The clerk slips around to the other side of the counter and grabs a fresh sheet of brown paper. “Alright, that is going to be two dollars and fifty cents.”

Arthur rummages through his satchel for the cash, nearly tossing it on the counter in front of the clerk. The man takes time to count it to make sure all of the money is there. Nodding, he puts the bills and coins in the nearby register.

Arthur watches as the clerk carefully wraps each bottle in a thick layer of brown paper, securing them with a string. The can of milk powder is placed beside them, its label still staring up at him, a quiet reminder of the things he still doesn’t know about child raising.

The clerk grabs a freshly unfolded paper bag, shaking it once to open it and after setting it down, he carefully puts the items inside. “That should be secure enough for your wagon.”

“Saddle bag,” Arthur corrects.

The old man looks up at Arthur. “What?”

“Shoah,” Arthur grins. “My mare is pretty fast. Had to make a quick trip into town before the baby wakes up. She gets pretty hungry when her eyes are open.”

The clerk's jaw drops and he sputters, "Y-you mean, you actually left your baby at home?"

Arthur nonchalantly shrugs his broad shoulders, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Yeah, where else would I leave her?" As the clerk continues to stammer in disbelief, Arthur casually reaches over the counter and grabs the brown paper bag containing his purchase. "Thanks, mister," he says with a charming grin and a tip of his hat, before sauntering out the door and leaving the flustered clerk behind. The sound of his boots echoing on the tiled floor accompanies him as he makes his way back to his waiting mount, eager to resume their adventures together.

“Hey girl,” he coos and walks over to the saddlebag. And just as he’s about to put his newly purchased goods away, he hears his name being called out.

“Arthur…!”

He freezes. What idiot is using his real name in public? He looks around, hoping to find the source of the voice.

Then he hears it again. “Arthur…!”

He recognizes it and finally following its direction, he sees the old fool that possesses it.

It’s Uncle.

Arthur lets out a groan and steps away from Boadicea. If that old man gets too close, she might just kick him. “What do you want?”

At least Uncle isn’t drunk, for his walk is more straight than sideways. His cheeks are red and his hat looks weathered, his boots sloshing in the mud. “I was wonderin’ if you’d like to join me!” He walks closer and reaches to pat Arthur on the shoulder. Not interested in comradery, Arthur motions to move away, but not in time. Uncle’s hand makes contact with Arthur’s arm with a firm pat. Uncle pauses, looking at Arthur’s muscular arm. “Woah, you sure pack punch beneath those worn-out clothes, don’t you?”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “I ain’t interested in whatever it is you’re doin’,” he growls, and his hand clutches the brown sack tightly. “I’ve got business of my own.”

Uncle looks almost disappointed, his shoulders slumped. “Well, how else am I gonna apologize for last night? Hell, if I had known she was your woman and them pups was yours, I—”

Arthur pushes Uncle aside, going back to the saddlebag. “Don’t start now, Uncle,” and he tucks the paper bag carefully inside. “I’ve been in a good mood and I don’t want it spoiled before I get back to camp.”

“Well, if you’re inchin’ towards a bad mood, where I’m goin’ would definitely flip that around!” Uncle cackles loudly, his thumb pointing towards the saloon. “I’m lookin’ for some good feminine company and the drinks are on me!” He winks, a crooked grin splitting his weathered face.

Arthur sighs. Even if you two aren’t, what folks would say, paired up, he isn’t interested in entertaining other women. “I ain’t that kind of feller.”

Uncle scoffs, as though he finds that hard to believe. “Well, I know a couple of fellers back at camp who are! Maybe I should have asked them instead of wastin’ my time with you!”

Arthur just stands there with his free hand on his gun belt, nonchalant as ever. He casually walks back over to Boadicea and mounts her without a second thought. “Maybe so, Uncle.” He pats Boadicea on the neck. “Meanwhile, I ain’t wastin’ any time gettin’ back to my family.”

With a sharp kick, Arthur sets the red mare in motion, leaving Uncle standing in the mud, his figure growing smaller as they gallop away. The sky above is a canvas of gray clouds, heavy with the promise of more rain, and the air is tinged with the chill of an early winter. He knows it. Even though it is barely October, he can sense it.

And a sudden dread fills him. He can’t have you and the babies in tents scattered about in the wilderness.

Time is running out.

Just as you feared.

***

"So what do you think?" he asks, lighting a match.

The hideout is small, as most bermed houses are. It has a dirt floor that is packed down, and two widows to let light in. The house has wooden beams to support the walls. There is a small kitchen, but no pump. There is a small cabinet with mixed dishware. A small wood stove separates the living space from where he sleeps: a simple-framed bed with a patchwork quilt with a folded blanket at the edge. He has had time to make this place a small home. If one can get past the initial look, it could be comfortable. 

Still looking around, you nod your head softly. "It's...nice." After a moment, you spot a chair near the old, wooden table and sit down, continuously rubbing your shoulders to warm up.

You feel crazy, getting on the back of his horse, in the middle of a heavy rain, no questions asked. You’re soaked to the skin and unless you’re standing by a fire, you’re not going to get anywhere near close to dry. 

You hear Arthur chortle and so you turn your head to look at his broad back as he remains crouched in front of the potbelly stove, gently blowing the flame caught on the kindling. "Just nice? This is a good place to be if you need a spot to rest after a long day of travelin’."

You shrug your shoulders, partly distracted. "Sure."

He turns to look at you over his shoulder. He watches you look around absentmindedly but knows enough to recognize when your mind is full of thoughts.

"What is it?" he asks.

You blink and pause rubbing your shoulders. "What do you mean?"

He ensures that the fire is going to continue to burn and then closes the door part of the way to let oxygen feed the fire for a little longer. He rises to his feet, grabs the small folded blanket, then approaches you. With a swift motion, he unfurls it and wraps it around you and you instantly begin to feel warmer. “There,” he says, his voice barely audible. 

When you catch his eyes, you feel a strange sensation in your face, like you’re on fire but ice cold at the same time, a walking contradiction. 

Satisfied that you won't be shivering anymore, he steps away from you, to the other side of the table, where his only remaining chair sits. Taking it, he drags it over to where you sit and lets it skirch to a stop. Going to sit across from you, he straddles the chair and rests his arms on the back of it, finally resting his head on his arms.

You find it almost endearing but the way he looks at you makes the strange feeling intensify. You’re both quiet for a moment, the sound of your swallowing almost too loud for your liking. 

Then, after another minute, he speaks softly. "You know what I mean. I thought you'd be excited to be somewhere new for once. You'd been askin’ to see my hideout, but it is clear that your mind is somewhere else."

Your brow lifts. "How did you know?"

He gives you a knowing look and smiles. "I know you well enough."

You sigh. You aren’t keen on being read so easily. If you’re going to keep this relationship of yours more hidden, especially now that you know he’s an outlaw, you’re going to need to put on a better poker face. 

Since you haven’t given him a reply, he speaks again. "You mind tellin’ me what's goin’ on?"

His voice, so warm and smooth, is like the best cup of tea or coffee, like a warm apple pie. You look at his lips and the memory of their touch against yours still occupies your thoughts. It’s nice to kiss him whenever the moment strikes you. 

But lately, you’ve been thinking about what lies beyond such an intimate display of affection. 

Then you remember Bethy’s words of advice. 

Bethy. The look on her face as you rode off with Arthur. You hadn’t told her that he was back and as soon as you saw his figure through the rain-streaked window, you rushed out the door and ignored Bethy calling after you as you took Arthur’s hand. He swung you up onto Boadicea and galloped off. 

Your eyes cast downward as the guilt floods your chest, the strange feeling ebbing away. "I don't like the way I left Bethy."

Arthur tilts his head as it still rests on his folded arms. "Bethy?"

"You know, the waitress I work with."

He nods slowly. "Oh, right."

You bend over into your lap, propping your head up as your elbows dig into your thighs. "I just took off and ignored her. She really wanted to talk to me. I've never treated her like that before, but she kept pressing me about my personal life."

Arthur’s eyes widen, his worry belying his nonchalance. "Have you told her about me?"

You shake your head in an effort to reassure him. "She knows that you're Tacitus Kilgore, nothing more."

"Well good,” he sighs, his body relaxing.

"I just wish that she wouldn't care so much about me, right now."

He chuffs. "You are nicer than me."

"What would you have done?"

"If someone wanted to get into my business I would have told ‘em off, or punched ‘em."

You look back up at him again. You sometimes forget what kind of a man he is, what kind of a life he lives. He’s told you some about the people he lives with, but not everything. "Is that what you do when Dutch asks you about me?"

He turns his head, avoiding your intense gaze. "Dutch don't know, and no, I wouldn't."

You aren’t sure how to feel about that. On one hand, you want the secrecy to remain on both sides, his and yours. On the other hand, you want him to be excited enough to tell at least one person about you. Wouldn’t Dutch be that person? "Why doesn't he?"

He shrugs. "He has his own thoughts about women, and we don't exactly agree." The way he says it, it sounds like there’s more to it than that, but he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. 

But your damned curiosity. It’s worse than your desire to be held in his arms or kissed longingly. "Such as...?"

Arthur looks up at you again, into those deep pools of amber. He doesn’t want to talk about his past relationship, and how Dutch, his mentor and gang leader, chastised him for loving someone who didn't accept their ways, who wouldn't join their cause. 

Hosea, as close to a father as one could get, was more gracious about the matter, given his own personal relationship with his wife Bessie, but they both agreed that it wasn't a good idea. And it seems the only women brought to camp share the same profession as your neighbors, in which he has never taken a deep interest. There’s too much detachment. There’s more to sex than just a warm body. He’s always wanted more than what working women can offer. 

He thought he had that with Mary, a connection that was beyond the superficial. She was a tempting beauty, with class and femininity that he found most desirable. As such, being raised on certain principles, she kept her standards selective, with the promise to only lie with the man she’d marry. And to honor her wishes, they never went beyond the passionate kiss and exploratory fondling, which took great willpower on his part to not explore her any further. 

Even so, Arthur had loved Mary and had plans to marry her, but it didn't happen, and will never be. If he were to even mention now that he is seeing a young waitress in the town that they had once hoped to rob, if it weren't for the lack of a finished bank at the time, it would complicate things.

He offers a smile. "Let's just say he thinks I ought to be alone for a while."

His answer only confuses you, which rattles your curiosity even more, but despite the urge, you decide not to press it. "I guess I always thought I would be alone," you say instead, finding some common ground.

"I don't believe you," he snorts.

You reach up and slap his arm lightly, unable to conceal the cheeky grin on your face. "It's true! Ever since my folks died, I just merely existed. I cohabit with the world but hardly live. I had to put a lot of my own dreams away while survival took precedence."

You and your words. He’s picked up on vocabulary through books and Dutch’s monologues, but never has he used them in frequency. But the way you seem to put it all in sentences, it’s more poetry than any he was ever forced to read. 

But it’s the meaning of your words that really sinks in. Dreams. He’s had them. He still has them. They’ve just changed over the years. "I kinda know what you mean."

"What dreams do you have, Arthur?"

He rolls his shoulders and readjusts himself in his chair. "You already know. To be free."

"And right now you're just surviving?"

"Sometimes.” His eyes fall to your lips, soft and red like a pair of cherries. He’s had a pomegranate once, a forbidden fruit, it was called. But it seems that that name was misplaced, it belongs somewhere else. “Sometimes I can get a taste of what freedom looks like."

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and realizes how beautiful you are. You aren’t decked out in jewelry, powders, rouge, or drenched in perfume. Just a simple, but now soaked, cotton shirt and wool skirt, with your hair in a simple braid. 

Simple. Plain. 

And somehow, you are more beautiful now than you’ve ever been, and he wants you. He wants to be with you, but he knows there is great risk involved, and not just because he is an outlaw.

He begins to feel the heat rising in his belly, the increasing rhythm of his heartbeat. He recognizes it almost immediately and knows that he’s treading dangerous ground. He quickly rises from the chair, lifts his leg over it, and moves toward the little kitchen. "You hungry?" he coughs, looking through the cupboard. "I've got beans, beans, and more beans."

You giggle, helping to put Arthur at ease. "I am alright, thanks."

He needs to change the subject, get his mind off of the road it’s traveling. "Are you shoah? I ain't much of a cook, but I think I might have some herbs in here somewhere and we can fix up somethin’ real nice."

The quick clanking of cans and rattling bags of dried beans gets your attention and you begin to study him with a raised brow. "Arthur?"

"I might even have some jerky if I can just find it." He squats down and buries his head into a lower cupboard and begins to rummage through his stores, in a desperate attempt to distract himself.

You raise your voice suddenly, hoping he’ll stop and look at you this time. "Arthur!"

It catches him off guard, and in a quick effort to back away from the cupboard, he hits the back of his head. "Ah!"

He gets out and rises to a standing position, rubbing his head. He turns to see you now standing, setting the blanket on the chair, and coming to him. He backs away. "I am fine," he assures you with a grumble, palm still rubbing the base of his skull.

You only smile softly and walk closer to him. He doesn’t move, eyes watching you carefully. You stand in front of him, shoe to shoe, and getting up on your toes, you kiss his cheek softly. You feel the prickle of his stubble, but you don’t mind. He seems to be going with that less-clean shaven look. Less baby-faced and more rugged. You go back onto your flat feet, and that’s when you notice how wet his coat is. 

“Oh!” you gasp. "You are soaked! You should take your coat off."

He swallows thickly and grumbles as he makes an attempt to turn away, his ears burning pink. "No, I am fine."

But you grab his arm, pulling at it gently. "Arthur, take off your coat."

He says nothing but eyes your serious expression and you try desperately not to smile. 

After a few seconds, he relents, letting out an exaggerated sigh, and begins to take off his coat. You don’t realize how you watch him, your eyes following his candid movements to remove his heavy coat. He grumbles something under his breath and once he’s free of it, you take it from him and turn around to go hang it up. Spotting where your coat was hung, you calmly walk to it and try to hang his coat up on the nail beside it. 

But, of course, being too short, your attempt looks rather ridiculous. After letting you try a few times, he walks over and takes the coat from you, hanging it easily by the stove to let it dry.

"Show off," you mumble playfully.

And he scoffs, keeping his chin up but still looks down at you with a smug grin. "Can't help it that you're so short."

Despite your scowl, you aren’t able to hide your laugh, nor your smirk. You swat him again. "Hey, that wasn't funny."

"I thought it kinda was."

"Arthur Morgan!" you chide.

He turns away from you, stepping back towards the cupboards and shrugging his shoulders. "What?” he asks with a lilt, bordering a whine. “Can't I laugh a little?"

You eye his body language. It’s not the confident, bold persona he usually carries. Even when you’ve been out walking together, he always has his head held high, eyes looking around. Now he can’t even look at you. "Oh, I get it."

You can hear the nervousness in his voice, despite his efforts to speak calmly and slowly. "What?"

You rest a hand on your hip, your skirt still dripping on the floor. "Now it is you who is acting strange."

He chortles dismissively, throwing his hands up flippantly. "It's strange to joke around, now?"

"I mean before that."

He turns back around and crosses his arms like a child. You try not to laugh. "I was not."

You move closer to Arthur and try to put on a front, lifting your chin defiantly. "Yes, you were."

"You're really tryin’ to intimidate me?" Arthur’s words intend to be a challenge but come out as more of a question, for he steps back and tugs at his collar.

You step closer to him and you have to look straight up at him to meet his eyes. You speak low and soft, feigning innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He looks down at you and after he swallows, you see a change in his eyes. Something darker, warmer, the ocean blue heating like a tropical sea. "You know that is what I do for a livin’, right?" he purrs.

"Sure, but I think I am making you nervous." You poke a forefinger in his chest.

Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I ain't nervous."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I ain't."

"Yes, you are,” you push.

"No."

You step closer to him, your chest pushing into his torso. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!" he shouts back.

But you keep calm, your grin far from removed. "Prove it."

He hesitates for a moment. Then in a rush of spontaneity, he takes your head in his hands and kisses you firmly on the lips. They taste of hunger, his breath shaky as your lips part just enough to feel the desperate edge of his need. His fingers, rough and calloused, brush against your cheek, sending a shudder down your spine. The world seems to fall away; it's just you and Arthur, tangled in this raw moment that feels both stolen and inevitable.

Arthur pulls away first, breathing heavily. His eyes search yours, unsure of what to say.

"Well, that was not what I meant, but that proves something," you sigh with a smile.

He looks you over, brushing some loose hair from your face. "I had to do that, I am sorry."

"Why are you sorry? You can kiss me anytime you want."

He feels himself stirring, his heart aching as he knows where these feelings are coming from. He’s drawing too close to the flames, but at this point, he doesn’t care if he gets burned.

“But what if I wanna kiss you all the time?" he confesses. 

Your hands tremble as they reach out to meet his, still cupping your face gently. The warmth of his skin against yours sends a strange electric current coursing through your body. "How do you think I feel when you are away?" Your voice has changed, no longer filled with the usual playfulness and shyness, but instead tinged with sadness and a sense of longing. It is softer, almost like a caress. You can see the pain in his eyes mirrored back at you, and you only hope that he feels just as lost without you by his side.

Arthur quickly answers, "I can't live here. I've got to go back and help my gang. Loyalty matters to them. It matters to me."

You nod, your heart sinking. "I know. I just wish..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Your mind starts to reel. You want him to stay. You love him and want him to stay and love you back. Even if it is just to live in this little hideout, you would be happy. You have been happier with much less.

With gentle yet sure movements, Arthur's hands find your small waist and draw you closer to his muscular body. The heat of his embrace envelopes you, radiating through your entire being. Your fingers instinctively find their way to the back of his neck, pulling him in for a hug. As he lifts you up, his breath tickles your neck and sends shivers down your spine. In that moment, all you can think about is how much he means to you and how badly you want him. Every nerve in your body yearns for more contact, more closeness with this man who holds your heart. You long for something more than just a kiss or an embrace. You want to give a reason to come back to you.

You lean back and Arthur loosens his arms. You look him up and down, regarding his broad shoulders and strong physique. He is a very attractive man, though somehow you feel that he wouldn't believe you if you told him.

You let your arms come down to his chest and you grab at his collar. You start to feel strange. Different. Something that words couldn't ever describe. A heavy feeling in your head, but a lightness in your heart as it begins to beat faster and faster.

You focus on one of the buttons on his shirt, hesitating, before undoing it.

As you go to the next one, Arthur, suddenly, holds down your hands onto his chest quickly, stopping you. You lift your eyes to look up at him, your face turning red.

The expression in his eyes is difficult to read. But you can feel his heart pounding. You then begin to understand. With his eyes he is asking, are you sure?

You don’t doubt his experience. He’s older and while it is a mystery, you somehow know that his knowledge of the world surpasses anything you’ve ever been taught. But even if you did know, it doesn’t deter you.

But you remain still, frozen in the moment, causing him to slowly lower his hands, thinking it is over. However, your hands suddenly rise and gently caress his face, pulling him close. The warmth of your touch ignites a fire within him, as you press your body against his in a slow, passionate embrace. This kiss is unlike any other he has received from you before—it is filled with intense emotion and a burning desire that leaves him breathless. At this moment, time seems to stand still as your lips meet and your bodies merge together in an electric dance of love and longing.

He then begins to understand. It is your answer.

And he cannot help but respond in kind.

“Eliza,” he sighs softly once your lips part again and he brings his lips to the softness of your neck. You gasp softly, for he’s never done this before, never has taken it this far.

“I don’t know what to do…” you confess.

And you feel his breath as he laughs into your skin. “Neither do I.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks. You don’t know if he is winding you up, or being honest. But his strong hands gently frame your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he looks into your eyes. "But none of that matters ‘cause I’m here," he murmurs, his voice low and comforting. “Wit’chu.”

You nod slowly and he leans in to kiss you again. Your senses are all alight all at once. The feel of his lips, the sounds of his breathing, the taste of passion and hunger, and then you feel his fingers deftly go to work on the buttons of your shirt.

His movements are careful, almost reverent, as if each button he undoes unveils a secret he’s been longing to discover. The air between you crackles with tension, each breath you take mingling with his. As your shirt and chemise fall away, leaving your skin bare to the cool night air, you shiver—not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of the moment. The gray light filters through the window, the lantern on the table casting shadows that dance across your skin, accentuating every curve and edge with a haunting glow.

Arthur’s hands pause momentarily as he takes in the sight, his eyes burning with a mix of awe and desire. It’s as if he is seeing a marvelous work, every freckle and line a revelation that stirs something deep within him. His fingertips trace the contours of your shoulder, down the gentle slope of your arm, eliciting a tremble from your lips as you watch him drink in the sight of you.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, almost to himself as his fingers linger on the curve of your waist. The intensity in his gaze is palpable, and it sends a shiver of anticipation through your spine. You reach out, hands gliding over the rough fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid strength of his shoulders underneath. "God, you're so beautiful..."

Arthur's breath hitches slightly as you pull him close, your fingernails scratching at his exposed skin. The adrenaline coursing through you wants you to work faster, but you want to take the same amount of care he is taking with you. Slowly, deliberately, your fingers work the remaining buttons of his shirt, each one released with a soft pop that seems to echo in the quiet room. Your heart pounds fiercely in your chest as fabric parts, revealing the taut muscles beneath. His skin is warm under your touch, and letting your hand glide over his pectoral muscles and chest hair, you can feel his heart pounding beneath.

You giggle. “Like a rabbit.”

Arthur chuckles low in his throat, a sound that rumbles warmly against your ear. "A rabbit, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement and something deeper, something that makes your insides flutter.

His hands are now on your hips, gripping them gently but firmly, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. His presence is overwhelming, enveloping you in a way that words could never capture. The rough texture of his hands contrasts with the softness of your skin, creating a sensation so intense it borders on pain, yet it’s the kind of pain you never want to end.

That’s when his hands move lower, gripping your wool skirt and hiking it upwards. You figure that the moment is right, sweeping away any lingering doubt with the heat of his touch. The cool air brushes against your legs, raising goosebumps in its wake as Arthur's hands explore new territories. His movements are deliberate, hands trembling, yet there's a gentleness that belies the fierce desire in his eyes.

You reach behind you to unhook the fixture in your skirt and contrasting his efforts, it falls back down and to the floor. You take a step back and gripping the waistband of your bloomers, you push them down, bending over and stepping out of them.

It is now hitting you like a crashing wave.

You are naked.

In front of a half-dressed man.

Arthur's gaze upon you is intense, a storm of emotions swirling within those deep-set eyes. The room seems to hold its breath, the only sounds are the crackling of the wood in the stove, the rain outside, and your synchronized heartbeats. He's trying to keep his cool, to not get tunnel vision, but to remain present, as the blood rushes through his head, his heart pounding in his chest. 

You want to cover yourself with your hands, the way he looks at you. But at the same time, you can’t bring yourself to do it. You stand there, vulnerable yet empowered, under his unwavering stare.

For a moment, he simply stares, his expression unreadable, the tension between you palpable like the charged air before a storm. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he steps forward. The gap that had separated you closes as if it were never there. His large hands gently cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks softly, soothing your nerves, if but for a second.

“You wanna…?” he starts, but his voice drops as he swallows. “Go to the bed?”

How is he so calm? Your heart could run out of your chest if it wasn’t contained in breath and bone.

You nod, unable to speak.

And he nods. “Okay…” And in a gentle motion, he sweeps his strong arm underneath you and picks you up, cradling you in his arms as though you were a fragile, little thing.

The room blurs slightly as Arthur carries you towards the bed, each step he takes pulsing through your body with a rhythmic thud. The earth sod floor is soft under his weight, adding a soothing soundtrack to the swirling emotions enveloping the space. You can feel his heart beating against your side, strong and steady, a reassurance in the storm of your own rapid breaths. You're laid upon the bed, his hands never leaving your body, tracing lines across your skin as if to memorize your form. The bed creaks under the shift of weight, and for a moment, there's a settling silence that drapes over both of you.

He rises to stand erect, and you watch his hands go to his gun belt and he slowly begins to remove it.

You feel the blood flush from your face. You know what it is coming next.

You’ve never seen a fully naked man, not even in pictures. You’ve heard tell of sculptures of nude people in art exhibits, but you weren’t ever sure how to picture them. You’ve seen male babies, when you helped babysit the Thurmon twins, but that is far from what this reality is becoming.

You quickly turn away, gasping.

Bethy’s voice echoes in your head.

You aren’t ready.

You aren’t ready.

Was she right? Are you?

Cutting into your thoughts, you hear his voice call out to you. “Eliza…” His tone is soft, laced with a concern that makes you turn back to face him. He’s standing still, gun belt in one hand, the end of it hanging loose by his side. The lamp light casts shadows across his face, deepening the lines of worry that crease his brow. “You don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t wanna do.”

His words drift through the dimly lit room, muffled slightly by the pounding in your ears. You look into his eyes, finding an earnestness that steadies your fluttering heart. "I want to…I just…" you whisper, your own voice sounding foreign amidst the creaking silence of the old room. Your eyes go to his waistline. “I’m…scared, Arthur.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, tremulous and uncertain. The admission feels like a release of some pent-up storm within you, its winds now sighing across the room where only the two of you breathe.

Arthur steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours. He carefully places the gun belt on the trunk at the foot of his bed.

He approaches the bed slowly, his movements deliberate, as if he’s trying to give you the time to change your mind. “It’s all right, Eliza,” Arthur soothes, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet room. “Ain’t no hurry. We can just talk, or…” He feels a sinking feeling in his chest, a contrast to the tightness he feels in his pants. He tries his best to conceal it, and thankfully, you aren’t looking in his direction. “…or just be together like this. Ain’t nothing needs to be rushed.” He hesitates before his hand reaches out towards you, an invitation hanging silently between you both.

No. That isn’t what you want. You don’t want the moment to be over. You feel stupid. Stupid for being a coward, for not keeping your mouth shut and just let him take the lead.

You shake your head and begin to curl up in a ball, feeling more exposed and foolish than ever. “I’m so stupid.”

“No…!” Arthur goes to the bed and sits down. You feel his warm hand on your arm and he gives it a gentle squeeze. “I was tryin’ to be shoah that you was…” He sighs. “It’s my fault.”

“I ache,” you confess, your hand and arm instinctively going between your thighs. “I feel things that I…” You turn and hide your face in his pillow. “I want you to touch me. To do things. My head feels hot and cold and I…” You feel tears sting your eyes. “I ruined it. You don’t want me now.” It is then you hear him chuckle, making you feel confused. You look up at him to see him smiling at you, shaking his head. “What?”

“Darlin’,” he purrs. “You have no idea how hard it is to keep from wantin’ you.” He runs a hand over his face and you see the tips of his ears turn hot pink. “I’ve touched myself imaginin’ it’s you…”

His brazenness shocks you and you hide your face again.

Arthur laughs at his own embarrassment but it softens into a tender, deep chuckle that fills the small space between you. "Eliza," he murmurs, and the way he says your name stirs something fierce and longing within you. His hand moves from your arm to gently cup your cheek, coaxing you to look at him. His face is tender, the roughness of his life on the frontier softened in this moment of intimacy. "You ain't ruined nothin'," he assures you, his thumb caressing your cheek. "If anythin’, you bein' honest only makes me want’chu more."

You dare to meet his gaze, finding earnestness in those stunning eyes of his.

The vulnerability in his expression gives you a courage you didn't know you had. By some instinct, you rise to sit up and your hand reaches up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw with a trembling finger. His skin is rough from the wind and sun, yet his eyes hold a gentle warmth that makes your heart beat faster.

"You mean it?” you ask.

He nods. “Can’t lie to you.”

Your heart still beats steadily, but the heat slowly returns once again. Do you feel safe with him? You’re as bare as you can get and still, he hasn’t tried to take advantage of you. He isn’t Willy, or any of the men who have given you odd looks. For someone who is deemed a criminal, he has treated you with more tenderness and human kindness than most folks who claim to be law-abiding. It's a strange dichotomy that keeps your mind spinning as much as your heart.

As you sit there, his presence enveloping you like a warm blanket, he shifts slightly, closing the small gap between you even more. "Eliza," Arthur whispers, his voice low and warm. Your eyes remain locked with his pools of marine as you remain still, letting him draw nearer to you. Your breath hitches when his arms graze your skin as he supports himself to come even closer. He leans in and, sensing no resistance, he kisses you tenderly. He exhales slowly, and you feel yourself relaxing, as though put under a spell. 

Parting, his lips follow your jawline to your neck. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you…” he whispers, and you feel his hand go to your thigh, letting his instincts take over, gently caressing your skin upwards. “Or I will stop.” Though he prays that you won't. 

His breath against your skin and his hands on your thigh sends shivers down your spine, and you tremble under his touch. Your body is already giving its answer before you can respond.

But you manage the words. “I do…”

And that is enough.

***

A sudden chill stirs you to awaken and your instincts kick in fully. You rise, pulling the wool blanket off of you. Your son isn’t here with you.

As your eyes adjust, you focus on the crib on the ground. And your heart sinks in your stomach.

Alice is gone. Panic surges through you like wildfire. Your breath comes in shallow gasps as you spring to your feet, the cold wooden floorboards creaking under your weight. "Alice!" Your voice is a desperate whisper, afraid to shatter the oppressive silence that has enveloped your small shelter.

You hurry to the canvas flap, ripping it open, and frantically scan over the camp. Your hair is unkempt, your feet bare, but you could care less.

Everything looks so calm. Why isn’t anyone frantically looking for your children? You haven’t expected anyone to share the load in looking after them, but you had hoped they had more common decency than to ignore a child’s absence. You stumble forward, each step sharp against the cold earth, your eyes darting from tent to tent.

"Isaac? Alice?" Your voice cracks as it rides the wind, finding no answer but the echo of your own fear. Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat growing louder and louder.

Then you hear laughter.

Child’s laughter.

You follow the sound eagerly, passing by Pearson as he chops up some rabbit meat. You walk around another tent and there, sitting on a log, is Arthur, hunched over, with Alice in his arms as Isaac leans into him and watches his little sister.

And Arthur’s feeding her.

You don’t recall ever purchasing a bottle. You never thought to. You have always been there to take care of your little ones. You’re confused, and it's a confusion that twists into a knot in your stomach. How did he get a bottle? The thought is quickly pushed aside as relief floods through you, seeing both of your children safe and sound.

Arthur looks up, catching your eye. His expression is unreadable for a moment before a slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “She’s eatin’ pretty good. Stopped by a dairy farm on my way back…”

You just stand there, trying to catch your breath and blink away the tears before he can tell how worried you’ve been. He gestures for you to come closer with a tilt of his head, and you do, your feet moving on their own accord. The tension in your body eases as you approach them, the sight of their innocent faces erasing the terror that had gripped your heart moments ago.

“Oh?” Your voice is soft, almost inaudible, words hardly coming easily to you.

He nods. “Yeah. Just thought…” His voice trails off as he looks at his daughter. “Just thought I’d help out a little. Your hands are full all the time…”

Isaac looks up at you, beaming brightly like the morning sun. “And I can feed her now, Mommy!”

Your heart swells with a mix of emotions. Pride in Isaac's newfound responsibility, relief at the sight of your children safe and smiling, and an underlying current of frustration that Arthur had taken such liberties without consulting you first. But the comfort of seeing them all together, a semblance of a family, dulls its sharper edges. “I guess you can now.”

Arthur looks up at you again, his eyes softening. “I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t wanna overstep, but—”

You cut him off simultaneously along with your own thoughts. “No, Arthur. You’re her father. If you want to be a part of her life and help, why should I be the one to stop you?” His gaze lingers on you, searching for any trace of insincerity. Perhaps he finds none, for he nods slowly, a shadow of relief passing over his features. Then his attention shifts back to Alice, who is now peacefully relaxed in his arms, her suckling now to a halt.

You watch him as he takes the bottle away and sets it down between his feet. 

And just as you’re about to open your mouth and tell him to burp the baby, Arthur begins to carefully lift Alice, still cradling her head in his large hand. He lays her against his chest, with her little head peeking over his shoulder. She begins to grunt and wriggle but his hold remains firm, but gentle. After getting himself comfortable, he begins to pat her back in a steady pattern. You watch as he listens to her, waiting for her to burp. 

After a few seconds, he looks up at you, his brows raised. “Ain’t you gonna tell me if I’m doin’ it right?” He chuckles. “Or wrong? I ain’t the expert in this.”

“Neither am I…” You swallow, then clear your throat. “You’re doing fine.”

He relaxes at your words and his smile broadens. “That’s a relief.”

And to validate his statement, Alice lets out a deep burp. Arthur is caught by surprise, his eyes widening. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

Alice scrunches her little legs as she lets out another burp. Isaac giggles, covering his mouth. “She burped again…!”

Arthur supports Alice as he brings her away from his shoulder and sets her in a sitting position on his lap. He looks at her eagerly and Alice tries to look up at him and when their eyes meet, she smiles. 

“Hey, there…!” Arthur coos. “You done stuffin’ your face?”

Alice breathes excitedly, hungry for engagement. 

Arthur nods. “I thought so.” He turns to see Isaac trying to get a better look and he leans on his side towards his son, bringing Alice closer. “You wanna say hi to your brother?”

Isaac reaches up to take Alice’s hand, her fingers readily grabbing onto his forefinger. “Hi, Alice!”

Alice smiles again and coos, wriggling in Arthur’s hands. 

You feel another chill and are suddenly reminded of your bare feet and cold hands. You shiver and hug yourself tightly. You could leave to grab a coat and put on your boots, but you can’t bring yourself to leave. 

Arthur’s eyes meet yours again and his smile falls. “You’re shiverin’,” he speaks, his voice softer than the breeze that chills you. “You can borrow my coat, if you want.”

You shake your head. “No, that’s okay, Arthur.” 

“Do you need me to buy you one?”

You shake your head again, your stubbornness coming out. “No, I don’t.”

Isaac stands straight up, his eyes bright. “I’ll go get it, Mommy!!”

Before you can protest, Isaac dashes off toward the direction of your wagon, his small boots kicking up dead grass as he runs. Arthur watches him go with a fond expression, then turns back to you, his face etched with concern.

"C'mon, Eliza," he urges gently, shifting Alice to one arm so he can extend the other towards you. "Don't be stubborn now. It's cold out here and it ain't good for you."

You relent, moving closer to accept Arthur’s outstretched arm. You feel his gentle pull and go to sit down beside him. As he drapes his arm around your shoulders, warmth seeps into your skin from his body, comforting yet reminding you of the many nights spent alone, questioning where he was, if he was safe. The weight of his presence is both a relief and a stark reminder of the precariousness of your lives intertwined with his outlaw ways.

Arthur's hand rubs your arm, trying to generate warmth, his fingers brushing past the fabric of your dress. "Better?" he asks you and as you turn to look at him, you find that your mouth is very close to his.

You can see the smoke of his breath, the color of his eyes. You’re so close, yet so far away.

You quickly look away, reaching over to your daughter to adjust the blanket that he has wrapped around her. “Yeah,” you exhale. “Better.”

The silence that follows is thick, laden with unspoken words and tension that you could almost reach out and touch. As the quiet stretches, Arthur's gaze lingers on you, searching your face for something —perhaps forgiveness, or understanding, maybe even reassurance that despite everything, you still want him here.

Suddenly, Isaac returns, dragging your coat but not for lack of effort to carry it in his arms. “Here, Mommy!”

You put on a smile and quickly rise to your feet. Isaac holds up the coat for you, and you gladly lift it to slip your arms through the sleeves. You feel warmer now, but your feet are still neglected.

You turn to look back at Arthur. Whatever moment was blossoming, it is gone now. “I’m going to go put on my shoes,” you say. “I can take Alice…”

Arthur doesn’t move. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep her a little longer.”

You nod, understanding the unsaid words between you; he needs this time as much as she does. Without saying anything, you leave Alice with Arthur and walk back towards your wagon. Isaac, sensing the shift in mood, falls into step beside you, his small hand finding yours.

***

“What you got there?” Hosea’s familiar inquisitiveness gets Arthur’s attention and he turns to look over his shoulder.

“Just a baby,” Arthur answers casually.

Hosea clicks his tongue. “I don’t think that’s just any baby, is it? Didn’t take you for a kidnapper, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckles at his father’s joke and looks back around to the baby in question. “No. I ain’t that.”

Hosea sits down beside him with a soft groan and pats his leg. “Can I see her?”

Arthur nods, his eyes softening as he gently shifts Alice in his arms to give Hosea a better look. The old man's face wrinkles into a smile as he peers down at the sleeping child.

"She's got your eyes,” Hosea remarks, his voice a whisper as if afraid to startle her. “Thank God she’s blessed with her mother’s looks otherwise.”

Arthur studies his daughter. It’s true she has her mother’s hair and chin, but he can’t help but feel like he sees himself in her. Isaac takes mostly after you, aside from his hair and desire to grow up too fast. Maybe that’s a good thing. The more he sees of himself in his offspring, the more anxious he feels. “Yeah, good thing.”

Hosea senses the shift between them and places a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I was only kidding, son.”

“I was hopin’ you wasn’t.”

Hosea leans back, studying Arthur. “You mean to say you don’t want her to be yours?”

Arthur quickly turns his head, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “Hell, no! That ain’t what I��m sayin’!”

Hosea holds up his palms. “Alright, alright, Arthur. I believe you. Just figured any good father would be proud to see himself in his little ones.”

Arthur looks down at his daughter, who is still looking up at him, her eyes still that dusky baby blue. He knows enough to understand that they change, like Isaac’s did, from the grayish blue into the amber brown that match yours. Maybe Alice won’t have her father’s eyes after all. 

“I ain’t like most fathers,” he says soberly. 

Hosea clicks his tongue. “No, I suppose you ain’t. But not many fathers are making the effort like you are.”

“I should be doin’ more,” Arthur confesses, the words heavy as they leave his lips. “Eliza, she…” He swallows thickly as he looks at the chubby-cheeked face of his daughter. “She needs more than what I can give her.”

Hosea gives Arthur a pat on the back, the gesture firm yet comforting. "She needs you, that's the most important thing. And you're here now, ain't that worth something?"

Arthur shrugs slowly, his gaze lingering on Alice's calm face. "I just don't want ‘em to live the life I was thrown into. They got a choice and I want them to have somethin’ different.”

“What about you?”

That question has many meanings and Arthur is afraid of all of them. He swallows. “What you mean?”

Hosea’s eyes are gentle but piercing, like he's digging for something deeper within Arthur. “What life do you want for yourself, Arthur? You think that you can’t choose something different?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably, the weight of his father’s question stirring an uneasiness within him. “It ain’t that simple.”

“Sure it is.”

Arthur feels his hackles rise and tries to keep his voice calm for the sake of his daughter. “You tried to leave, and look how that turned out…! You’re still here, and Bessie’s dead!”

The words cut through the air sharper than any bullet could, and for a moment, everything seems to stand still. Hosea’s expression hardens, his eyes losing their gentle probing and settling into a deep sorrow. There's a painful history there, one that wraps itself like a noose around their interactions, tense and suffocating. Hosea hasn’t touched a bottle in a few weeks, but now, with Arthur’s harsh words, the temptation might tug stronger than before. Hosea’s hand, trembling slightly, lowers to his side as he takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“You think I don’t know that?” Hosea’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “You think I don’t feel that every single day?” He pauses, collecting himself before continuing, his voice steadier now. "But Arthur, living with regret ain't the same as making a change. We've both seen enough of this life to know it's no future for the little ones." He nods toward Alice, who remains blissfully unaware of the gravity surrounding her. “Why would it be that way for their father?”

Arthur looks down at his daughter, blinking away at the guilt that threatens to leave his eyes. “They ain’t the only ones who need me.” His voice is barely audible above the soft wind. The words hang there, heavy with unspoken truths.

Hosea nods slowly, understanding more than Arthur might wish he did. "That's right, son. Everyone seems to depend on you. But so does Eliza."

The mention of your name stirs something deep inside him. The memories of moments that you both shared before any of this ever happened. Oh, how he wishes he could go back, maybe find an easier way to disappear.

But he can’t.

Arthur struggles to find the words. “I just…I can’t…”

Hosea places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “When it comes down to it, who would you choose? The gang, or your flesh and blood?”

Is blood thicker than water? What does he mean when it comes down to it? Does he see something that Arthur doesn’t? Sure, things aren’t ideal, but they aren’t in any immediate danger. They left California before any law got their scent. You are safe. Your children are safe.

The only enemy right now is the weather and the ever-present desire to be free. Hosea leans close, lowering his voice. “If Eliza and the children had died, would you have regretted your choice?”

Arthur doesn’t have an answer. “I…just can’t be two people at once.”

Hosea's eyes narrow, his face creasing with years of wisdom and untold stories. "No one is asking you to be two people, Arthur. Just the right one." His words cut through the cool air like a blade, precise and with intention.

The right one. “And which one is that?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.” Hosea rises to his feet. “You may have others fooled, but you’re smarter than you like to let on.” He looks down at the bright-eyed baby and smiles softly. “She’s truly something, that one.”

And with nothing further to say, he walks away.

Thank you for reading! I look forward to hearing what you think!

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark - I

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: In which Arthur catches a glimpse of your intimacy, the vision driving him into madness until he finally decides to give in to his urges. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation, nudity, voyeurism (reader not aware he's staring), self-depreciation, and lots of shame from this poor man. Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 2,7k Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Part I - Part II

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He couldn’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac amongst others, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John painted with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed from the start by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

He couldn’t sleep because of you. 

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes then.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent.

For some unknown, mystical reasons, Miss Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you were a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place. Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthur knew you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read, or write, or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

The first night Arthur had noticed, he had come back exhausted from a job in the middle of the night and laid on his cot without even taking the time to remove his boots or hat. A very usual and typical slice of his life, which lately felt more and more like a terribly used one. As if all these slices were repeating again and again. An accumulation of jobs and missions and robberies and fights; deceiving, lying, stealing, killing. Over and over again, going round and round. At night, he was reduced to a slumbered mind in a spent body, that was definitely becoming old and rusty. Already half asleep, mud and twigs surrounding his tired limbs, his thoughts all tangled up like a ball of wool, he had turned his head to his left, reaching from instinct for his pack of cigarettes on the little table next to his bed. Another slice of bad habits from a bad life.

That’s how his eyes had met with this quite erotic shape displayed on your tent.

Said eyes had grown so big that it had fully woken him up all of a sudden, as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of iced water on his shocked face. After half of a second of pure stabbing surprise and incomprehension with his hand hanged in the air, his breath stuck in his throat as if really being punched in the gut, he instantly turned his eyes back to the ceiling of his own tent. Cheeks burning red, heart pounding, as if someone had caught him in the act of doing a terribly shameful thing. Exactly as if he had really seen you naked.

He had feverishly grabbed the cigarette pack without looking at it, gaze refusing to turn again, these two blue diamonds locked on the ceiling of his tent, and had messily pulled one out of it, his shaky fingers fumbling, almost spilling everything on the ground.

He must have looked so damn ridiculous.

The smoke helped him to calm down, its soothing and comforting feeling spreading and burning through his lungs. He had fallen asleep, turned to the other side facing the wagon, trying not to think too much about the peek of your intimacy he had witnessed, telling himself it probably was going to be an isolated incident. 

But of course, of course the Lord had to torment him even in the rare moments of peace he could have enjoyed.

Turns out this was apparently a habit of yours. 

To be honest, he probably deserved to be tormented. But this was years from what he had in mind when it came to the Lord's punishment for his life of crimes.

And Arthur, even though a hardened man in many ways, able to lock lips during torture, kill men with bare hands, and stay emotionally strong in any kind of situation, was still only, after all, a man. A man with needs.

Filthy, disgusting needs.

He had tried to resist. Had tried not to let his eyes slip in your direction like that first night. Sometimes he would allow himself a quick glance, just to check if you were wearing any clothes for once, like a normal person. And maybe the night after would be different? Every evening spent at camp, his pupils would end up brushing the sinful silhouette in just a soft, slight sight, as if not to scare you, as if not to feel too bad about it.

But it was getting harder and harder not to stare. The easy lies about just checking on you or looking at anything else in the same area as your tent to have the chance of winning a glimpse of you would soon not be enough.

Just the mere fact that he knew you were completely bare, only a few meters away from him, singly the thin and superficial fabric of the tent between the both of you, was getting him hard and sweaty, and making his blood boil as a virgin teenage boy would. He could almost physically feel it, like a burning presence in his back when he was sleeping head against the wagon's wall.

The Human mind may be well designed for a lot of things; it forgets an event too hard to carry or can trick you into thinking you're not experiencing any physical pain in extreme situations. But Arthur had learned that it was extremely poorly made when it came to ignoring something. The more he was trying to not think about his unholy urges, the more he ended up being plagued with them. As sure as the seasons always turned in circles, you would come back to his effusive psyche.

And Oh, he was ashamed. Ashamed and revolted by himself. This was absolutely not in his habits, all the contrary. Yes, he was an old miserable bastard who had killed and plundered. But for God's sake, he had never acted obscene towards a lady before.

But the shame wasn't enough for him to stop. On the nights when the guilt was at its lowest —when the tediousness of his days was nibbling at his patience, he had let his eyes wander to your sinful figure, telling himself that maybe if he did, he could just go on with his night and finally rest. Just a quick taste, not too long.

But it only made things worse. It made him dream of you. 

Dream of you stripped, his imagination taking the lead of what the tent’s fabric was preventing him from seeing. Dream of you moaning, taking him so tightly, welcoming him in your warm body and into your arms. Dream of the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, of the sight of your naked body squirming with pleasure. He would now often wake up frustrated and angry, if he had succeeded in sleeping at all, his member hard and throbbing on its own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest as if it had been real. His pants and blanket had even been damped one or two times. 

What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy again? He was so angry and mortified by the physical obsession his body was having with you that he was constantly in a foul and fiery mood;  bitter with everyone, his tension leaking into every movement and every word he spoke. He started missing targets when shooting, getting even more reckless and hot-headed during jobs, jobs often ending up missed or taken care of negligently, yelling at people when they weren’t fast enough, or clever enough, or silent enough, breaking things, breaking rules. The lack of sleep was making his deadly efficiency fade away, replaced by sloppy and messy gestures, stopping enemies from falling dead at his feet like his lethal skills always did, castrating the only thing that was left of his masculinity.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching you from afar during the time he was at camp, telling himself he knew, or at least had an idea, of what you looked like without these clothes on; feeling a twisted sensation of pride imagining he was the only one who did. On top of that, your sweet personality and beautiful face weren’t helping him at all with his addiction. Filthy old bastard, stop it- he had to mentally slap himself to prevent staring at you for too long, especially staring at your chest that this goddamn dress you had chosen to wear wasn’t covering at all; or your ass these goddamn pants were fitting way too well.

Tonight, Arthur is avoiding going to bed too early. He knows he would just lay in it waiting for you anyway. Instead, he goes for a walk along Flat Iron Lake’s shores, bringing his journal with him. Two entire pages are already dedicated to your shadow. He had no idea a picture exclusively made of black and white flats on a sheet could have such a powerful erotic effect. Or maybe he is a complete degenerate —which, he is sure, is more and more true.

He has to be honest with himself, he could just go to a hotel, or out of camp for a few days to sleep under the stars, and the matter would be settled.

But he doesn’t want to. Because deep down inside, his urges are winning, making him feel like the most foolish and weakest man alive. He enjoys watching you. He enjoys seeing those forbidden plumped curves cast on this canvas. He feels like you're not leaving him any mercy, pitiless, his days dictated by the wait for his taboo rendez-vous, his nights by your sensual apparitions in his dreams.

He is trapped, you have completely tamed him, and irony of it all, have absolutely no idea you are making him feel like this.

This woman is drivin' me insane.

After a few hours on the cold shore's sand, his fingers only capable of creating quick little sketches and scribbles, his feet lead him back to camp. What a surprise. He finds most of the gang's members already asleep, apart from the ones on guard duty and some late campfire enjoyers talking about life, about love, grief, the future, the past. He briefly nods at them without a word and walks to his private space. He already knows what’s waiting for him there, your tent looking like it’s still illuminated, his thoughts and body avid for it.

No, don’t be a fool, Morgan.

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day, as all the other ones, as always. Scratches his beard and his ears with a sniff, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing once again on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to sleep properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep from time to time to keep the engine of his body turning, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly. 

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

Your shadow looks so perfect. He takes his sweet time to notice every detail of it, enjoying to the maximum his sinful behavior, now that he had succumbed to it. How you’re laying on your back, reading your book with your legs crossed. The curvaceous shape of your body looks divine to his insatiable gaze. Your hair messily tangled around your head. The silhouette of your chin and throat making him hungrier than any feast he could have attended. Your belly, rising and falling with your chest and breasts, gives the shadow an organic appearance. Your delicate legs, from the base of your thighs to your calves, to your feet, your toes mindlessly curling as you get lost in your story. And of course, the blurry outline of what was between them…

Damn it.

His hand quickly reaches his belt, unbuckles it,  fiddles with his pants, opens them carelessly in an urgent grip. He spits in his palm, lashes out at himself when the desire of it being your wetness instead crosses his mind, and slips it between the buttons of his union suit. It finally wraps around his desperate shaft, gorged with blood, and he wonders if he already had been this hard before.

The moment he feels the pressure of his own fingers around it, he can’t help but sigh deeply through his nose, and has to physically block the groan he was about to let out.

Make no noise, moron.

He bites his lips to stop any other immoral sound from crossing through his mouth. Last thing he needs right now is to get caught. He slowly rubs one languorous time from up to down, then up again, his fingers brushing his swollen head right where he needs to. He instantly knows he won’t last. He had dreamed about this, about you, both during days and nights. His eyes are locked on your tantalizing silhouette, this deiform delicious flesh. Goddess of the night, Queen of his desires.

His hand rubs once again and his muscles tighten. He starts to stroke in a rhythmic pace, his moves are efficient, messy, careless. He masturbates the same way he takes care of himself —quickly, roughly, as if matching his disgust towards his own self. The exact opposite of what he would do to you if he could. This is pure physical relief.

Yes, God, yes…

Your name turns in his mind between blasphemous curses as he pleasures himself, stroking faster and faster, delightful warm sensations spreading through him. Finally. The burning is no longer in his back or mind; it's right there around his erection, flames licking all around it.

He wants to be able to join you there, so badly. He wants to discover the tone of your bare skin in those places you never show to anyone. He wants to whisper sweet things in your ear and you to sigh back, your voice high and softly shaking from pleasure. He wants the lewd intimacy, the shared tension and the electric, exciting touch of two foreign skins discovering each other for the first time. He wants to see your hardening nipples he can only have a glimpse of through the fabric. 

He wants to have you, to take you, consume you, all to himself. He wants you to think about him the same way he is now, wants you to come while thinking of him, only him, your mouth to moan, whimper, scream even, all thanks to him. 

He wants your hand instead of his, around his cock right now, pressing harder, moving faster.

Yes, yes, jus’ a bit more darlin’… -

A movement from you, a real one, makes his pace slow down and his heart stops, afraid you might have by some sort of divine knowledge understood what was happening. But you’re just shifting in your bed, positioning yourself on your belly with your book open against your pillow, and Arthur’s balls spasm; he now has the most perfect view of your ass, its gorgeous, decadent round and plumped contour making his member twitch in his fist.

Ahh, shit… So god damn perfect… 

Pearls of sweat leak from his forehead to his neck. His ears shut close to the outside world, his surroundings completely disappearing. Now, there’s only you and your perfect back beautifully arched ending with your perfect bottom and him, and no one else’s on Earth. His breath is jerky, his entire face completely crimson, his fingers pumping so hard and fast he’s basically fucking his hand —your hand, with those wet and unmistakable noises filling the air.

His breath speeds up as Arthur feels his deliverance coming, blood rushing in his veins. He sees himself behind you grabbing fistfuls of your cheeks, he sees his erection diving deep between them. And it's the last straw. His brows are crunched in an exquisite expression of pure sexual delight, jaws so tensed he’s about to break his teeth, your pleasure-filled voice screaming his name in his head, dragging every sensation out of him. His orgasm hit him with the strength and speed of a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of satisfaction striking every fiber of his body.

 Yes! Yesss  —Damnit! 

He comes hard with a low and throaty growl he forgot to —or couldn't repress, silently repeating your name again and again, his lower lip almost cut open from how hard he had bit himself, an enormous vein on his forehead where sweat covers his skin. His thick, hot cum spills messily in an indecently large amount, the aftermath of having held himself back for so long, leaking on his pants and fingers and staining his cot; a dash of white contrasting with the darkness of what he just did.

He’s praying to the Lord and the Devil, any mystical forces known to man, that nobody had heard his final relief sound, especially not you. It was louder than what he would like to admit.

Shit, so damn good…

Using his black bandana, he roughly cleans himself then tosses it somewhere on the floor, his cock finally softening as he shoves it back under his clothes, balls empty. And it feels good. So good a wave of shame and guilt crashes onto him once more. What a pig he was for jerking off while ogling you. What an old bastard he was to mingle you and his filth. But at the same time, he feels like his muscles are thanking him, his restless flesh satisfied, even though he almost hurt himself with how fast he had stroked, lost in his haze.

His bittersweet and contradictory feelings accompanied him as he took a last glance at your tent before drifting off to sleep, his breathing still a bit raspy as if he had run for hours. You had closed your book and taken the candle between your hands to blow on it, the little flame flickering before fading. And then, darkness.

The curtains falling on the stage at the end of this private decadent act.

Eyelids heavy, Arthur knows he will finally sleep tonight.

But he also knows this isn’t the end of his torments at all; the conflicting thoughts paint his mind just as the sun pierces through the dark ebony clouds of a thunderstorm, creating those abruptly dazing shapes and color, pitch black laced with blinding light.

Never in this life or the Other he will forget the form of your naked body, no matter how wicked he feels. Because when it comes to you and only you, Arthur Morgan is, indeed, a very weak man.

Part II

tagging : @a-court-of-valkyries and @zae-heeyyy

[dilf-luvr-4evr]

Maybe it’s just me? But I just have this feeling that the second Arthur Morgan hears that you’re pregnant with his baby, he’d leave it all behind.

All of it.

Anyway, it’s not like he’s never thought of it before. The way he asked Hosea about his little time away with Bessie, the remorse he feels for Isaac and Eliza, the attention he gives for Abigail and Jack? I’m just so sure that if you’re carrying his child, it’s over for him.

He isn’t exactly sure of how it’ll work but he sure as hell ain’t repeating the cycle. Especially not when the love he had for you wasn’t born out of responsibility or necessity.

And you actually loved him in return.

Second thoughts had only costed him so much. And yet, God gave him a second chance. It was still hard for him to believe there was an entity so kind. Let alone to someone like him.

He’s good at many things, smart, strong. Dutch’s most trusted for a reason. He’d get by. He might hate the idea at first; being apart of a society that judged people like him, experiencing the unfair difficulties of the working class..

But if it meant being present for his kid, being able to protect them and give them the life that he or Isaac or Jack never got? He would. Hardship isn’t anything he’s unfamiliar with.

And oh, he would treat you in all the ways that Abigail or Eliza never let him. Put a ring on your finger, be there every step of the way, be the steadfast rock that you can lean on.

Despite the baby being an accident, he was always so sure of you.

It was no longer something he wanted to do for the better. But a real marriage, for better as well as for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and cherish. Till death do us part.

It’s a little funny how daunting it all was at first compared to how you couldn’t be happier now. Living this struggle of a life with your baby and your husband, the outlaw who constantly had blood on his hands.

And he’ll forever thank you despite the seemingly difficult circumstances. Fatherhood and other dreams, you’ve made it come true.

His very own little family that looks at him like he put stars in the sky, that looks at him like he is a good man <3

This kinda came to me out of nowhere and I made myself cry a little lol!!!!!!! In my mind he is happy and healthy FOREVER and only dies of old age!!!

wrote a part 2-ish to this!! <3

my masterlist

thank you for reading!! 🫶🏼

[tacitusk1llwhore]

I saw a really interesting post about Abigail and Arthur’s relationship and the journal entry where he talks about marrying her. While a lot of people see this as a marriage of convenience, I personally see it a little differently! (Don’t worry, I don’t think they were in love at any point!!)

I think the farthest their relationship could/would go during this is a platonic connection that borders on romantic at times, but not because they have romantic feelings for one another. Personally, I believe that with how at ease Abigail is with Arthur and better yet how at ease Jack is with him in the events of the game, Arthur has probably played a big role in Jacks life, ESPECIALLY in the time John was gone. With John gone, there wouldn’t be any guilt of being a surrogate father (the whole “I ain’t the one takin’ Jack on fishin’ trips.” conversation during that one mission, their little squabbles over it in camp interactions too).

Arthur would, in my mind, absolutely step into that role, especially with how he talks about how lucky John is. I think it would be hard to separate feelings, truthfully. Abigail is watching this man take care of her son, whose father is god knows where, seeing a male figure love and provide for her and her son for the first time, probably in her whole life, something she wished John would do for the two of them—(Arthur continues to do this in-game, fishing trip, storybooks, candy, even giving money for new clothes)— and Arthur is seeing this as a second chance of sorts, his way to protect and provide, to do what he couldn’t do for who he lost.

That’s where the issue comes in though…they don’t love each other like that—but at the same time, they feel that connection because they both are using one another to fill a void of some sort. For Abigail, she’s being taken care of, her son is being taken care of, she had a strong male presence not out to manipulate or sleep with her for the first time, and Arthur gets the family that he lost: a good, strong woman and a child.

They both see what can be: her and Arthur a couple, him a father to Jack but can’t force themselves to be that—to truly want that because they don’t, not with each other at least. I think that maybe just maybe they tried it, even toyed with the idea of something at some point in time that John was gone for that reason alone. But with John back, Abigail had to face the reality of the man she truly loved being back (even if he is a deadbeat at the time), and Arthur had to face the fact that Jack isn’t his, he’s not Isaac, and Abigail isn’t Eliza. With the main factor to separate them and give them clarity back in the picture, I think the pair would finally realize this fact and go back to being strictly platonic because any romance that did happen was out of this mutual need to fill a void, not a desire to be with one another if that makes sense. But Arthur seeing that John STILL treats them poorly, the marriage entry makes sense.

The wishing that he could’ve forced himself to marry her, to push through the conflicting emotions and the fact that he didn’t really love her like that—so that he knew that she and her son would be provided for, because at the end of the day he does love both of them, just not in the way that he wants to, and vice versa. Looking into their relationship is so interesting to me.

That’s my hot take for today. That’s all!

[appalachiancowboy99]

Fireside

Arthur Morgan x CurvyFem!Reader Pure unadulterated smut, 18+, MDNI (Minors Do NOT Enter) Warnings: sexual content, oral sex, cowboy giving

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

It was new territory for both of you: this game of stolen glances and shy smiles across Camp, finding excuse after excuse just to feel the thrill of your fingertips dancing over his arms and chest. And then there were those moments where he'd seize any opportunity to pin you up against the side of Pearson's wagon, pressed close against your body just to make you feel the heat and solidity of his frame against yours, no matter how dangerous or reckless it might be. Despite how much he cares for you and how much he enjoys your time together, it's an impossible task to keep his mind from spiraling down every possibility in which he'd be damning you to the same fate, to make the same mistakes he had with Eliza and with Mary, leaving you a shell of the woman you once were. Even if he's riddled with doubt and fear, he won't let you slip through his fingers like a fading dream. It's been quite some time since he's felt so drawn to someone that he can't rationalize why he can't- why he won't stay away. He doesn't quite understand it himself, but for the first time in his life, he ain't fighting it, not with you.

It is no accident that he found himself in this current predicament; setting up a makeshift camp with you outside of Rhodes just to spend some alone time with you. He had made sure of it, insisting on not heading back to Clemen's Point after seeing how pretty you looked all cleaned up and excited to join him on his run to town even if it was just for a pack of cigarettes at the general store. Determined to have some peace away from the commotion of camp, he veered his horse off to the side of the road, leading you through the thicket of trees stretched out alongside the expansive fields of Lemoyne, heading to a clearing just before the edge of Flat Iron Lake. God, was it a good choice. Instead of hearing another riveting story from Mr. Pearson's days in the navy or having you get whisked away for any late-night tasks for Ms. Grimshaw, he's kneeling fireside, watching you fold out his emergency bedroll for the both of you, imaging all the possibilities that the night holds; particularly all those that end with you spread out beneath him.

“C’mere, baby.” His voice is laden with desire as he outstretches his hand for you to take.

"Hmm?" You ask, stopping to glance over your shoulder, only to see his rugged features awash in the orange glow of firelight. Crystalline eyes pierce your heart, crumbling down the walls that protected you and shielded you from the pain of never knowing what love could be. No, there was no idea, no concept of love until he came crashing into your life all those months ago. Love with Arthur is like opening a fresh wound: ripping into your heart and seeding himself so deeply inside of that aching muscle that you fear one day he’ll just bleed you dry and leave you with the dull ache of his memory. However, his presence alone is like a soothing balm to your weary and wounded soul, healing you like the hands of god himself and reassuring you that he’d never leave; he’d crawl through the pits of hell and back just to be spared a passing glance. You trusted him with your life then and against all the nagging self-doubt screaming in your mind, you trust him now.

He can hardly tear his gaze from you as you come closer, his eyes hungrily taking in every inch of your curvy form from the supple sway of your hips to the way the corners of your plush lips curl into an affectionate smile. You place your hand in his as you lower yourself onto his lap, the grass and weeds beneath you tickling your legs just as your knees meet the ground on either side of his hips. Even if you were to pay him no mind, he'd still relish the chance to be this close to you, to see the delicate little imperfections scattered across your skin, to feel the warmth of your love radiating off of your body like a roaring furnace, and admire how your eyes flicker with a sense of hope he'd long forgotten. In the mess of smoothing out your skirts to hide your thighs from his wandering gaze, a lock of hair breaks free from the bun on your head, flopping down on your face in a single ringlet. He reaches up to tuck it behind your ear, his fingertips skimming softly over the supple flesh of your cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. A wave of affection washes over him as he gazes at your face illuminated by the flickering light of the fire, and he can barely contain himself. He longs to shower you with compliments and affection, to give you the love and attention that you so rightfully deserve, but he can't. He has no words; believes there are no words to describe exactly how a single brush of your skin against his makes his heart stop and his mind cloud in a thick fog with nothing to picture but you. You make him feel like a damn fool, a fool so caught up in love that he can't distinguish his left from his right. Words are meaningless here- showing you is the only way.

You never thought you’d find yourself in this predicament: a handsome man like Arthur guiding you toward him, stealing a kiss from your lips like a man starved for the slightest bit of affection. Nor did he think he'd be holding such a beautiful woman in his arms, a woman deserving of so much more than he could ever give. Good things like this don’t happen to you, nor do they happen to men like him, but against all odds, you’re both here wrapped in each others’ embrace without a care in the damn world.

Your plump, pliable lips press against his with a tenderness rarely afforded in the quick, passionate encounters you’ve found yourselves in these days. Tonight, there will be no rush of hands lifting your skirts, no hard press of his cock entering you without warning; tonight, he’ll take his time, drawing out each orgasm after agonizing orgasm from that pretty pussy like you deserve. Arthur breaks away from your lips abruptly and latches onto your pulse point, drawing out that little whimper that sends his head spinning. Your breath is but a whisper as his name drips off your tongue like a fine brandy: silky smooth, "Arthur.." Just as you expect him to reach your collar, unbutton your blouse, and ravage your flesh, he pulls away. Your eyes shoot open only to see him taking off that old gambler's hat while leaning back.

Through a half-laughed whisper, you say, "What're you-" Before you can finish protesting, he rests his back on the plush grass beneath you both, his hat clutched in hand. He sets it aside on a nearby log before turning his attention back to you with a wolfish grin.

“Gonna love you like ya deserve. C’mere,” he murmurs, eyes roaming over your flushed face and heaving chest.

With that, his hands were back on the swell of your hips, thumbs gently pressing into the soft cotton of your skirts, coaxing you with a gentle yet firm pull that guided you away from the comfort of his lap and over his stomach until you're kneeling just above his chest. His eyes lock onto yours, silently pleading for you to rest your fullness on him; he needs to feel every ounce of you as if his life depended on it. You hesitate, looking down at him from above with your pretty skirts pooling over his chest; his face peeking out below a sea of sage green ending just below his chin. Silently urging you to finally give in and settle yourself onto his chest, he reaches upward and gently grabs hold of your waist.

You can’t.

Y’all are already in a compromising position out here in the open. It’d take just a single person to glance in the direction of your camp by the lake to see Arthur delving under your skirts by firelight. His boldness takes you by surprise, a sweet gasp filling your lungs as he leans up, pressing a gentle kiss to your aching cunt through your dampened drawers. That's all it takes for you to give into his touch and rest your hips upon his chest. Your sweet musk alone sends a shiver of pleasure down his spine, pooling straight into his stiffening cock. A low growl of satisfaction leaves his lips in appreciation for your willingness to let him please you. Your eyes are trained on his head ruffling beneath your skirts before looking up at the night sky, noting how the faint white glow of moonlight breaks through the canopy of leaves and limbs, casting shadowed shapes upon the forest floor. His gentle kisses shift from the apex of your desires, the scruff from his beard pleasantly scratching against your skin. While he traces the little blue lace detail on the hem of your drawers, the low timbre of his voice buzzes against your thigh, “Can I take these off of ya?”

There's no denying the desire that runs through you at the thought of being bared to him in such a risque position; to undress yourself and have him beneath you, feasting upon your quivering cunt as if he were savoring you like the very last meal he'd ever taste. Oh, how you remember the first time you felt the wet warmth of his tongue darting out of his lips, pressing against you to show you all the ways in which a real man loves his woman. In truth, Arthur had been the first to awaken those romantic emotions within you, to ignite the spark of desire and affection that had been suppressed for so long. Society had labeled you a spinster, a woman unworthy of love and affection, but he had shown you that you were worthy of so much more than some horseshit label. He had taken your first kiss, been your first intimate touch, and with every moment you spent together, he showed you that you were beautiful and deserving of the kind of love written in those books MaryBeth lets you borrow. The thrill of feeling him once more makes your blood run hot, leaving you with no other choice than to hum softly in agreement. If this is what he desires, then who are you to deny him?

Slowly, you rise off his chest, lifting yourself up to your knees. Your fingers nimbly work to undo the ties that hold cover to the last remnants of decency you have left. You can feel his eyes on you as you undress, watching your every move with an intensity that sends shivers running down your spine. As your skirts fall away, leaving you exposed and vulnerable, you gaze down at his face, the flush of desire dusting his features in a faint reddish hue. His eyes remain locked on yours, unmasked desire blazing in their depths. You begin to work on your blouse and chemise, eager to bare yourself to him, but Arthur's impatience gets the better of him as he struggles with the buttons and ties fastening your clothing. His fingers move quickly and feverishly, desperate to get you stripped down and exposed to his hungry gaze. Through his struggle, he moves his hands back down to your drawers, pressing his thumb against the seam of your body to watch the light fabric catch between your folds. Between your soft gasp and his feigned murmur of forgiveness, he takes hold of the thin fabric and rips it right down the seam of your best set of undergarments. "Arthur! Them's my last good pair," you scold, but it does no good: he's too far gone.

His lust-blown pupils take in the sight of the dark thatch of hair separating him from your aching desire. Oh, for heaven's sake, you internally chastise yourself. Someone could stumble upon your little camp and see you naked as the day you were born, mounting his face like your first ride on a new saddle. But the instant his plush lips meet your seam, all doubt, and all fear subsides, giving way to burning passion. Your back arches, instinctively pressing your hips upon his wanting, salivating mouth, and burying his nose into your plump mound. God how he's missed this, missed taking you so fully and unapologetically. Your sticky sweet nectar coats his lips like the finest honey, driving him wild for a taste of your supple sweetness. His tongue flicks out of his mouth, pressing flat against your slick heat, parting your folds in search of that little bud of nerves screaming his name. You are all that he can taste, all he can breathe, all he can feel.

Darkness clouds his vision as his eyes flutter closed, though flashing behind his eyes is anything but: the image of your face twisting and contorting in agonizing pleasure erases all thought and memory from his mind, leaving only you in its wake. Soft crackling embers, gentle knickers from his steed, the lewd squelches of his tongue lapping at your core, and the sweet flighty sounds escaping your lips create an orgasmic orchestral hymn he's longed to hear these past few weeks. His cock swells, pressing uncomfortably against the rough jean fabric of his usual working pants. Rutting his hips upward, he finds that the tight seam rubs him in the most delicious way: pressing against his cock as if you were leaning back to palm him while he eats you out.

Just as his hips grind upward to find some torturous relief, your hips involuntarily rock against his tongue, guiding him exactly where you need him to be. The strong, wet, muscle glides over your clit, swirling so slowly that your thighs tremble with each expert pass along that tiny bud screaming his name. Embers from the campfire crackles and burns far too close to your bodies not feel the sweltering heat baring down on your skin. Yet, it pales in comparison to the feverish flush that gathered in your face; it spread across the apples of your cheeks to the tips of your ears, leaving them burning almost intolerably. You found yourself struggling to catch your breath as desire worked its way down your throat, squeezing out all the air in your lungs like the first drag off a cigarette before its buzz envelops you completely. His tongue only leaves you for a moment, using it to murmur, "That feel good, baby?"

His voice rumbles through your cunt, causing you to clench around nothing. He needs no answer. He already knows how much you're enjoying this, how much you've been needing to feel his mouth on you by the soft little gasps in between a string of expletives following his name; his favorites being, 'O-Oh Arthur,' 'Oh fuck,' and 'God, pl-please, Arthur.' Pride swells in his chest knowing that he's the only man that's able to ravage you like this. You belong to each other, heart, body, mind, and soul.

Lubrication leaks from you like a damn fountain, coating your pretty little slit like it just begs for him to enter your aching core. And that's exactly what he finds himself searching for. With a small forward thrust of your hips, his tongue parts you, pushes your cunt open, and penetrates you with its wriggling mass of muscle. It wasn’t like his cock filling you, hitting your womb with every thrust, rubbing you so impossibly deep that you could see stars, but it was enough to shatter your pride and make you forego all composure and decency, whatever sense of the word it may be. The very tip finds that soft spongy spot inside, licking and writhing with each dip in and out, all while his nose presses against your clit. “A-Arthur,” you groan. “I’m so close.”

Oh, he knows you're close. Your cunt quivers around his tongue, pulsating in time with the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Your creamy slick coats his beard, nose, and hell, even his cheeks as you properly use him to reach your end. Everything around you is spinning. Nothing exists beyond this moment shared between two lovers shrouded by nightfall. No, nothing else matters except Arthur's mouth devouring you, drinking you like cold water on a hot summer's day. You're his solace, his sustenance, something worth truly dying for. And if he smothers to death beneath your soaked cunt, then he'd thank God for such a heavenly way to go. His hips rise and fall, undulating as if he were fucking into your tight, gummy channel; it's all he can imagine, all he wants to feel is fucking you and you being fucked. Flicking his tongue inside of you, hitting that sweet spot, pulls you closer to the edge. Your hands are frantic, never taking purchase on any one place until they find the mess of chestnut hair atop his head. It takes everything in you not to rip his hair out as both of your hands take fistfuls into your palms. He growls into you, panting heavily for what little air he's able to take in. Finally, his tongue retreats, moving back up to your clit to give you one hard suck that sends you spiraling over the edge. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes are awash in electricity, burning, shaking through you like a thunderous wave as your climax takes hold. You scream his name, but he doesn't stop attacking your clit with the gentle flick of his tongue through hard suction. No, he doesn't stop, making sure to rip another mind-shattering orgasm out of you until he allows himself to come. You fall forward in an attempt to move from him, but he holds you down with such strength that you're forced to stay seated. You block off his airway, smothering his nose with your mound as he continues his ministrations on your clit. You feel like you're dying, shaking and sweating like a fever has taken your body over, until another orgasm rounds its peak. With one more jerk of his hips, he spends himself in his jeans; cum leaking out of him like a stream, soaking into his union suit while your cream drenches his beard in a frothy white delicacy. Once you gain your composure, you glance down at him to realize that he can't breathe. "O-Oh God, Arthur. You alright?" You pull away from his mouth, giving him a moment to catch his breath as he looks up at you with fiery, hungry eyes. The flame of the campfire casts shadows over his face, the light illuminating him in a warm, golden glow. His beard glistens with your essence, and he gazes up at you with an expression of reverence, silently worshiping what power your body has over him. As you attempt to lift yourself off of him to give him some much needed breathing room, he clamps down on your thighs, preventing you from moving. That familiar smirk draws up the corner of his mouth and a spark of desire flickers in the ocean of blue surrounding his lust-blown pupils, "Where you think 'yer goin'? Ain't done with you yet." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- A/N: Hi! I really hope y'all like this little drabble. My great friend @photo1030 inspired me to post a little something, so I have her to thank for igniting my creativity again. It's my first time posting anything like this, so feedback of any kind would be greatly appreciated! So again, thank you, C, for being my first supporter <3

Other creators I enjoy/drew inspo from: @rivetingrosie4 @coltermorning @subpopizzy @amorgansgal @immajustvibehere @twola

[marstonsboy]

had another evil thought that spiralled out of control. indulge me for a moment:

over the years, people start arriving on a near empty plot of land west of blackwater. it’s uncertain who got there first: bessie matthews, beatrice and lyle morgan, eliza, isaac morgan, etc.— but more and more people show up until it’s something of a community. jenny kirk, mac and davey callander. then soon after, jake adler, sean macguire, kieran duffy, hosea matthews, lenny summers, molly o’shea, eagle flies, susan grimshaw. more and more in such a short amount of time. arthur morgan is the last, and suddenly the deaths stop.

after a sudden stretch of years with little newcomers, a house starts taking shape. soon enough the house is a home, and peculiar things can be found all over: a dog barking where no one can find it. echoes of campfire songs going late into the night. photos of john and abigail’s wedding, attended by what remained of their family. a taxidermy squirrel that appears back on the mantle no matter how many times you throw it out, wearing a very familiar hat. in just a few years a heartbreakingly young girl comes home, bearing a strong resemblance to one abigail marston.

then, gunshots. john marston and uncle are the next to arrive.

in the next few years, the house is eerily quiet. the residents see it falling into disrepair, but they can’t do anything about it. the dog stops barking, the campfire has gone cold and won’t relight. abigail marston is next, and though they’re happy to see her, the arrival brings up a question. what happens to jack now?

the livestock are gone, and the house is dusty, all but stripped of the knickknacks and personality that built up over the years, like someone found it all too painful to look at. john’s hat and guns, once tucked away inside a box beneath the bed, vanish the night after abigail arrives. newspapers come to the door, announcing the death of former government agent edgar ross.

soon after, a wanted poster, bearing the name “john marston jr.” and a sketch resembling the boy’s namesake so much that it has john himself stumbling back. jack was only a boy when he left, and now he’s wanted dead or alive, with a price over his head that could rival some of his uncles and aunts back in the day.

every year that passes without any sign of jack is a relief. the house doesn’t change much, still abandoned, but letters come in. mary-beth gaskill, tilly jackson, simon pearson, sadie adler, charles smith— old friends and family, checking in on him. none of them reach the recipient, as he is not home, but they’re filled to the brim with love, letting him know that he isn’t alone. that he always has a home with them, if he wants it.

one day, john spots a book he doesn’t recognize on the shelf by the piano, and he stops. “Red Dead” by a J. Marston. it doesn’t take much to figure out who that could be. he opens it, flips through, and reads it to abigail. the kinder parts get read to their daughter, ecstatic to learn about how her older brother is doing. their son did become a writer after all, even if everything he’s written speaks volumes of his grief, his anger. the loneliness he’s endured since losing his family, and killing edgar ross.

arthur morgan opens his old journal to find several entries and sketches from john, but also many new ones from jack. his handwriting is just as clumsy as his father’s, but his drawings are more refined. little portraits of the gang members that lived and scribbly sketches of what the world is becoming in their absence decorate the pages. war, cars outnumbering horses, and a very detailed drawing of a revolver none of them have ever seen before.

he’s all grown up, and good lord is he angry. he’s mourning, and hurt, and he’s lost so much, but he’s still undoubtedly jack marston. he draws dogs and writes about missing rufus, slipping strays some food from his bag whenever he sees them. sometimes he’ll write a dry, sarcastic joke that speaks of his father’s influence, or mention missing his momma’s cooking, “even though it was hardly edible,” which makes abigail roll her eyes. he hates fishing and prefers to lose hours of the day with his nose in a book. the best maintained part of beecher’s hope is the graves on that hill, which gain new flowers every week. sometimes, if they listen close, they can hear him talking, telling his ma and pa what he’s been up to, though he saves the grisly details for his book.

and when jack marston finally does walk through that door, much older than when anyone he knew last saw him but far too young to die, he is welcomed home with open arms. because no matter what he’s done, and no matter how much he may hate himself, he will always have a home here with people who love him, and who can’t wait to get to know him all over again.

[anna-proxx]

♡ 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐭𝐬

pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader

summary: you and arthur are occasional lovers with no strings attached, except you caught feelings.

word count: 2613

tags: fluff, suggestive, love confession, high honor arthur, friends with benefits, fem!reader

warnings: nsfw/explicit content

a/n: I’ve been battling writer’s block due to perfectionism and decided to write a spontaneous oneshot as an attempt to pretty much break through it. It's not really a smut, just a fluff with suggestive aspects and nsfw setting. Found this idea sweet, hope you enjoy!

✮ masterlist

You and Arthur first met when he was drunk and while you usually steered away from drunk men, this one in particular caught your eye. For some goddamn reason you decided to take care of him as he sang to himself in the saloon, alone, almost picking a fight with one of the regular customers, if it weren’t for you getting involved.

He hadn’t even tried to touch you and overall he seemed to be safe to be around. You made him eat some food (though he protested, saying he’d rather dance with you) and drink some water, to make his hangover at least a bit better the next morning. Then you made sure he was sound asleep before leaving him in the hotel room, putting a little note on the nightstand saying his adaptation of the song about Otis Miller was by far your favorite.

The second time you met in the same saloon. Though this time he was still sober, with a beer in his hand, looking quite worn out after the day. He didn’t remember you that much but you explained and after realizing you were the stranger who took care of him and left his sick, disoriented self the note, he opened up to you more.

And after sharing a few drinks, that he insisted to pay for you, and some loose conversation, you ended up in that same room, this time with you both being tipsy and making out, after you made the first move and kissed him.

It was like you were obsessed. With the way his rough hands treated you so gently, how he towered over you with your back against the wall, how you found yourself enveloped in his strong arms or the deep low groans in your ear that sent tingles into your belly.

It progressed into something more regular. Both of you helped each other release all the pent up tension and forget about everything that was going on outside the bedroom. What happened in that hotel room stayed between the walls. The desperate kisses, muffled whines and hot touches, your bodies intertwined like stems of ivy. The hungry look in his eyes stayed ingrained in your mind, keeping you company during the nights you spent alone.

Arthur felt safe with you. After Eliza he was reluctant to do this type of thing again, but there was just something about you that set his whole self on fire and made it impossible to resist you.

There was a good hunting spot nearby and he liked to return there for that reason, or maybe, just maybe, it was also the way he stopped by at the saloon every time, searching the room for a familiar face as soon as he stepped inside.

This sort of relationship was unusual for you as well, but his touch drove you crazy. He was so gentle and rugged at the same time, so big and mysterious while having a soft side you got to see anytime he let his guard down.

You knew he was no saint. Though he never told you details, you assumed the law was after him, but your intuition let you relax in his presence and you leaned into the comfort, trusting that if anything, he would protect you rather than hurt you.

The connection was mostly physical but slowly, one night after another, he was taking a hold over your heart, as much as you denied it to yourself.

Until you were finally ready to accept it.

— ∽ ♡ ∼ —

“You… seemed… angry today,” you said between your breaths, lying with your back against the soft mattress and covered only by the thin layer of a blanket.

His eagerness today was really something, clutching the headboard as he pushed his hips against yours, making you lose your breath with every thrust. It seemed personal, like there was more tension to release than usually – and you were more than happy to give him the freedom.

A soft groan left his lips in an agreement, his lungs still trying to fill with air as he lay beside you, exhausted but satisfied.

You yourself were still in that sweet daze, your heart pumping warmth into your whole body and tingles dancing all over your stomach, a smile on your face you couldn’t hold back.

The soreness between your legs somehow felt so good, a reminder of this night that would stay even after he’s gone.

After a moment you rolled to your side, watching Arthur’s glistening face as he was covered in sweat, as much as you were. The loose strands of his hair were sticking to his forehead and a familiar warmth spread in your stomach as you imagined reaching out and brushing those strands back, gently caressing his cheek and planting a kiss on the little scar on his chin.

Yes. You were pretty much screwed.

He turned his head to look at you and caught your gaze, silently reciprocating it and giving you a perfect view at his greenish blue eyes. He looked so vulnerable in that moment it tugged at your heart, wanting nothing but to embrace him in your arms.

But you had no idea how he felt and you didn’t want to make a fool out of yourself.

“I uh…” Arthur cleared his throat, turning away to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks. “Lemme clean this up.”

Your soft gaze followed him as he held onto the cloth and as his eyes asked for consent before he lifted the blanket and gently wiped the stickiness from between your thighs.

You didn’t even try to hide your red cheeks, the situation making it seem more than understandable. You wondered whether he realized how sweet this was of him, how much it made you fall in love even more.

You were both silent and the air felt thick between you two, as if there were many things left unsaid and it made the silence louder.

You never knew but always wondered what ran through his mind after your shared intimacy, how he felt, what was the mysterious gleam in his eyes as he watched you hot and sweating beside him.

When he was done, you sat up with the blanket over you again, watching his flexing muscles as he turned away from you, giving you a perfect view at his back.

Arthur lit himself a cigarette, breathing out soft clouds of smoke that floated up towards the ceiling. He sat back, feeling nothing but lightness and comfort inside.

He turned his head to look at you and found you already watching.

“Ya want a drag?”

“Sure,” you accepted, holding the blanket over your chest as you leaned forward. Instead of taking the cigarette from him as he expected you to, you left it between his fingers and simply wrapped your lips around its end while he held it out for you.

You gently put your fingers around his wrist instead, letting him watch you a little surprised.

Leaning away, you fought back the irritation in your throat and turned away from him, tears forming in your eyes. With your mouth at the crook of your arm, you broke into a violent cough.

“Not used to it, huh?” Arthur lightly mocked you, bringing the cigarette back to his own lips as he watched you struggle to gain composure.

You turned to him with teary eyes, laughing at his snicker. “I can’t be good at everything, cowboy.”

After a few moments your breath finally steadied and you found Arthur lost in thought when you looked back at him. Studying his side profile without him taking notice as he continued to smoke, something occupying his mind.

You caught yourself wishing for those hands to hold your hips instead like they did just half an hour ago. For his bare chest to be pressed against yours again, to have his lips on your own. It was like an addiction.

Having him sit beside you like that, naked, turned you on all over again.

He had no idea how much he had you wrapped around his finger.

You cleared your throat, moving your gaze before he could catch you drooling over him.

“So uh… I’d like to ask something of you.”

He looked at you with surprise in his face, curiously turning his whole body towards you.

“Huh, what is it?” he asked in a relaxed tone, shifting closer to you.

You chuckled under your breath as you turned to reach for your satchel lying beside the bed and pulled out a folded paper.

You slightly shook your head at how silly this was, but handed Arthur the paper along with a pencil nonetheless, a grin on your face.

“I’d like an autograph please,” you said playfully, making sure he knew this was a harmless request from you. Lying back, your eyes followed him as he unfolded the paper with one hand, a wave of shock stunning him as he stared at his own wanted poster.

He immediately searched for your eyes, puzzled by the gesture, frowning in confusion. But the soft features of your face and relaxed body language calmed him. You were just playing around.

Now amused, he chuckled, looking back at the paper in his hand. “Where did ya get that?”

There was a hint of insecurity in his voice. Now there was no doubt you knew about him being a criminal. You had an evidence in your possession and yet you were still here, in the same bed, naked, your skin still hot from his touch.

“On a business trip. Seems you’re quite a celebrity.” You grinned, moving closer as you looked over his shoulder at the drawn outlines of his face.

“You’re prettier in real life, trust me.”

He softly huffed at the compliment, hoping you wouldn’t notice his flushed cheeks. But you did and found it endearing.

“So… you gon’ collect that reward?” he asked, a joking tone in his voice though he kept his gaze fixated on the poster.

You chuckled. “No, no, I don’t think I’d stand a chance against someone built like you, besides, I don’t usually sleep with people I plan to turn in to the law.” You kept the playful attitude, pointing to the pencil in his hand. “Come on, sign it. I’ll keep it as a memento.”

“This?” He seemed amused by the idea, not grasping why you’d possibly do such thing.

He turned around to stub out his cigarette, his thoughts an entangled mess. Did you really not mind? He almost spiraled into overthinking as he stared back at his effigy, paired with a ‘wanted’ and a fair sum of dollars in bold. He wished he could make this part of him disappear, especially around you.

“Sure. I don’t have your photo, so…” You were clearly still joking with your lighthearted tone, little did he know there was truth in it. You planned to keep that poster, safely hidden away, as a way to keep something as a reminder of him. Was that silly?

He chuckled again as he put the pencil against a corner of the poster, scribbling down his name in neat, pretty letters.

Arthur trusted you, knew you wouldn’t misuse it. Your eyes were too honest and your physical intimacy too passionate for that.

You thanked him as he handed it back to you, giddily putting it aside and giving him a big smile.

“I must assure you,” you started teasing him, “that this is my first time being involved with an outlaw. You’re not a threat to me, are you, Mr Morgan?”

“Well that depends,” Arthur answered with the same kind of mischief, a playful gleam in his eyes as he turned to his stomach and lay close to you, his breath warm on your face.

“Depends on what?” You held back a laugh, enjoying the mood of the conversation.

“I’ve made ya scream before.”

“Oh, shut up.” You gently hit his arm with your palm, a laugh escaping your lips this time, making the outlaw laugh with you.

“You know, you’re not quite that threatening,” you said, still smiling, purposefully teasing Arthur who furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Am not?”

“No. Unless you attack me with your kisses, that is.”

“You haven’t seen the things I’ve done, woman.”

“No, but I’ve certainly felt some other things.” Without thinking you hurriedly planted a kiss on his scrunched nose and turned your bare back to him, sitting on the edge of bed as you reached for your clothes scattered around the floor.

Arthur lay back with his arms behind his head as he continued to rest in bed, watching you put on your clothes, though quite messily, and your hair that stayed tangled despite you running your fingers through it.

You let out a soft sigh as the room got filled with comfortable silence, yet it made you nervous to the core.

You were in love and you usually weren’t afraid of expressing your feelings. But now it felt so intimidating, so risky.

“Arthur…” you said with seriousness in your tone this time, quiet and hesitant enough to pique Arthur’s interest. He sat up straight in bed and you looked back over your shoulder, catching him as beautiful as ever.

Lit by warm candlelight, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander over his bare skin. The broad shoulders, though slouched in relaxation, his chest and flat stomach, small scars all over his exposed arms. The way the blanket lay casually over his lap brought warmth into your cheeks and you bit your lip as you remembered the events of just a little while ago.

You looked at his hands, his knuckles bruised and his fingers holding the sheets. And finally his face, curiously watching you with something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite identify. His light brown hair that you loved seeing this ruffled and messy. He really was so beautiful.

“I think…” You tried to swallow the dryness in your mouth, your palms sweating as you struggled to hold eye contact. “I caught feelings for you, Arthur.”

There. You said it. And you felt like a fool.

Your cheeks were now red and you felt a pit in your stomach, not quite believing you just said it out loud. You knew you wouldn’t have it in you to say it again.

You avoided his gaze, having no idea what his reaction was, the little moment of silence felt like an eternity to you.

“You… did?” There was disbelief in his voice and it made you shift nervously, taking a deep breath as you seemingly forgot to breathe.

“Yes.”

The silence became unbearable. You didn’t know how he looked at you, too scared to see the expression of his face and too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

“I have feeling for you as well, (y/n).”

Your eyes widened in surprise and your heart jumped in your chest as you turned around, joy spreading through your veins.

You searched for any sign of deceit in his face, but there was none. He sat there looking completely vulnerable, honest, defenseless, his cheeks pink as he watched you back.

You rushed towards him, cupping his cheeks before connecting your lips in a long sweet kiss. Arthur wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his body as he lovingly pulled at your lips, softly breathing into the kiss with a sense of relief.

Slowly you put his weight on him, making him fall backwards little by little until his head lay on a pillow underneath you.

He broke the kiss, looking up at you with dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. “‘M the only one undressed here.”

You grinned at him, not moving a single inch as you kept him locked under you. “I don’t mind.”

With a kiss you muffled his laugh, a wide smile on your own face.

“So… how ‘bout I join you on your hunting trip tomorrow?” you proposed, hope in your eyes.

“Sure.” Arthur chuckled at your excitement, finding the spark in your eyes adorable as he caressed your cheek. “But I ain’t much of a good hunter.”

“That’s okay.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Me neither.”

[eternalsams]

Let Me Go ➛ Arthur Morgan

pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader

warning/content: bit of fluff, angst, rdr2 spoilers, high honor arthur, mention of death, tuberculosis, horses death (it's a fair warning), little bit of blood

summary: there is only one thing Arthur wants, get you somewhere safe, no matter what it costs.

word count: 2.1k

a/n: english isn't my first language, please take that into consideration. This is also my first time writing for Arthur, please be indulgent!

red dead redemption masterlist main masterlist

Arthur didn't think he'd let himself fall in love a second time. The first time it happened, his heart had been broken as he was on one knee, proposing to Mary. He swore he'd never let any other woman sneak her way into his heart ever again, he would've done anything not to feel that tightening feeling in his chest if he ever got rejected once again. But Eliza happened, they met in a bar in the West. She was a cute waitress, he was still young and handsome. And he almost felt like he could fall in love with her when she gave him a son, he was ready to. He wanted to forget his own promise and be a real family with her and little Isaac. But it all ended way too soon when he stood in front of those two graves next to the cabin they thought they'd be safe in.

Years passed by and he couldn't look at any woman anymore, his heart broken, stained by grief and sorrow. And after the Blackwater disaster, he didn't even had the thought of seeking comfort in a woman's arms. So when Charles came back to camp with your curled up figure in his arms, he didn't pay much attention. Strauss was harassing him to collect some debts for the gang and meeting a new unfortunate soul brought back by Charles was not in his plans. But one night you came up to him and tried having a conversation with him. You spent hours talking with him, captivated by his low voice telling you all kind of stories about people he met, animals he'd seen.

And from the moment he started falling for you, he just couldn't stop. You were just so easy to be around, to talk to. He loved spending his late nights chatting with you close to the camp fire, telling you his exploits and you telling him the funny stories that happened at camp while he was away. The first night you spent together was the best one of Arthur's life if you'd ask him, simply holding you in his arms for hours, feeling your heart beating close to his.

But right now, the feeling of your heart beating close to him was everything but comforting. One of your arm were tight around his waist, trying not to squeeze the air out of his sick lungs. John was right ahead, his horse galloping through the trees to escape Dutch's madness and the Pinkertons. You tried your best to hold onto Arthur's rifle in your hand, sometimes letting him go to aim the barrel at the agents surprising you on your way as your lover rode his horse like his life depended on it. Except yours did too. His breathing was starting to grow heavy and loud, feeling like he had to spit the blood out of his lungs.

"Pinkertons on the left, they'll keep the others busy!" You heard John shout and looked to your left. You could hear Micah's voice behind you, insulting you and calling you traitors. "This way!" John indicated but before Arthur could do anything, you were both ejected from your horse, tumbling on the ground. Arthur was quick to make sure you were okay before taking his rifle from your hands and shooting the Pinkertons up the hill. You crawled your way to his horse and soothed him, murmuring sweet things to him as you watched him suffer in pain, blood spurting from his wounds. When all the agents were killed, Arthur came running back to you and gently caressed the horse's neck. "Come on, guys. Let's go." John called after you. You looked up at Arthur and could see fresh tears in his eyes as he watched his horse live his last minutes. "Gimme a second." Arthur asked and leaned over his horse, whispering a thank you to him.

You stood onto your feet with John's help and Arthur grabbed his hat before turning to the two of you. "What about the money? Abigail gave me the key." He asked before looking into your eyes. He once told you he'd get you a part of the Blackwater money and you'd get a ranch somewhere in the west, somewhere nice where the two of you would grow old and die happy. But now that he was sick and dying, you didn't really know if you could even get that ranch with him. "The money's not important, Arthur. Let's just get out of here and find some place safe to hide for a while." You tried to convince him, seeing the hesitation in his eyes. He wanted to give you that money, to you and John. He didn't need it but you did. John's family did. "If you want the money, you head down. I gotta go to my family." John said in turn, holding you upright in his arms.

Arthur looked at you and nodded before putting his hat on his head. "I'm coming with you. I'm gonna get you out of this bullshit if it's the last goddamn thing I do." He said to John before taking your hand in his and helping you walking up the hill. The three of you started running up the cliff as you started to hear new gunshots behind you. "Come on, sweetheart, up we go!" Arthur made you run in front of him, making sure you weren't forgotten behind. You quickly ran up John who also helped you not to fall but often looked over you shoulder to check if Arthur was still following. When you realized he was being too slow, you ran down to him and grabbed his arm, pulling him up. "Don't you worry about me, darling. Just keep running, I'm right behind you." He tried to push you off him. "I'm not leaving you alone, Arthur."

When you reached a high point on the cliff, Arthur pushed you down behind a rock before giving you his two pistols. Two customized Cattleman revolvers. On each handle were a buck and a doe carved. Arthur had them engraved after your first night together, saying you'd always be with him, and him with you. "Remember what I taught you?" Arthur asked you as you looked down at the pistols. "Both eyes open and hold your breath when pulling the trigger." You repeated what he always told you when you trained shooting with him. He smiled at you before taking his rifle from around his shoulder and firing at the Pinkertons with John. You sighed and checked if the guns were loaded before aiming at the Pinkertons, the three of you eliminating them one by one.

"We need to get outta here. Let's go!" John called as he started walking back. You shot another agent and joined John as Arthur tumbled on his knees, his breathing heavier by the minute. You took his hand in yours after you put the pistols back into Arthur's holsters. "Come on, Arthur. Stay with us." You hurried him as you pulled him with you. "You two go..." He breathed out, gently pushing your hand away. "No, Arthur. You're coming with us." You immediately said, refusing to even think about leaving without him. "Keep pushing, Arthur." John encouraged him. "No." He said before coughing more blood. You were about to pull a tissu from your satchel but he wiped his mouth with his hand. "I think I've pushed all I can. You two go." He straightened up and looked at you. "Go with John, sweetheart. Don't make this harder than it is."

"No. You're coming with us, Arthur Morgan. Don't even think I won't drag your heavy body with us." You walked up to him, frustration clear in your voice. That made Arthur chuckle then cough. He softly grabbed your face in his hands and looked into your eyes, lit by the moonlight. "I know you would, darling. That's why I need you to go with John and don't look back." He told you before sending a heavy look to his friend behind you. "No..." Your voice broke and you grabbed his wrists to pull his hands away from your face. "We ain't all gonna make it. And you know it." He tried to reason with you but you refused to listen to him. John came up behind you and grabbed your arm to pull you with him. You snatched your arm from his grip and ran up to Arthur, taking him into your arms. "Please come with us. Don't leave me alone." You cried, your tears rolling down your face and soaking his shirt collar. He wrapped his arms around you and kissed the top of your head. He pulled back and took his pistols out of his belt, handing them to you. "Keep them with you." You reached for them and looked at the carved doe on the first one. Arthur's finger brushing over the worn wooden handle. He then gave you the second one, where the beautiful buck was standing proud, forever engraved into the wood.

"It would mean a lot to me." He closed your hands around his guns before kissing your forehead. He then took off his hat and walked up to John, holding himself onto the younger man's shoulder. He placed his hat on John's head and smiled at him. "Keep her safe for me." He said in a low voice, but not low enough for you to miss it. "No!" You screamed and was about to reach for Arthur but John's arms wrapped around you, pulling you with him as you fought to join your lover. Arthur looked away, not able to watch your tears, and grabbed his rifle, loading it with the shells he kept in his bandolier. "I'll hold them off. Run and don't look back until you find somewhere safe to stay." He ordered, ignoring your cries. "Come on, lady." John tried to pull you with him but you fought with everything you got. "Please. There ain't no more time for talk." Arthur said, looking at you one last time, his eyes shining with tears.

Your knees gave away and if John wasn't holding you so tight, you would've fallen on your knees, scraping them on the rocks. Arthur simply looked at you, trying to memorize how your face looks like, even all red and puffy from crying, you were still the most beautiful woman he's ever laid his eyes on. "Arthur, please..." You pleaded, thinking this was just a bad dream, that your Arthur would never give up and leave you alone. "Go with John, darling." He said, not having the strength to hear your cries more longer. "Arthur!" You called after him. "Just go with him!" He shouted back at you before pausing. You tried not to take it personally and looked at him. "Promise me you'll come back to me." You murmured into the quiet night. The gunshots would eventually come back but right now, all you heard was the wild life. "I love you, darling. Now go." He only said. "Promise me, Arthur!" You tried to run to him but John started walking back, pulling you with him. "Go!" Arthur shouted at you as he noticed more Pinkertons running your way. John saw them too and pulled you harder as you cried in his arms to go to Arthur. "Come on, we gotta go."

"No! We can't leave him! John, please!" You cried out as he made you walk away from the love of your life. Eventually, you heard him shout at the Pinkertons and the gunshots started all over again. When John thought you wouldn't try and run to Arthur no more, he let go of you and only took your hand to run away with you. It was like your body was acting on its own, your brain not following the recent events. You lost the only thing close to a family, lost the sweetest creature you've ever met. You still remember when Arthur first helped you ride his stallion by yourself, you were so scared to do it on your own, the horse was enormous next to you. But he turned out to be the sweetest thing in the world, answering to your calls and keeping you safe when Arthur wasn't there for you. And now you just lost Arthur. Arthur.

It wasn't fair.

The moment John saw a man riding towards the two of you on his horse, he pulled his scarf over his face and took out his gun. "Sir, we need your horse. Right now." He pointed his gun at the man and helped you get onto the horse when the man got scared and tumbled down the saddle. John quickly mounted the horse and had you wrap your arms around him to secure you. He kicked the animal's rear and started riding away. "You okay back there?" He eventually asked you but all you could do was stare at the cliff where you left the man you loved. When you turned to John, you could see the sun rising on the horizon and hoped Arthur could watch it one last time.

taglist:

@photo1030 @valoxwayward @minimisthios @literally-starscream @pinescent-and-gingerbread @sarahsmi13s @mackyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

@mountains-of-the-moon @cy1-ix @lisgoe @kkumquats @ql0mp @girl-calmdown @birthofvcnus @istillwatchthomassandersvines

@zae-heeyyy @herrera2k @sophieseems @spacemanarchives @loudbluebirdmentality @kappywilliams @rosesrdr2photos

@terriblefaun @lotvsflwr @nekoreddragon @elijahsfirstrodeo09 @eateraa @floydsglasses @peppermint-saddies @themorbidbones @y0ur-fr1endly-queer

[bbieangel]

Love the Joel fic!!! plsssss do an Arthur cramps one!!!

Moon Cycle — Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

A/N: I loved writing this! It's my first time writing anything that's not set in the present world so please bare with me <3 And yes, the title is a reference to Melanie Martinez's song :) As always, thank you for your requests and I hope you love it!

Summary: Even when you try to act tough, Arthur Morgan always sees right through you. And, the day you finally allow yourself to feel weak, he's there to help you with your cramps.

Tags: Fluff! A LOT OF FLUFF. High honor Arthur. Self-deprecating Arthur, we all know how he talks to himself. Mentions of his past (Eliza and Mary Linn), reader has a uterus and is menstruating, she doesn't wear the typical clothes that women used in the 1800's (think of it more like Sadie, she dresses like her). This is set before Arthur even knows he's sick.

Word count: 7.8k

Divider by @/peony chance on Pinterest!

Since day one, you had never failed to amaze the whole Van Der Linde gang with your dirty mouth and ways of pissing off Miss Grimshaw. To say the least, they had grown fond of you. And even if you could look after yourself just fine, you laid awake in your cot endless nights just wishing someone was there for you in times where you felt the most vulnerable, needing attention like the dog the gang had adopted. He always ran around, sniffing everyone and looking for any hand that would give him back scratches.

One particular day you had gone out to rob a stagecoach that a guy in Rhodes had told you about. Dutch assigned you to go along with Arthur, the gruff looking, almost giant man. But you knew he hid something else behind his blue-green eyes that often held a hint of tenderness whenever he looked your way.

"Now, stay right behind me, princess."

He muttered as he covered his face behind the rock you were prompted at, making sure the drivers didn't see you.

You groaned. Of course that, out of all of the women in camp, he would call you princess. But he didn't do it for the reasons you thought.

"Call me by my name, Morgan."

You muttered and he let out a deep chuckle, rumbling through his chest and sending butterflies to your stomach. But you wouldn't let your face show that, after all, you kinda liked being called princess by him.

The stagecoach robbery was a success, feeling like a breath of fresh air after what seemed like the gang had been cursed or just ran out of good luck.

Arthur counted the money effortlessly, the flicking of his fingers looking elegant. It was ridiculous, you thought as he you waited for your part.

"Don't forget to give some to camp, princess."

He said, pointing a finger at you. But he knew not to worry about you contributing to the little box Dutch had beside his tent, he had seen you do it more times than anyone else in the gang.

"You don't need to worry about me contributing, Arthur."

You said with a soft smile as you both rode back to camp, side by side, enjoying the nice weather and the views.

—

Later that day, you were sitting up against a log in front of the campfire. A bead of sweat fell down the side of your face and into your shirt. Arthur was going to tease you about it, but he held himself back when he saw the slight frown on your face and your knees being held against your chest.

He sighed, knowing that caring about you wasn't the best decision. He couldn't bring himself to like anyone else, not after Eliza and Mary. But that soft, empathetic part of him was stronger than any of his insecurities, and it needed to know if you were okay. Which you clearly weren't.

He slowly sat down beside you with a look of concern on his face, and placed his calloused hand on your shoulder.

"You alright, princess? Did you get hurt? You should've told me—"

"I didn't get hurt."

You interrupted him. You were about to snap at him for teasing you, but when you looked into his eyes, glowing by the fire crackling in front of you, you noticed he was being genuine. So your expression softened, and he saw it, making his heart flutter and long to open up to you more.

"I'm.. I have cramps. It's that time of the month.."

You spoke quietly. You had grown to know it wasn't okay to talk about it, let alone tell a man about it. They found it disgusting, a woman bleeding monthly was seen almost as a sin, something you couldn't talk about.

But Arthur couldn't care less. He had killed people and had seen countless bodies, massacred by some fool. Hell, he'd seen his son be born. He could handle speaking about a monthly small amount of blood coming out of a woman's body naturally.

"I understand. Is there anything I can do for you?"

He asked, and your eyebrows shot up in surprise. Why wasn't he acting disgusted by what you just said? Why didn't he tell you to just suck it up?

It took you a few seconds to answer.

"I—Uhm.. I don't know, actually. Can you help me get to my tent? I think I might've stained my clothes and I don't wanna get teased about it."

You spoke, your eyes darted towards the fire once again. It was fine if he declined, you would understand. But, once again, he surprised you.

"Yeah, let's go."

He said and wrapped his arm around your shoulder, helping you up. He looked behind his shoulder to make sure no one was paying attention to see the small stain in your pants, and led you to your tent.

"I've heard.."

He cleared his throat before speaking, the slight pink tint on his cheeks gave away the soft embarrassment he felt.

"I've heard that peppermint or chamomile tea helps, the ladies were talking about it the other day."

He said and you couldn't help but smile softly.

"Yeah, it does. I just ran out of both herbes."

At that, he raised an eyebrow. Why didn't you tell him? He would've gone looking for some if it brought you comfort. And, against his better judgement, he chose to speak.

"You should've told me. I'll make sure to bring you some."

He spoke gruffly, but unable to hide his growing softness and tenderness for you.

When he helped you into your cot, he made sure to cover you with a blanket before turning on his heels to go away. He figured you might want to be left alone.

"Wait."

You called out to him. You knew better than to call over a man who wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet between anyone's eyes, but a part of you knew he only did it when absolutely necessary. And that he would never, ever touch a hair on your body.

"Can you.. stay a little while?"

You asked, your cheeks turning a cute rosey shade. At that, he gave you a light chuckle.

"Yeah, 'course."

He sat down on the edge of your cot. You could see the sympathetic look in his eyes when your face would scrunch up every time a cramp hit harder.

"I'm not usually like this, I can take the pain—"

"No need to explain to me. I know it hurts and I don't need you to act tough all the time."

He cut you off, easing some of the embarrassment you felt. Maybe it was stress, maybe your hormones were fighting against you, but this cycle felt different. It hurt a lot more, making you sweat as you tried to deal with the pain.

The tension between the both of you only continued to grow, hidden desires behind your eyelids that none of you could speak about. Heartbreaks and loss were two things you were too familiar with, and couldn't bring yourself to experience once again.

So he didn't speak as he laid beside you, carefully, treating you as if you were made out of porcelain and he didn't want to hurt you. His hand went to your lower stomach and began moving it gently, massaging the zone.

You let out a sigh of relief—how did he know exactly what to do? As if reading your thoughts, he spoke:

"Mary told me this works. I didn't figure it out on my own."

He spoke quietly, and you felt kinda bad. How could she be such a fool to break up with such a kind man?

"Even if you didn't figure it out on your own, I'm grateful you know about it."

You spoke softly.

"Can I tell you something, Arthur?"

You asked, you heart pounding in your chest as if it wanted out just to be gifted to Arthur.

"'Course, princess."

He responded, his hand never stopped moving as he saw the look of relief in your face. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he noticed it was working.

"You're a good man. And anyone who doesn't see that, is a fool. A damn, blind fool."

You spoke and his eyes widened at that, letting you take in more of the particular color they had. You were so close to him yet none of you could move.

"I ain't much of a good person, princess. I've done things I'm not proud of, killed folks just because.. There's a price on my head."

He said, looking at you with that self-deprecating look he gave anyone who even dared to call him good. He wasn't good, he was a fool who didn't know how to be kind, how to be good. Or at least, that was what he thought of himself.

But on the contrary, you didn't see him that way, and he knew. So you doubled down, going along with your stubborn nature.

"Well, to me you are good. And nothing will change my mind about that."

You spoke in a firmer tone, placing a hand on top of his shoulder and rubbing it softly. He swore you could feel the way his heart jumped at your small gesture.

After a few minutes of just contemplating each other's faces, trying to read each other's minds, he spoke.

"You deserve someone better than me."

At that, you frowned. He couldn't tell you what you deserved and what you didn't, who you could or couldn't like.

"No one has ever cared about my cramps before. No one... No man has taken the time to try and make me feel better."

His expression softened. How could anyone treat you badly about something that wasn't your fault? But again, he reminded himself, it was 1899. You didn't live in a fair world.

"I couldn't just let you be in pain."

"Exactly."

You said. Everything he did or said was just another reason as to why you considered him a good man. After fighting against your fears, your mind, your insecurities, you leaned slightly closer. What were you doing? You didn't know. But the sight of his lips covered by his always perfectly trimmed moustache was something almost magnetic that pulled at your heartstrings right when you were the most vulnerable and needy.

"Princess..."

He tried to protest. His breathing hitched as he felt you slightly closer, his eyes kept darting towards your plush lips without even thinking. His heart thumped against his chest in a way that almost hurt.

"Do you trust me?"

His eyes shot up at yours. Of course he trusted you, even if a part of his brain begged him not to, he wasn't doing what his brain wanted. He was following his heart at this point, and his heart wanted you. Only you.

"I do."

He responded, his deep voice was now soft.

"Then.. Let me."

You whispered and pressed your lips against his, without giving your brain the possibility to make you think about it twice. You stayed still as you waited for him to pull away, to shut you down and never talk to you again.

But he kissed you back. He kissed you back, and his hand tangled on your hair as he did. Every move, every action was so gentle, so careful. And you couldn't be more grateful for that.

His other hand never left your lower stomach. He was determined to end with your cramps, even if his own hand ended up cramping after massaging your skin for so long.

He didn't leave your side that night. If anything, the whole situation only brought the two of you closer, to the point where he would look for excuses to sleep with you all curled up against him. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding your frame up against his chest. All while keeping a soft smile on his face even when he slept.

Because what started with the two of you being scared of letting anyone else in, ended up with Arthur going out of his way to look for anything that would relieve your pain. He would even ride his horse for hours until he found peppermint.

But in the end: all you wanted was the warmth his body provided you with and his hand pressed against your skin.

[nthspecialll]

Rockstar I am BEGGING you

PLEASE, PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE I need a cannon timeline over who did what when and where because I AM FUCKING CONFUSED SOMETIMES.

Firstly, Arthur Morgan's love life, did when Arthur talks about Eliza saying she was "just a kid" at nineteen, meaning he was most likely around that age too because he didn't think of her as a kid then. So he is 19 when he meets Eliza and from the dialogue you can have with Jack where Arthur compares jack and Isaac, we can assume Isaac was about 4 years old when he died.

So, does that mean they met in 1882? And then five years later they die, meaning 1887 and Arthur is 24? Cool, I can follow that far, BUT WHERE DOES MARY COME IN?? Listen he sounded like he fucking loved at least Isaac and I think man has a mourning period, I mean yes it was a one night stand but look at how respectful he is towards Mary, he wouldn't get over Eliza and Isaac in one night.

Now okay, let's give him a year or two to mourn and also to ya know, meet Mary and fall in love with her. So he is 26 now, cool, however-

BRO YOU DON'T LOOK 26! YOU LOOK YOUNG!

Okay, so let's turn it around, maybe he met Mary first, cool! It matches with the fact that he looks young in the picture, it matches with the fact that they didn't see one another for a long ass time, it matches with a lot! Oh maybe this is- NOPE! THIS IS NOT IT! Why? Well literally all of the girls (except Sadie) have an opinion on her!

Let's take Abigail who is 22 in rdr2 and joined the gang at around 1994, that means Arthur brought Mary to camp at least within the last five years?? But they hadn't talked since Mary got married?? Did Arthur just have a one night stand with Eliza while also being with Mary or something?? Is that it??

Also this picture??

I mean if this is the whole gang at that time does it mean Abigail was the first of the girls to join and Tilly did in fact not join when 12??

BRO I NEED TO KNOW THIS SHIT!! ROCKSTAR GIVE ME A CANNON TIMELINE AND MY LIFE IS YOURRRSSSS

[autisticlenaluthor]

Dress

Kara stays up until nearly three in the morning, listening to the sounds of the city below. She eavesdrops on arguing neighbors and house parties blaring music multiple streets away as she fights back yawns and flips through TV channels. It’s tedious and bordering on painful, but it keeps her from fixating on her bottomless pit of a rumbling stomach and the cramps that make it impossible to sleep.

Okay– so, maybe Kara hadn’t tried to sleep. But sleep hasn’t been coming easy these days and being in a new city in a new state with no plan and no friends other than her sister doesn’t exactly make it easy to calm the mind.

That’s why Kara stays awake and distracted. She tries not to think about how Alex is being forced to give up even more years of her life and even more space in her home to accommodate her sister’s comfort. She tries not to spiral over Lena and how she lives fifteen minutes away now– maybe even less– and how she’s going to have to suck it up and tell her about the move eventually. But most importantly, Kara refuses to think about the fact that she truly feels like she may implode from hunger.

It’s a pointless effort.

At 2:45, she finds herself staring blankly into the fridge as she tries to distinguish between what’s Alex’s and what’s Kelly’s. Her stomach twists into an even tighter knot, causing memories of her first few weeks on Earth to flood her.

Eliza had found the hoards of packaged apple slices from free school lunches and expired Uncrustables stashed in her dresser drawer, led by the trail of ants marching through the second floor. Eliza tried explaining that she didn’t need to worry– they were never going to run out of food, they’d always be able to buy more. But the reassurance just felt like a drop in the bucket of everything else Kara was supposed to be absorbing.

She hadn’t known then, how to explain that the money was never the problem. She knew Eliza had had enough of it– she saw it in the clothes Alex wore and the jewelry around the older woman’s neck. It was just that the moment the yellow sun hit Kara’s skin– it was like a black hole erupted within her. It was aching and screaming– begging to be filled.

Constantly, Kara tried. She doubled up portions on family meals and guzzled protein shakes in between. But it was never enough. Her appetite would always return and with it, the question:

What if this feeling never goes away?

Staring at her big sister’s half-empty fridge, Kara feels thirteen again.

She’s anxious in a way she can’t quite describe with a restlessness she knows will never leave. The only thing Kara can cling to is the notion that she needs to snack on something before she loses her mind and she can’t justify stealing groceries from her new roomies.

So she does the logical thing and goes to the nearest 24-hour mini-mart at 3:07 am– clad in flannel pajama pants and tie-dye crocs.

There, Kara finds herself paralyzed in front of another freezer. Only this time, it’s in the frozen food aisle with a plastic basket in her hand. She’s filled it with all the essentials– pumpkin spice pretzels, a box of pasta shaped like the characters from Arthur, three things of frozen potstickers, and four variations of Hot Pockets.

As Kara stares, she tries to remember what the hell it was she came here to buy. She knows it wasn’t the cartoon mac-and-cheese and it definitely wasn’t the pretzels that Alex is going to bully her for later. But all she can register is how loudly the lights are humming and the fact that every so often, the one on her left will flicker like the bulb is about to die.

Kara blows through closed lips and turns her head. Down one of the aisles, there’s something sparkly and purple. She follows the glimmer with narrow eyes until she finds its source: a long, tight dress. The kind of thing you wear to a gala.

Except the woman who wears it isn’t at a gala– she’s standing in front of a selection of cheap wine, holding one bottle by the neck as she examines the others on the shelves. She has dark hair which cascades down her shoulders and the gown accentuates her curves in all the right places.

Even without seeing her face, Kara knows she’s beautiful.

She can’t help the way that she stares at her, trying to get a better look. It’s something on any other day– she’d never allow herself to do. But she’s only ever known one beautiful brunette with the money for dresses like that one and reasons to wear them. The woman she still hasn’t found a way to be honest with, even after three painstakingly long years apart.

Kara takes a hesitant step forward and watches for just a moment longer, catching the way that she turns and tilts her head, causing raven hair to fall down in front of her. From the angle of their bodies– it’s impossible to get a glimpse of her face, but when the movement is followed by a familiar flipping sound, Kara can’t help it. She freezes.

Because she knows that sound. There’s only two people in the entire world whose heart rates she’s trained herself to notice: Alex and Lena’s.

Lena’s heart rate just piqued which means Lena Luthor is standing less than ten feet away from her.

At the realization, Kara drops her basket. It clatters to the floor and topples over– spilling its contents across the linoleum and Kara nearly goes down with it. Her pulse skyrockets and anxiety fuels her body with enough energy to send a rocket to the moon.

“Fuckfuckfuck.”

She scrambles to pick up the spilled groceries but as soon as she hits the ground– she can see Lena’s head whipping around to find the source of the commotion. Kara drops the boxes again and without a second thought– makes a run for it. She dashes straight into the cereal aisle, in such a panic she forgets about her super speed.

By the time she’s ducked down on the floor, gripping one of the shelves for dear life, she’s knocked over three things of cereal and four jars of peanut butter. Still, she peers her head just past the shelf– now only able to see the outline of Lena’s figure and the slightest sliver of her face.

She can see traces of red lipstick (when did Lena start wearing that?) and the outline of her nose. When Lena turns– Kara catches her face through the wine bottles. Rao, she could collapse again at the sight.

Her pale skin makes her hair glisten and her green eyes glimmer below a thin stroke of eyeliner. Her lips, painted that fierce red, are parted ever so slightly in confusion, and she knits her brow the same way she used to when they were kids.

Somehow, Lena looks exactly the same and completely different and Kara doesn’t know how to process it.

She’s seen the occasional selfie Lena sends when she goes somewhere new– like Paris or the Boston Science Museum and every so often, she’ll appear in one of Sam’s Facebook posts– posted with shot glasses at the bar, or kissing the cheek of an adorably tan toddler. But nothing compares to really seeing her.

Her presence now is a forceful reminder that Lena’s existence is true. It isn’t just an occasional light on Kara’s phone or a status update from a friend of a friend. Lena exists in the same world as her. She lives a life that Kara was once stupid enough to believe she’d always be a part of.

[bitin-and-barkin]

Loving Someone

What would the healing process be like after your so-called death?

Warnings: Arthur Morgan x Reader, Gender neutral reader, mostly just filler and going into the mind of Arthur, he's so goddamned anxious, paranoid too, tw: talks of suicide, execution, death, and other bad stuff, no smut, mostly just arthur having a mental break, probably out of character, he's starting to go yandere, tw: yandere-esque behaviour

READ MORE UNDER THE CUT + Pt 3 to another story, Pt 1 here, Pt 2 here

__________________________

Arthur had lost people before.

When Eliza and Isaac had first died, he was only able to ever see their graves. Already buried, a cross put up. One moment they were there, and the next? 

They were gone. 

When he lost his Pa, he was young. Small and feeble. Sitting in the crowd, silently attending his own father's execution.

His Pa hanged him in front of him.

He wasn't sure how to react when it happened. Whenever someone was hanged there was always someone crying at the stands or nobody there who knew them well enough to weep for them.  

But when he looked at his dad, there wasn't much of a father there to mourn. Just bits and pieces of one.

When his Mama died, he wasn't there to see it. Only the aftermath. Her throat leaking red, and her eyes glossed over.  A certain shade of purple on her neck and face. The sun shone off her blood like something holy was done.  

He was much younger at that time, so he didn't really understand what happened. Death, that is. Nobody had ever bothered to explain it to him. It had always been a part of his life. 

In the wolves howling at night, mauling a buck, leaving its insides on its outsides and in the sunlight to rot. 

In the knobby, motionless, dogs on the side of the streets and in the quiet, grey toned graveyard in town.

So he could tell that something was wrong. He just didn't have a name for it.

He could see it though.

That there was some sort of new emptiness inside of her.

He had always carried that emptiness with him. An unspoken thing, it was the burden he bore.

People had come and gone. As time passed, it grew bigger and bigger. 

And so he filled it with money, and heists, and grand plans and demands from others. 

Alcohol and blood, his own and others among other things.

As he got older whenever he thought back to his mother he wondered if she really birthed a baby boy and not just a hole that would never fill. 

Always wanting more and more.

Always hungry, swallowing everything down. Every complaint and request, finishing them. Handing it to them on a silver platter. 

Never spitting anything out, but always coming back when others' plates are full. 

Nobody ever really said anything. It was convenient. Having a yes man, a loyal one, a Johnny on the spot. 

You had realized this behavior a long time ago. He's always choking on his food but saying he could handle more.

But when you walked in, for once he was full. 

For once he was loved.

And although he wasn't made for intimacy, nothing was able to take that away from him.

During the day he could feel your love underneath his fingernails and in the clothes that you sewed up for him and in the bird songs you'd always stop to listen to.

You were always a constant for him. He loved you like a fire loved its hearth. With enough love to make it home.

You gave him life.

And he knew he didn't deserve his.

He knew he wasn’t a good man. 

There was always a hope that some way the bad inside of him would be able to serve the good inside of you.

And that maybe one day he could make himself worthy of being in love with you. 

He always cared for you in the only way he knew how.

With bruised knuckles and busted lips, 

Slow dancing into the night with you and the blood in his mouth.

Acting and your sweet darling and as your perfect killer and as your rotten soldier. 

Doing it all if it all meant you would still smile at him in the mornings and nights.

Doing it all if it meant you would fill that void inside of him and stop it from swallowing him whole.

You had grown used to it.

He was protective, that was it.

He was the protector. Doing the sinned slaughter that would save the people.

And you couldn't say you didn't appreciate being prized by him.

Prized more than anything else in the world.

But this? This was something entirely new.

You didn't know much about loving others, your life hadn't afforded you it, and neither did Arthur.

But you knew this wasn't what love was supposed to be like.

Acting like a wild animal in a way. Backed into a corner by life itself.

1 week in and Arthur had practically snarled at Sean when he tried to drag him away from your bedside to a job.

2 weeks in and he had bashed a couple of Bill's teeth in for making a joke about you.

Commenting about how your love seemed to be one only made so you could lick each other's wounds.

He called it unsightly. The blood on his face afterwards wasn't too pretty either.

The way he was acting proved his point, though. Like everyone was your enemy and the entire world was too, too much.

He was finding his vices in you.

Only you.

Not in the normal way, the way a woman would look for her wife at the end of the day.

It wasn't in the sex or the looks or the meaningless chatter or even the comforting familiarity.

It was the edges of your fingertips, and in the rasp in your voice.

It seemed to be just you in its entirety.

Like a breath of fresh air.

The point is, a month had passed since you came back. You were healing. Arthur wasn't.

And now you had a problem.

You wanted to get back to jobs. Sure, it was a bit early. There was a odd ache in your arms here and there and when you bent over, you swear there would still be a phantom feeling of blood and Guarma Rum dripping down your back.

It was the O'Driscolls favorite after all.

But mostly, you were healed. Dutch had even cleared you for the smaller jobs. You knew, he knew, everybody in camp knew.

Except Arthur. Except him.

Approachable wasn't the way to describe him.

At least for anybody but you.

He had killed hundreds over the years in the name of Dutch's ideals.

But you were always so soft in his arms despite it all.

You trusted him.

But you're not sure if he trusted you.

With this, in specific. With your life.

You weren't sure how he'd react when you approached.

It was nearing 11 PM when you finally came.

Wolves howling at the moon miles away, people singing and swaying at the campfire after a long day.

Arthur was among them.

You told him you wanted to meet him there, that you needed to finish something up.

In reality you just needed a moment to think of a way to do something impossible.

To convince him that you were okay.

He was sitting there waiting for you.

You quietly walked over.

He was drinking at the campfire, his leg bouncing up and down. Trying to play it cool, but you could see through it. He was getting antsy.

Best not to keep him waiting.

Sitting next to him, he softly smiled the moment he saw you.

A quiet smile, one that only you could fish out of him.

Only you.

Placing his hand on and over yours.

Carving his fingers between yours.

He didn't say anything as he did. It was second nature.

"Arthur."

His eyes flicked towards yours, turning away from the campfire.

"Hm?"

You breathed out.

The smog from the campfire still dancing in the air.

"How are you?"

"I feel fine." He hummed. He seemed satisfied with you by his side.

You smiled.

"Good." He slung his arm over your shoulder, pulling you in just a little bit closer.

You guys talked for a little bit. About your days, what you did.

It was nothing exciting, but it meant the world to him.

His head was filled with honey. You words lazily coating his brain, sinking him into the ground as everything else faded into background noise.

Just you and him.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm going on jobs again."

Now? His thoughts ran silent.

His lips pursed, cutting off his breath. He looked around camp.

It was such a quick difference, like lightning and thunder. A crackle through the air. Nervous electricity still coursing around.

Scanning the area with his eyes for he didn't know what. A reason, maybe.

Everybody was still laughing at little nothings, but it felt like they were jeering at him.

He turned his eyes back to you. He was nervous, that was to be expected. Just tell him you would be fine, and he would be fine too.

Except it wasn't that simple.

"Why?"

You raised your eyebrows at this. He kept talking, never meeting your gaze.

"You don't need to go out, especially not so early after you got back,"

He nervously chuckled.

"I mean, is Dutch really nagging you that much?"

You weren't sure how to tell him you brought it up to Dutch.

Stuttering over his words, he kept talking.

"Do we really need money that much?"

"I heard of this stagecoach up near Flatneck Station, from what I've seen it's always something expensive they're carrying. Could make an easy pretty penny for us, real easy."

"Just yesterday you were tellin' me that your back hurts, and we're still changin' out your bandages every single day."

"You really oughta just stay here. Really."

His head was turned away. He has stopped talking after he kept stumbling over his words. His voice changing into meaningless hums.

Thoughts running through his head like an electrical current. Or maybe more like a bullet in the barrel of a frictionless gun.

You placed your hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

At any other time he would've muttered something sweet but clever or placed his hand back on yours and pulled you forward into his arms.

But now his head shot back like it was an order.

Looking at you, his face was indescribable.

Wild eyed. Ashamed of something.

Afraid even.

You were scared. You were both scared.

Was something more or less scary if you were next to someone who was equally as afraid walking into it?

You couldn't imagine all the bad things that could happen. Having to walk into a town of Raiders and Outlaws.

You weren't fragile.

You were scared, but..

It was like an open wound for you at this point. Painful and gaping, but slowly healing.

You still suffered for it every day, an ache at the back of your head. But you were healing, making good, no great process.

You were talking and walking and had come so far from before.

He had pushed you to stay home while healing, tearing others a new one for trying to even just put you on guard. Looked like he was gonna have a heart attack when you were "straining your back" by just carrying hay.

Looking into his eyes now, there was something new in them. Confusion. Abandonment. Hurt.

He didn't understand why you were doing this.

You were moving past it.

You knew he loved you but,

Why did it still seem like the entire world to him?

You brushed your hands against his stock-still face as he stared far past your gaze.

Was he okay?

"Are you okay?"

He didn't say anything.

There was a certain ringing in his ears as you spoke. More like a flatline than anything.

He was silent. Didn't respond.

But what was he supposed to tell you?

He knew he was overreacting, that he was being dramatic and controlling but he couldn't shake the feeling that...

How was he supposed to tell a knife there was nothing funny about spilling blood?

He didn't see any blood but he could feel himself bleeding.

His grip on his pants tightened. He tried to drag the conversation away, simply saying you guys could talk about it in the morning. That you were both tired. That you could discuss it with a clear head later.

You seemed hesitant at best. You said there was nothing to talk about later. Almost seeming confused.

For 6 months he couldn't bear the idea of you being dead. And so many times he woke up he prayed this day would be the last. So many times he stared at the gun, the knife, the rope. Sitting by your tent waiting for you to show up like old times.

You were going to be fine. You were going to be fine on your own. Weren't you?

Were you?

It was irrational, really. Overdramatic, stupid, a million other labels. Primal, even.

He could not make you understand. He couldn't make anybody else understand what he was feeling whenever he saw you. He couldn't even understand it himself.

What was he supposed to say? That he never could've done anything he did without you? That he'd never forsake you? That he needed you to support him? That you were the only person in his entire life that loved him? That you were his only friend? That he only loved you? That he didn't know how to love you in a way that mattered? That he didn't know how to love you in a way that made sense? That he didn't love himself?

How was he supposed to say he never understood intimacy or lust until he met you? That he had never felt want like how he wanted your skin against his?

Like how he had never felt fear like he did now, now that you were pulling away from him?

What was he supposed to say to you?

It was stupid, only a fool, a real fool would feel like this.

But all his insecurities were swallowing him whole and it felt like you were proving every wrong thing about him right.

You were the dull blade that he twisted inside himself. Keeping a wound from closing but keeping it clogged at the same time.

The only thing stopping his guts from spilling onto the ground.

But his guts were already contained in that cabin where he found your finger, when you first went to that stupid parley, when he cried in Hosea's arms after you left him.

He didn't understand why he was so afraid. It was fear then anger then bared teeth at anybody who approached.

Like a body hitting the ground, like a rat running a maze.

It all had to end eventually. You were gonna leave him eventually.

All alone again, with a dying father and a killing leader and a lucky brother who he hated yet loved.

Alone again.

He knew time had to pass. That his time was long gone, that yours was going down with his soon.

Hand in hand.

So soon.

But why did it have to be so soon?

And why did it have to be you?

He sharply swallowed. He was looking at the floor now. He doesn't remember himself turning his head down.

Dipping down, almost as if to cry.

Your hand was still on his shoulder. You quietly repeated your question.

He silently nodded.

Patting him on the shoulder, you stood and walked away. Telling him to get some sleep.

As you stepped and staggered, he could see a limp in your walk.

He desperately wanted to get up. To tell you something, anything that'd get you to change your mind.

But he was frozen in place. People were still talking and laughing like the world hadn't just collapsed in on him.

Classical music wafted out of Dutch's tent. He turned his gaze to it. It was still lit up, the flaps still open.

He silently stood up and began walking towards it, almost as if in a trance.

You weren't going on any jobs.

You weren't well enough.

He knew that. And he was going to make sure Dutch knew of that too.

|

|

|

|

|

So the results on my last poll were pretty split down the middle, so I'm doing both of them. He'll run away with you soon, dw. Prolly kill Colm while he's at it. Sorry for taking so long, I was buzy🙏 rise and grind brothers

@photo1030

[lovettery]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Second chance

for a dream ᯓᡣ𐭩

Summary : You realise you're pregnant but have to tell Arthur the news.

Warnings/Content : Swearing, pregnancy, petnames (especially darling), no specific gender but female implied.

It had been a long, sweltering day at Clemens Point. The tension of the week slowly fading away through camp as everyone relaxes around the campfire, singing songs and reminiscing stories of years long ago.

Despite your initial wanting to join the camp and distract yourself, your mind was running wild with panic as you come to terms with the..issue you discovered today.

You're pregnant.

It's not as if this was an awful thing but it most definitely wasn't ideal. I mean, raising a baby in these circumstances was unfair but at the same time the idea of a baby, something you had dreamed about for so long finally coming true, made the cons seem not so important anymore. The only real panic was how you were to tell Arthur about this.

You and Arthur have been going steady for a while now and your relationship was strong. You still felt that same passion and adoration for the man as you did the first time you'd seen him. The day he bashfully admitted his feelings to you after a successful robbery was a day you'd never forget.

But was a baby what he wanted? You knew his past, with Eliza and Isaac, and you wouldn't blame him one bit if having a family wasn't something he wanted after such a horrible event. But you couldn't stop that small glimmer of hope in your heart, the small dream of Arthur holding your tiny child in his large arms the same way he'd held you all those cold nights.

Your thoughts came to a halt as he opened the flap to the tent where you sat on his cot, hands in your lap as you stared thinking. "everything all right darlin'?" he asked, a small smile still on his face from the campfire tales. Thought it slightly wavered due to the look on your face. "Hey doll..what's the matter?" He said gently, a juxtaposition to his heavy drawl and gruff voice, whilst sitting next to you. His hands instantly falling to the small of your back as comfort.

You loved Arthur dearly, he was always so observant. Though as outlaws, that was a skill you had to learn. This thought brought you back to your initial worry of whether this baby would grow up safe, be able to live a childhood they'd remember as something nostalgic rather than traumatising.

Arthur stared at you expectantly, his eyes shining with concern as he drew imaginary shapes on the skin at your back. No matter if Arthur and you wanted this baby or not, this was happening and there was no going back now.

"Arthur I need to tell you something and it's serious" You says heavily, your hands coming to rest on his legs to both comfort you and him. You see his eyes shift slightly, the concern only slightly fading to a look of fear. His mind running with ideas as he prepared for the worst.

"I'm pregnant.." you spoke, your chest firm as you held your breath. A part of you wanted to close your eyes and run away to avoid the situation as a whole but you knew for the sake of Arthur and the baby you had to be brave.

You watched as his eyes widened with shock, his hands pausing his gentle movements as he stared at you, his eyes drifting down to the small bump of your stomach before shooting back up to your eyes.

"A-are you serious?" his hands firmer on your back now, almost fearful if he let you go you'd dissappear from his life. You stared back at him, your eyes swelling with tears as the reality of the situation hits you.

He leaps forward, his large arms grabbing your frame and pulling you into his chest, your forehead resting beneath his chin. "oh darlin' I don' know what to say.." his voice shaky, his broad shoulders hitching slightly. Was he crying?

"Arthur, are..you okay?" You question, lifting your head slightly off his chest to stare into his eyes. His gaze soft and loving as he carefully caressed your arms.

"I couldn't be happier"

This is my first Red Dead Redemption 2 post so it's not my best writing but I had this idea in my head and wanted to write it down !<3

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Wip! (Fantasies in the dark)

I know I've not posted recently and there are a few of you who are still waiting for their ask, I'm sorry it's taking so long! I know I'm probably repeating myself but I don't have time to write anymore considering my degree is extremely demanding and completely absorbs all of my free time. Anyway, have a little snippet of a one-shot that had been sitting for way too long in my drafts! I just need a moment to proofread it and it should be published soon. Have a taste of Arthur not being able to sleep because he caught an intimate glimpse of you... Good Lord, I love tormenting that poor man.

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He can’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John was painting with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

Arthur couldn’t sleep because of you. 

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes after this.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent. For some unknown, mystical reasons, Ms Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you’re a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place.

Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthurs knows you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read or write or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

[...]

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day. Scratches his beard and his ears, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing as always on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to rest properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep to keep his body fueled, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly.

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

[tacitusk1llwhore]

Don’t cancel me for this, y’all, but I’ve seen a lot of politically charged posts about RDR (as I should; games about outlaws and the corruption of big and small government are and always will be inherently political), but one thing has really bothered and stuck out to me the most, especially in male-dominated spaces in the fandom. The idea that the Arthur Morgan in this day and age would be a raging MAGA conservative—I’ve gotten so, so many posts about it on my TikTok today, and this is finally me snapping. Here are a few arguments I’ve heard for this. “When he hears that the Democrats want to take his guns, he’d say hell no to that.” “He’s from 1899; you really think he would vote for a Black woman?” And my personal favorite: “Arthur says in-game he doesn’t engage in politics.” I’m not going to go through each of these and explain, in detail with evidence from the games themselves, why I think these are the dumbest takes I’ve ever heard in my life. In a space I hope is more open to this discussion, I hope you’ll join me.

1.) The gun control issue. I know, I know, this one seems pretty obvious; I mean, he’s a red-blooded American man and cowboy. How could anyone possibly think for a second he’d be for the party of gun control?? While this is true, you know what’s also true? The fact that he lost a child to gun violence. Now, of course we don't know exactly how Isaac and Eliza were killed, but judging from the time and efficiency, we can assume they were shot. Now let’s get away from assumptions. Arthur mourned the loss of his son, felt the agonizing, intense pain of losing a child, and said that it changed him forever, hardened his heart. Do we really for a second think that Arthur would listen to the story of Sandy Hook, Parkland, Uvalde, and countless others and say, “No, guns are more important.”? Absolutely fucking not. Not only has Arthur felt that loss, that pain, but he is deeply empathetic; hearing the testimonials of children in these buildings, families that lost their babies, would be more than enough for him to understand and push for common sense gun laws. The erasure of Arthur Morgan's trauma of losing his son and the erasure of his empathy for children and families is rampant in political spaces of the fandom; to simply assume that because Arthur is an outlaw, in modern times he would be this “don’t tread on me.” “Cares more about guns than kids” kind of guy is asinine to me. Even if he hadn’t felt that loss and that pain, there are multiple times in the game where he is given a deeper understanding of things he has never experienced; he becomes angry at that pain inflicted, takes the mission with Charles and the Bison, and hears about the vaccines being diverted from the reservations, and the Black doctor (I think he’s a doctor) you meet in Rhodes. Once he heard these stories, these testimonials, or saw the pain, the hardship, he was quick to step in and do something to make a change. He would not value weapons over the lives of people, as we can see from the game.

2.) This one is always fun to see because it assumes that Arthur is inherently racist. Now, I’m going to state one of my least favorite but still valid arguments: he has minority friends. This is very true; look at Charles, Lenny, Javier, and Tilly. Here is why it’s one of my least favorite arguments: you can have minority friends and still be racist, sexist, homophobic… Having friends doesn’t make you antiracist, so what makes Arthur antiracist? One camp interaction stands out to me the most in regards to this, the one with Tilly when they first move south. Tilly comes to Arthur in specific to talk about how nervous she is being so far south; she understands that the south is a dangerous place for dark-skinned people, especially the location they’re in. Arthur, while he tries to soothe her, pointlessly at first, claiming that it's a good place to run from the law, also understands this, almost immediately changing his tone and telling Tilly not once but twice that e personally will keep her safe, that she has his word that he personally will keep her safe; a man that has hate in his heart for POC would not do that, ever. Another interaction is one with Lenny, where Lenny points out that Arthur wouldn’t notice the difference in the more southern states because the worst they’ll do to him publicly is say that he is friends with POC (less soft than that, watch the clips of it on YouTube if you want the full dialogue), whereas for Lenny the worst that can happen to him publicly is a lynching (which he states all the way back in chapter one where he almost was lynched). Arthur is not ignorant of racism; he knows that it exists—I hate the whole “Arthur doesn’t know about racism.” Because he does, and saying he doesn’t is an insult to his intelligence and awareness of the world around him. He knows racism exists; he personally just cannot fathom it; he cannot picture himself perpetuating racism (again, see the scene in Rhodes with the Black man), which is where I think that confusion that people say he doesn’t understand it comes from—he isn’t confused by racism; he’s confused why that man assumes he’s racist, because in his head he simply can’t fathom being bigoted.

This one has two parts, so bear with me. This also assumes that Arthur is sexist; the argument I see for this is the one-off comment he makes to the working girl at the saloon, "I didn't know I was talkin' to a lady." Was this an ok statement? No. Does it make him a raging sexist? Also no. Let's look at his relationship with Sadie; he does not underestimate her because she's a woman; he trusts in her and her abilities with unwavering confidence, so much so that he entrusts the safety of John, Abigail, and Jack to her. Now let's look at the camp interactions, one of which Arthur states that he sees no difference between men and women (bi king) and that most are bad, but some are worth loving. A man who is a raging sexist would never say something like this; he would never equate men and women, but Arthur does see them as equals. I see a lot of people point out that Arthur is far more protective of the camp girls than most, but this isn't because he sees them as less than him; he just understands that a lot of them lack the ability to fully protect themselves (Love you, Tilly and Mary-Beth). He isn't quite as protective of the women that he knows with confdence can and will protect themselves with confidence, but even then he will stick up for them if needed. Arthur Morgan is a protector of women, which is so incredibly important today and back then.

3.) Here’s my favorite. Arthur doesn’t engage in politics. Looking at this in terms of the game, he absolutely does engage in politics; he has opinions on rights and the government; that is, in fact, political—he doesn’t vote, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t make political statements or isn’t even unintentionally political. Now let’s look at this in the frame of today. Being non-political in 1899 and being non-political in 2025 are two wildly different things; politics has changed drastically in the last almost decade where thngs have circled back around to be voting for or against human rights, and from my evidence above, Arthur would be voting for those rights. In modern times it is almost impossible to be nonpolitical; I dare say it's impossible. Everything now has politics attached to it; that argument is their gotcha moment because they don't understand that, which is why they make the argument in the first place.

So, why does this matter? Arthur is a pixel outlaw in a fictional setting of 1899 America. I guess in the grand scheme of life it really doesn’t, but in fandom culture it absolutely does. Many people, including myself, come to fandom spaces to escape, to cope with things from their past or events of the day, to chat about characters, and to share theories and art, and so on. Imagine someone who lost a child, sibling, or friend to gun violence logging on for their daily dose of distraction only to see someone making points as to why a character who is comforting to so many people wouldn’t care about the death of their lost loved one, just guns. A POC or member of the LGBTQ community doing the same and seeing arguments as to why Arthur is homophobic or racist. Seeing something like that is in fact harmful; taking things and stretching them to fit your narrative despite the actual source material pointing in the opposite direction requires erasure and explaining your own personal biases publicly. Someone stating that Arthur is a racist is just them stating that they themselves are a racist or that they themselves care more about guns than lives—as we’ve seen, the public stating of controversial things or overall morally reprehensible ideals when gone unchecked spirals and spreads, and soon we have a space of people who will openly state bigoted things and push the people in the fandom here for reasons of a shared enjoyment for whatever reason or the people who use things to cope or as a distraction out of the space, effectively ruining it and potentially the outlook on the content of the game. Fandom spaces shouldn’t tolerate bigotry, and lots of Red Dead fans have been expressing bigotry lately, and these people have started to go completely unchecked. It bothers me; it always will, even if it is just a silly cowboy game.

[ofallthingsnasty]

Sorry if requests are closed rn b if what do you think about yandere Arthur Morgan with a basement wife? I mean he’s tried different approaches with Mary and Eliza and failed so surely third time’s the charm right??

Requests are more than open 🥳 I 've just been a little MIA lately, because of my BG3 stint 🫣 and I'm sorry this took so long, I put yourask in my drafts and forgot about it 😭

tw. 'yandere', super low self-esteem arthur, minors dni, f!reader

The thing about Arthur is - and you're totally right with the 'whelp, this didn't work, let's try something different' thing - he's just not someone I can see with a basement wife. I can totally see him getting unhealthily attached to a poor soul - but. That man will never leave the gang. I was rooting so hard for him and Mary when they had one last date in Saint Denis, I actually wanted him to drop them all and be selfish and just run away with her... Alas, Arthur is Arthur and even with low honor, those people are his family. Why does that make me think that Arthur Morgan is not a basement wife guy? Because he's here today and he’ll be somewhere else entirely tomorrow. He couldn't even set up a snug little home for you, the risk of him having to flee somewhere with Dutch and the others is simply too great. What if he can't get to you, can't take you with him? What if something happens to you, if someone stumbles upon his carefully crafted, hidden abode and discovers you? The same that happened to Eliza and Isaac will happen to you, too, and by god, he can't stand that thought. By design, the life he leads makes that impossible.

So what does a lovesick old bastard like him do instead? Well, I think he’s a grade A meddler. That man has zero self-esteem - I think that when he falls for you, it’ll be a whole lot of ‘I’m just not good enough for her’s and ‘how could she ever want a big lunk me’s at first, all the while he finds himself constantly checking up on you, unbeknownst to you or not. Whether or not he has it in himself to accept all of those big feelings, he’ll make damn sure you’re safe and sound, at whichever point you are in life. And you know, as long as you are single - unwed, widowed, divorced, abandoned, whatever as long as there is no man in your life - I can see that going on for all eternity. Him just looking out for you, helping you out, trying to ignore the way your hand feels over his arm whenever you express your gratitude. Really, he can keep on existing like this, because no matter how much Arthur Morgan loves you… he’s way too broken to act on it, in my humble opinion. Even if you were to make a move, you’d have to join the gang - and that is dangerous living. We’re talking about an obsessed, lovesick Arthur Morgan here - who, despite it all, would still be fairly realistic. No matter how grand those feelings of his are, your safety and happiness are his number one priority. And those are very much not guaranteed in his line of work. A truly yandere Arthur is going to be your greatest protector, your most generous benefactor - but he’ll be a distant, nebulous figure. Now, if there is a man in your life - that can change pretty quickly. Because then, there is that pesky sting of jealousy he’ll have to live with, day after day. One that might seem to be bearable if your husband is a good man, but one that will slowly whittle away at him still, little by little. Then, I can actually see him snapping, can see him giving into those selfish feelings, even if he still thinks he doesn’t deserve you. But guess what? That son of a bitch doesn’t, either. He’ll get drunk one night, thinking too hard about the way another man’s ring is sitting pretty on your finger and-

Do something very, very rash and stupid. Something that will have him camping out in the wilderness for a few days, with you by his side. 

(Not to mention if your husband is in any way bad to you… Oh boy, he’ll rue the day ever doing wrong by you, if he even can after Arthur is done with him.)