This one's for anyone who's ever wondered if love can make room for both the past and the present... and for Arthur Morgan, who answers that question the only way he knows how.
A big thank you to @crumbledcastle28 for the request that inspired tonight's fire.
Hope you enjoy!
ââ đĽ
The Road Not Taken
The camp didn't change when Arthur came back.
Pearson still grumbled that nobody appreciated a decent meal until Karen threatened to make supper herself. Uncle had somehow claimed the best chair despite contributing nothing but commentary, and Jack raced between the wagons with Cain happily at his heels, waving a crooked stick he insisted was a sword.
Everything carried on exactly as it had that morning.
Only Arthur was different.
It wasn't the sort of thing anyone else would have noticed. Around camp, silence wasn't unusual. Men came home from jobs with blood on their sleeves and thoughts they weren't ready to speak aloud. Some evenings, the fire did all the talking.
But you'd spent enough nights beside Arthur to know the difference between a man who was simply tired and one who was carrying something heavier.
He answered when spoken to. Laughed quietly when Jack nearly stumbled over the dog. Even tipped his hat toward Tilly when she teased him about tracking mud across camp.
From a distance, he looked exactly like himself.
Up close...
You caught the way his eyes drifted somewhere beyond the wagons when conversation lulled, how his coffee sat untouched until it had gone cold in his hands, and how, after seeing to his horse, he'd lingered a little longer than necessary with one hand resting against the animal's neck before finally turning back toward camp.
It wasn't unusual for Arthur to brood.
Lord knew he'd made an art of it.
Still, this felt different.
You watched him over the top of the shirt spread across your lap, guiding your needle through a fraying cuff while the camp settled into the slow rhythm of evening. He'd returned nearly an hour ago, yet every so often his attention slipped away from whatever was happening around him, as though some part of him was still walking the streets of Valentine.
You knew why.
Everyone did.
Mary.
The name had drifted through camp in quiet conversation after Arthur returned. Never loudly enough to invite questions, never long enough to become gossip.
"Saw Mary, did you?"
"Mm."
"She doin' alright?"
"Seems it."
That had been the end of it.
No stories.
No reminiscing.
No wistful smile lingering on Arthur's face.
Just a few words before he'd wandered off to tend to his horse as though the conversation had meant nothing at all.
It should have put your mind at ease.
Instead...
It left far too much room for your own thoughts. They crept in quietly, dressed in reason instead of jealousy, which somehow made them harder to dismiss.
You weren't angry.
Not at Arthur.
Not even at Mary.
How could you be?
She'd been part of his life long before you'd ever stumbled into it. Before the gang. Before the running. Before years of hard living had carved permanent lines into the corners of his eyes. Whatever had existed between them had belonged to another time, another Arthur, and you had never once expected him to pretend otherwise.
Still...
You found yourself wondering about that younger version of him.
The one who laughed easier.
The one who'd looked at a woman and believed there was still enough goodness in him to build a home instead of another campfire.
Had she known that Arthur? Had she watched him smile before life had taught him to hide behind tired little huffs and crooked half-grins?
Your needle caught against the fabric.
You frowned down at the shirt in your lap, easing the thread free before you'd pulled a knot into it.
It was a ridiculous thing to dwell on.
Arthur had come back.
He always came back.
The thought should have been enough. Instead, your eyes drifted toward him again.
He'd settled onto an empty crate near the fire, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently into the flames. The conversation around him came and went without much notice. Javier and Charles were debating the best route west, Sean insisted they'd both get lost before they crossed the next county, and somewhere behind you Susan scolded Uncle for tracking mud near the wash line.
Arthur didn't join in.
He simply listened, turning his coffee cup slowly between both hands as if the answer to whatever occupied his mind might be hidden somewhere inside it.
You hated that you noticed.
Hated it even more because, until today, you probably wouldn't have.
"Need a hand?"
You startled at Tilly's voice.
She smiled knowingly as she nodded toward the shirt spread across your lap.
"You've been sewin' the same cuff for near twenty minutes."
Heat rushed to your face.
Had it really been that long?
You looked down, only to discover you'd stitched barely an inch since sitting there.
"I reckon I'm more distracted than productive."
"I reckon you are."
Tilly lowered herself onto the log beside you, gathering another pile of mending into her lap. For a while neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the quiet pull of thread through worn fabric.
"You alright?"
The question came gently.
Not prying.
Just... observant.
You smiled without looking up.
"I'm alright."
She hummed, unconvinced, but kind enough not to press.
After another moment she nudged your shoulder with her own.
"You know..." she said, tying off a loose button. "Mr. Morgan's looked over here about six times since he sat down."
You blinked.
"...Has he?"
"Mhm."
Almost against your better judgment, your eyes lifted.
Arthur wasn't looking now, he was speaking to John who had wandered over carrying two tin bowls of whatever Pearson had declared stew that evening.
Just as you convinced yourself Tilly had been mistaken...
Arthur glanced up.
His gaze found yours immediately.
His expression softened in that quiet way it always did when he saw you. The corners of his mouth tipped upward just enough to be called a smile before he raised one hand in a small beckoning motion.
Come here.
Simple as that.
The invitation warmed something in your chest.
It also made the guilt settle a little deeper.
Because even now, with Arthur looking at you like you were the easiest thing in the world to find⌠Your mind insisted on asking whether he'd ever looked at Mary the same way.Â
You held his gaze for only a moment before looking back down at your sewing.
Coward.
The word came unbidden, earning the smallest shake of your head.
Arthur hadn't done anything to deserve your uncertainty. If anything, he'd spent the better part of every day making sure you never doubted where you stood with him. He sought you out without thinking, reached for your hand whenever the two of you walked anywhere together, and never once crawled into bed without first making sure there was room for you against his side.
This wasn't his burden.
It was yours.
You just weren't entirely sure how to put it back down.
By the time supper had been scraped clean from everyone's bowls and the campfire settled into easy conversation, you'd managed to convince yourself the feeling would pass if you simply ignored it long enough.
It was a convincing argument.
Unfortunately, Arthur Morgan had never been an easy man to fool.
You were rinsing the last of the tin plates near the water barrel when you heard his boots behind you.
"You keep scrubbin' that thing," he said, amusement tucked into his voice, "there ain't gonna be much plate left."
You glanced down.The bowl in your hands had been clean for quite some time. A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you set it aside.
"Suppose I got carried away."
"Suppose you did."
He stepped up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Arthur reached for the towel draped over the barrel, drying his hands with slow, absent movements before hanging it back where he'd found it.
It was the sort of comfortable silence the two of you shared often.
Tonight, it felt heavier.
Arthur seemed to feel it too.
"You feel like takin' a walk?"
You looked over at him.
"...Now?"
"Ain't much farther than the edge of camp."
His tone was light, almost casual, but there was something behind his eyes that made it clear this wasn't really a question about stretching his legs.
You hesitated only a second before nodding.
"Alright."
The two of you wandered away from the fire without much fanfare. Nobody called after you. Nobody thought anything of it. Couples disappeared for a little peace all the time, especially after a long day.
The sounds of camp faded behind you with each step, replaced by the steady chorus of crickets and the soft rustle of evening wind through the trees.
Arthur kept an easy pace, his hands resting in his pockets as he walked. Every now and then, his arm bumped yours.
Not enough to make you stumble.
Just enough to remind you he was there.
"You been quiet."
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even really a question.
You let out a small sigh.
"I know."
"You wanna tell me why?"
"I don't."
Arthur nodded once.
"Alright."
That was it. No pushing, no disappointed look, just acceptance.
You'd almost convinced yourself he was willing to leave it there when he spoke again, his voice carrying that same quiet steadiness you'd come to lean on more times than you could count.
"...Can I tell you what I think, then?"
You looked up at him.
The moon caught the tired lines around his eyes, silvering the edges of his hat and softening the hard angles of his face.
"You've been lookin' at me all evenin' like you're waitin' for me to disappear."
The words stopped you where you stood.
Arthur took another step before realizing you'd fallen behind. He turned, his brow knitting together ever so slightly.
"I ain't sayin' that to make you feel bad."
His voice was gentler now.
"I'm sayin' it 'cause... whatever's got hold of you..."
He closed the distance between you with two slow strides.
"...I want you to quit carryin' it by yourself."
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The breeze stirred the grass around your boots, carrying with it the distant murmur of camp. Someone laughed behind you. A horse snorted somewhere in the darkness. Life carried on, blissfully unaware that your heart suddenly felt lodged somewhere in your throat.
Arthur didn't rush to fill the silence. He simply stood there, watching you with the same patient expression he wore when coaxing a frightened horse or waiting for a wounded animal to stop struggling.
"I know it don't make much sense," you admitted at last, your voice scarcely louder than the wind.
"It don't have to."
"It does."
You let out a quiet breath, dropping your eyes to the ground between you.
"'Cause if I say it out loud..." You gave a humorless little laugh. "I'm afraid it'll sound as foolish as it feels."
Arthur's mouth twitched, though not quite into a smile.
"I've said plenty foolish things in my life."
"I know."
"I still do."
That pulled the smallest laugh from you, and for just a second, the knot in your chest loosened.
Arthur caught it.
He always did.
"Better?"
"A little."
"Good."
He shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.
"Now tell me."
You looked at him again. Really looked at him. The familiar crease between his brows, the scar near his chin, the silver beginning to creep into the stubble along his jaw. There wasn't a single part of him you didn't know by heart.
Which somehow made this harder.
"It's Mary."
He blinked.
Not because he was offended.
Because he hadn't expected the answer.
His brow softened almost immediately.
"...Mary."
You gave a small nod.
"I know there ain't anythin' between you anymore. I know you came back." You managed a weak smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. "You've never given me a reason to doubt you."
The quiet stretched just long enough for you to find the courage to continue.
"I think..." Your words caught for only a moment. "I think people don't just stop lovin' someone because enough time passes."
He didn't disagree.
He didn't look away.
He simply waited.
"I ain't askin' if you still love her," you said softly. "I'm not even sure that's what I'm afraid of."
You sighed, shaking your head at yourself.
"I kept watchin' you after you got back today, and all I could think was... what if seein' her reminded you of the life you thought you'd have?"
The question lingered between you.
"A home. A family. A place where you could finally stop runnin'."
You looked past him, toward the faint orange glow of camp through the trees.
"What if, for just a little while..." Your voice grew quieter. "You remembered the man you were when you loved her."
The thought had lived in your chest all afternoon, growing heavier each time you tried to ignore it.
"And then you came back here."
A humorless smile tugged at your lips.
"Back to Dutch. Back to the gang. Back to all of..." You gestured vaguely toward the wilderness around you. "...this."
You finally looked at him again.
Arthur held your gaze for a long moment.
Something in his expression shifted, so quietly you almost missed it. Whatever he'd expected you to say, it hadn't been this. He'd been prepared for anger, perhaps even jealousy. Instead, he'd found you grieving a future that had never been yours, afraid that a single afternoon had reminded him of everything he'd lost.
"You been carryin' that around all day?"
You gave the smallest nod.
Arthur let out a slow breath through his nose, his eyes dropping to the ground before lifting back to yours.
"I reckon..." A faint, almost wistful smile crossed his face. "I reckon you're right."
Your stomach sank.
"I don't think people just stop lovin' somebody because enough years've gone by."
The words were gentle. Matter-of-fact. Honest.
"I loved Mary."
He didn't rush past it or soften it with excuses. He simply let the truth exist between you.
"I loved who she was. I loved what we thought we might have together."
His gaze drifted for only a moment, toward nothing in particular, as though he could still see two young people making plans neither of them understood life well enough to keep.
"That ain't somethin' I can pretend never happened."
His eyes found yours again.
"But, honey..." His fingers curled just a little tighter around your hand. "Missin' a dream ain't the same thing as wishin' you were still livin' it."
A quiet breeze stirred the trees around you, carrying the distant sound of laughter from camp.
"When I saw her today, I remembered who I used to be." He smiled to himself, though there was more sadness than joy in it. "Young enough to think life listened when you made plans."
He gave a small shake of his head.
"For a little while... yeah. I thought about it."
The admission stung, if only because he'd trusted you enough not to hide it.
"But then I rode back."
His smile softened as he looked at you.
"And I came home to you."
There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his voice.
"I ain't sayin' that because it's the right thing to say. Lord knows I ain't ever been much good at findin' the right words."
A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.
"I'm sayin' it because it's true."
He took your hand in his, just enough for his thumb to brush across your fingers.
"I can't change the life I almost had."
His eyes never left yours.
"And I don't spend my days wishin' I could."
For a long moment, you simply looked at him. The ache that had settled beneath your ribs that afternoon was still there, but it had changed somehow. Softer now. No longer sharp enough to steal your breath every time you thought about it.
"I didn't know," you admitted quietly.
Arthur's brow furrowed.
"I didn't know if you ever... let yourself think about it."
"I don't much make a habit of livin' in the past."
"No..."
You smiled faintly.
"I suppose you don't."
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. The breeze stirred the leaves overhead, carrying with it the distant laughter from camp. Somewhere behind you, Pearson was almost certainly arguing with Uncle again.
Arthur gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
"I ain't gonna tell you I never wonder how things might've turned out," he said after a moment. "Everybody does."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the trees before returning to yours.
"But wonderin' ain't the same as wishin'."
The words settled over you with surprising ease.
You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself those two things were one and the same.
They weren't.
"I reckon..." You let out a quiet laugh at yourself. "I made the two sound awfully similar in my head."
"They usually do."
You searched his face for another moment before shaking your head.
"I'm sorry."
Arthur looked almost offended.
"What're you apologizin' to me for?"
"For..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "All this."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"Honey."
There it was again.
Warm.
Steady.
The way he said it made the knot in your chest loosen just a little more.
"You don't owe me an apology for tellin' me what's on your mind."
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
"I'd rather know."
The words settled between you, quiet enough that for a moment all you could hear was the breeze moving through the trees.
You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself that Arthur had ridden back from Valentine carrying the weight of a life he'd rather have lived. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten that if there was one thing Arthur Morgan had always done, it was tell the truth, even when it would've been easier not to.
A small smile tugged at your mouth.
"I've been an awful fool."
His own smile answered yours, tired around the edges but warm all the same.
"I wasn't gonna say it."
"You were thinkin' it."
"...Maybe a little."
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
It felt good.
Arthur seemed to think so too.
He stepped closer, the space between you disappearing so naturally it hardly felt like a decision at all. One arm slipped around your waist, drawing you in until your forehead found the familiar place against his shoulder.
"There." he murmured, more to himself than to you.
His chin rested lightly against the top of your head, and for a while neither of you spoke. There wasn't much left to say. The fears that had followed you through the evening had finally run out of places to hide, and Arthur had met every one of them with the same steady honesty he'd always given you.
You smiled into his shirt.
"I do love you, you know."
His arms tightened around you.Â
"I know."
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
"I was sort of hopin' you'd say it back."
That crooked grin finally appeared.
"I love you too, honey."
He said it so simply that it stole the breath from your lungs.
Then, before you could think of anything clever to say in return, he ducked his head and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.
It wasn't hurried.
It wasn't meant to fix anything.
It simply felt like Arthur.
When he leaned back, his smile was still there.
"C'mon," he said quietly, giving your hand another squeeze. "Let's get back."
You let him lace his fingers through yours without another word.
By the time the glow of the campfire came back into view, the knot that had followed you all afternoon was gone.
Not because Arthur had promised you'd never worry again.
But because he'd reminded you that when you did...
Wow⌠I do not know what to say. This was everything I ever meant with that ask and more. I cannot believe you even saw it, let alone wrote this up with the idea in mind! Thank you thank you thank you. I already look forward to rereading đ
This one's for anyone who's ever wondered if love can make room for both the past and the present... and for Arthur Morgan, who answers that question the only way he knows how.
A big thank you to @crumbledcastle28 for the request that inspired tonight's fire.
Hope you enjoy!
ââ đĽ
The Road Not Taken
The camp didn't change when Arthur came back.
Pearson still grumbled that nobody appreciated a decent meal until Karen threatened to make supper herself. Uncle had somehow claimed the best chair despite contributing nothing but commentary, and Jack raced between the wagons with Cain happily at his heels, waving a crooked stick he insisted was a sword.
Everything carried on exactly as it had that morning.
Only Arthur was different.
It wasn't the sort of thing anyone else would have noticed. Around camp, silence wasn't unusual. Men came home from jobs with blood on their sleeves and thoughts they weren't ready to speak aloud. Some evenings, the fire did all the talking.
But you'd spent enough nights beside Arthur to know the difference between a man who was simply tired and one who was carrying something heavier.
He answered when spoken to. Laughed quietly when Jack nearly stumbled over the dog. Even tipped his hat toward Tilly when she teased him about tracking mud across camp.
From a distance, he looked exactly like himself.
Up close...
You caught the way his eyes drifted somewhere beyond the wagons when conversation lulled, how his coffee sat untouched until it had gone cold in his hands, and how, after seeing to his horse, he'd lingered a little longer than necessary with one hand resting against the animal's neck before finally turning back toward camp.
It wasn't unusual for Arthur to brood.
Lord knew he'd made an art of it.
Still, this felt different.
You watched him over the top of the shirt spread across your lap, guiding your needle through a fraying cuff while the camp settled into the slow rhythm of evening. He'd returned nearly an hour ago, yet every so often his attention slipped away from whatever was happening around him, as though some part of him was still walking the streets of Valentine.
You knew why.
Everyone did.
Mary.
The name had drifted through camp in quiet conversation after Arthur returned. Never loudly enough to invite questions, never long enough to become gossip.
"Saw Mary, did you?"
"Mm."
"She doin' alright?"
"Seems it."
That had been the end of it.
No stories.
No reminiscing.
No wistful smile lingering on Arthur's face.
Just a few words before he'd wandered off to tend to his horse as though the conversation had meant nothing at all.
It should have put your mind at ease.
Instead...
It left far too much room for your own thoughts. They crept in quietly, dressed in reason instead of jealousy, which somehow made them harder to dismiss.
You weren't angry.
Not at Arthur.
Not even at Mary.
How could you be?
She'd been part of his life long before you'd ever stumbled into it. Before the gang. Before the running. Before years of hard living had carved permanent lines into the corners of his eyes. Whatever had existed between them had belonged to another time, another Arthur, and you had never once expected him to pretend otherwise.
Still...
You found yourself wondering about that younger version of him.
The one who laughed easier.
The one who'd looked at a woman and believed there was still enough goodness in him to build a home instead of another campfire.
Had she known that Arthur? Had she watched him smile before life had taught him to hide behind tired little huffs and crooked half-grins?
Your needle caught against the fabric.
You frowned down at the shirt in your lap, easing the thread free before you'd pulled a knot into it.
It was a ridiculous thing to dwell on.
Arthur had come back.
He always came back.
The thought should have been enough. Instead, your eyes drifted toward him again.
He'd settled onto an empty crate near the fire, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently into the flames. The conversation around him came and went without much notice. Javier and Charles were debating the best route west, Sean insisted they'd both get lost before they crossed the next county, and somewhere behind you Susan scolded Uncle for tracking mud near the wash line.
Arthur didn't join in.
He simply listened, turning his coffee cup slowly between both hands as if the answer to whatever occupied his mind might be hidden somewhere inside it.
You hated that you noticed.
Hated it even more because, until today, you probably wouldn't have.
"Need a hand?"
You startled at Tilly's voice.
She smiled knowingly as she nodded toward the shirt spread across your lap.
"You've been sewin' the same cuff for near twenty minutes."
Heat rushed to your face.
Had it really been that long?
You looked down, only to discover you'd stitched barely an inch since sitting there.
"I reckon I'm more distracted than productive."
"I reckon you are."
Tilly lowered herself onto the log beside you, gathering another pile of mending into her lap. For a while neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the quiet pull of thread through worn fabric.
"You alright?"
The question came gently.
Not prying.
Just... observant.
You smiled without looking up.
"I'm alright."
She hummed, unconvinced, but kind enough not to press.
After another moment she nudged your shoulder with her own.
"You know..." she said, tying off a loose button. "Mr. Morgan's looked over here about six times since he sat down."
You blinked.
"...Has he?"
"Mhm."
Almost against your better judgment, your eyes lifted.
Arthur wasn't looking now, he was speaking to John who had wandered over carrying two tin bowls of whatever Pearson had declared stew that evening.
Just as you convinced yourself Tilly had been mistaken...
Arthur glanced up.
His gaze found yours immediately.
His expression softened in that quiet way it always did when he saw you. The corners of his mouth tipped upward just enough to be called a smile before he raised one hand in a small beckoning motion.
Come here.
Simple as that.
The invitation warmed something in your chest.
It also made the guilt settle a little deeper.
Because even now, with Arthur looking at you like you were the easiest thing in the world to find⌠Your mind insisted on asking whether he'd ever looked at Mary the same way.Â
You held his gaze for only a moment before looking back down at your sewing.
Coward.
The word came unbidden, earning the smallest shake of your head.
Arthur hadn't done anything to deserve your uncertainty. If anything, he'd spent the better part of every day making sure you never doubted where you stood with him. He sought you out without thinking, reached for your hand whenever the two of you walked anywhere together, and never once crawled into bed without first making sure there was room for you against his side.
This wasn't his burden.
It was yours.
You just weren't entirely sure how to put it back down.
By the time supper had been scraped clean from everyone's bowls and the campfire settled into easy conversation, you'd managed to convince yourself the feeling would pass if you simply ignored it long enough.
It was a convincing argument.
Unfortunately, Arthur Morgan had never been an easy man to fool.
You were rinsing the last of the tin plates near the water barrel when you heard his boots behind you.
"You keep scrubbin' that thing," he said, amusement tucked into his voice, "there ain't gonna be much plate left."
You glanced down.The bowl in your hands had been clean for quite some time. A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you set it aside.
"Suppose I got carried away."
"Suppose you did."
He stepped up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Arthur reached for the towel draped over the barrel, drying his hands with slow, absent movements before hanging it back where he'd found it.
It was the sort of comfortable silence the two of you shared often.
Tonight, it felt heavier.
Arthur seemed to feel it too.
"You feel like takin' a walk?"
You looked over at him.
"...Now?"
"Ain't much farther than the edge of camp."
His tone was light, almost casual, but there was something behind his eyes that made it clear this wasn't really a question about stretching his legs.
You hesitated only a second before nodding.
"Alright."
The two of you wandered away from the fire without much fanfare. Nobody called after you. Nobody thought anything of it. Couples disappeared for a little peace all the time, especially after a long day.
The sounds of camp faded behind you with each step, replaced by the steady chorus of crickets and the soft rustle of evening wind through the trees.
Arthur kept an easy pace, his hands resting in his pockets as he walked. Every now and then, his arm bumped yours.
Not enough to make you stumble.
Just enough to remind you he was there.
"You been quiet."
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even really a question.
You let out a small sigh.
"I know."
"You wanna tell me why?"
"I don't."
Arthur nodded once.
"Alright."
That was it. No pushing, no disappointed look, just acceptance.
You'd almost convinced yourself he was willing to leave it there when he spoke again, his voice carrying that same quiet steadiness you'd come to lean on more times than you could count.
"...Can I tell you what I think, then?"
You looked up at him.
The moon caught the tired lines around his eyes, silvering the edges of his hat and softening the hard angles of his face.
"You've been lookin' at me all evenin' like you're waitin' for me to disappear."
The words stopped you where you stood.
Arthur took another step before realizing you'd fallen behind. He turned, his brow knitting together ever so slightly.
"I ain't sayin' that to make you feel bad."
His voice was gentler now.
"I'm sayin' it 'cause... whatever's got hold of you..."
He closed the distance between you with two slow strides.
"...I want you to quit carryin' it by yourself."
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The breeze stirred the grass around your boots, carrying with it the distant murmur of camp. Someone laughed behind you. A horse snorted somewhere in the darkness. Life carried on, blissfully unaware that your heart suddenly felt lodged somewhere in your throat.
Arthur didn't rush to fill the silence. He simply stood there, watching you with the same patient expression he wore when coaxing a frightened horse or waiting for a wounded animal to stop struggling.
"I know it don't make much sense," you admitted at last, your voice scarcely louder than the wind.
"It don't have to."
"It does."
You let out a quiet breath, dropping your eyes to the ground between you.
"'Cause if I say it out loud..." You gave a humorless little laugh. "I'm afraid it'll sound as foolish as it feels."
Arthur's mouth twitched, though not quite into a smile.
"I've said plenty foolish things in my life."
"I know."
"I still do."
That pulled the smallest laugh from you, and for just a second, the knot in your chest loosened.
Arthur caught it.
He always did.
"Better?"
"A little."
"Good."
He shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.
"Now tell me."
You looked at him again. Really looked at him. The familiar crease between his brows, the scar near his chin, the silver beginning to creep into the stubble along his jaw. There wasn't a single part of him you didn't know by heart.
Which somehow made this harder.
"It's Mary."
He blinked.
Not because he was offended.
Because he hadn't expected the answer.
His brow softened almost immediately.
"...Mary."
You gave a small nod.
"I know there ain't anythin' between you anymore. I know you came back." You managed a weak smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. "You've never given me a reason to doubt you."
The quiet stretched just long enough for you to find the courage to continue.
"I think..." Your words caught for only a moment. "I think people don't just stop lovin' someone because enough time passes."
He didn't disagree.
He didn't look away.
He simply waited.
"I ain't askin' if you still love her," you said softly. "I'm not even sure that's what I'm afraid of."
You sighed, shaking your head at yourself.
"I kept watchin' you after you got back today, and all I could think was... what if seein' her reminded you of the life you thought you'd have?"
The question lingered between you.
"A home. A family. A place where you could finally stop runnin'."
You looked past him, toward the faint orange glow of camp through the trees.
"What if, for just a little while..." Your voice grew quieter. "You remembered the man you were when you loved her."
The thought had lived in your chest all afternoon, growing heavier each time you tried to ignore it.
"And then you came back here."
A humorless smile tugged at your lips.
"Back to Dutch. Back to the gang. Back to all of..." You gestured vaguely toward the wilderness around you. "...this."
You finally looked at him again.
Arthur held your gaze for a long moment.
Something in his expression shifted, so quietly you almost missed it. Whatever he'd expected you to say, it hadn't been this. He'd been prepared for anger, perhaps even jealousy. Instead, he'd found you grieving a future that had never been yours, afraid that a single afternoon had reminded him of everything he'd lost.
"You been carryin' that around all day?"
You gave the smallest nod.
Arthur let out a slow breath through his nose, his eyes dropping to the ground before lifting back to yours.
"I reckon..." A faint, almost wistful smile crossed his face. "I reckon you're right."
Your stomach sank.
"I don't think people just stop lovin' somebody because enough years've gone by."
The words were gentle. Matter-of-fact. Honest.
"I loved Mary."
He didn't rush past it or soften it with excuses. He simply let the truth exist between you.
"I loved who she was. I loved what we thought we might have together."
His gaze drifted for only a moment, toward nothing in particular, as though he could still see two young people making plans neither of them understood life well enough to keep.
"That ain't somethin' I can pretend never happened."
His eyes found yours again.
"But, honey..." His fingers curled just a little tighter around your hand. "Missin' a dream ain't the same thing as wishin' you were still livin' it."
A quiet breeze stirred the trees around you, carrying the distant sound of laughter from camp.
"When I saw her today, I remembered who I used to be." He smiled to himself, though there was more sadness than joy in it. "Young enough to think life listened when you made plans."
He gave a small shake of his head.
"For a little while... yeah. I thought about it."
The admission stung, if only because he'd trusted you enough not to hide it.
"But then I rode back."
His smile softened as he looked at you.
"And I came home to you."
There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his voice.
"I ain't sayin' that because it's the right thing to say. Lord knows I ain't ever been much good at findin' the right words."
A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.
"I'm sayin' it because it's true."
He took your hand in his, just enough for his thumb to brush across your fingers.
"I can't change the life I almost had."
His eyes never left yours.
"And I don't spend my days wishin' I could."
For a long moment, you simply looked at him. The ache that had settled beneath your ribs that afternoon was still there, but it had changed somehow. Softer now. No longer sharp enough to steal your breath every time you thought about it.
"I didn't know," you admitted quietly.
Arthur's brow furrowed.
"I didn't know if you ever... let yourself think about it."
"I don't much make a habit of livin' in the past."
"No..."
You smiled faintly.
"I suppose you don't."
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. The breeze stirred the leaves overhead, carrying with it the distant laughter from camp. Somewhere behind you, Pearson was almost certainly arguing with Uncle again.
Arthur gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
"I ain't gonna tell you I never wonder how things might've turned out," he said after a moment. "Everybody does."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the trees before returning to yours.
"But wonderin' ain't the same as wishin'."
The words settled over you with surprising ease.
You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself those two things were one and the same.
They weren't.
"I reckon..." You let out a quiet laugh at yourself. "I made the two sound awfully similar in my head."
"They usually do."
You searched his face for another moment before shaking your head.
"I'm sorry."
Arthur looked almost offended.
"What're you apologizin' to me for?"
"For..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "All this."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"Honey."
There it was again.
Warm.
Steady.
The way he said it made the knot in your chest loosen just a little more.
"You don't owe me an apology for tellin' me what's on your mind."
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
"I'd rather know."
The words settled between you, quiet enough that for a moment all you could hear was the breeze moving through the trees.
You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself that Arthur had ridden back from Valentine carrying the weight of a life he'd rather have lived. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten that if there was one thing Arthur Morgan had always done, it was tell the truth, even when it would've been easier not to.
A small smile tugged at your mouth.
"I've been an awful fool."
His own smile answered yours, tired around the edges but warm all the same.
"I wasn't gonna say it."
"You were thinkin' it."
"...Maybe a little."
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
It felt good.
Arthur seemed to think so too.
He stepped closer, the space between you disappearing so naturally it hardly felt like a decision at all. One arm slipped around your waist, drawing you in until your forehead found the familiar place against his shoulder.
"There." he murmured, more to himself than to you.
His chin rested lightly against the top of your head, and for a while neither of you spoke. There wasn't much left to say. The fears that had followed you through the evening had finally run out of places to hide, and Arthur had met every one of them with the same steady honesty he'd always given you.
You smiled into his shirt.
"I do love you, you know."
His arms tightened around you.Â
"I know."
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
"I was sort of hopin' you'd say it back."
That crooked grin finally appeared.
"I love you too, honey."
He said it so simply that it stole the breath from your lungs.
Then, before you could think of anything clever to say in return, he ducked his head and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.
It wasn't hurried.
It wasn't meant to fix anything.
It simply felt like Arthur.
When he leaned back, his smile was still there.
"C'mon," he said quietly, giving your hand another squeeze. "Let's get back."
You let him lace his fingers through yours without another word.
By the time the glow of the campfire came back into view, the knot that had followed you all afternoon was gone.
Not because Arthur had promised you'd never worry again.
But because he'd reminded you that when you did...
This one's for anyone who's ever wondered if love can make room for both the past and the present... and for Arthur Morgan, who answers that question the only way he knows how.
A big thank you to @crumbledcastle28 for the request that inspired tonight's fire.
Hope you enjoy!
ââ đĽ
The Road Not Taken
The camp didn't change when Arthur came back.
Pearson still grumbled that nobody appreciated a decent meal until Karen threatened to make supper herself. Uncle had somehow claimed the best chair despite contributing nothing but commentary, and Jack raced between the wagons with Cain happily at his heels, waving a crooked stick he insisted was a sword.
Everything carried on exactly as it had that morning.
Only Arthur was different.
It wasn't the sort of thing anyone else would have noticed. Around camp, silence wasn't unusual. Men came home from jobs with blood on their sleeves and thoughts they weren't ready to speak aloud. Some evenings, the fire did all the talking.
But you'd spent enough nights beside Arthur to know the difference between a man who was simply tired and one who was carrying something heavier.
He answered when spoken to. Laughed quietly when Jack nearly stumbled over the dog. Even tipped his hat toward Tilly when she teased him about tracking mud across camp.
From a distance, he looked exactly like himself.
Up close...
You caught the way his eyes drifted somewhere beyond the wagons when conversation lulled, how his coffee sat untouched until it had gone cold in his hands, and how, after seeing to his horse, he'd lingered a little longer than necessary with one hand resting against the animal's neck before finally turning back toward camp.
It wasn't unusual for Arthur to brood.
Lord knew he'd made an art of it.
Still, this felt different.
You watched him over the top of the shirt spread across your lap, guiding your needle through a fraying cuff while the camp settled into the slow rhythm of evening. He'd returned nearly an hour ago, yet every so often his attention slipped away from whatever was happening around him, as though some part of him was still walking the streets of Valentine.
You knew why.
Everyone did.
Mary.
The name had drifted through camp in quiet conversation after Arthur returned. Never loudly enough to invite questions, never long enough to become gossip.
"Saw Mary, did you?"
"Mm."
"She doin' alright?"
"Seems it."
That had been the end of it.
No stories.
No reminiscing.
No wistful smile lingering on Arthur's face.
Just a few words before he'd wandered off to tend to his horse as though the conversation had meant nothing at all.
It should have put your mind at ease.
Instead...
It left far too much room for your own thoughts. They crept in quietly, dressed in reason instead of jealousy, which somehow made them harder to dismiss.
You weren't angry.
Not at Arthur.
Not even at Mary.
How could you be?
She'd been part of his life long before you'd ever stumbled into it. Before the gang. Before the running. Before years of hard living had carved permanent lines into the corners of his eyes. Whatever had existed between them had belonged to another time, another Arthur, and you had never once expected him to pretend otherwise.
Still...
You found yourself wondering about that younger version of him.
The one who laughed easier.
The one who'd looked at a woman and believed there was still enough goodness in him to build a home instead of another campfire.
Had she known that Arthur? Had she watched him smile before life had taught him to hide behind tired little huffs and crooked half-grins?
Your needle caught against the fabric.
You frowned down at the shirt in your lap, easing the thread free before you'd pulled a knot into it.
It was a ridiculous thing to dwell on.
Arthur had come back.
He always came back.
The thought should have been enough. Instead, your eyes drifted toward him again.
He'd settled onto an empty crate near the fire, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently into the flames. The conversation around him came and went without much notice. Javier and Charles were debating the best route west, Sean insisted they'd both get lost before they crossed the next county, and somewhere behind you Susan scolded Uncle for tracking mud near the wash line.
Arthur didn't join in.
He simply listened, turning his coffee cup slowly between both hands as if the answer to whatever occupied his mind might be hidden somewhere inside it.
You hated that you noticed.
Hated it even more because, until today, you probably wouldn't have.
"Need a hand?"
You startled at Tilly's voice.
She smiled knowingly as she nodded toward the shirt spread across your lap.
"You've been sewin' the same cuff for near twenty minutes."
Heat rushed to your face.
Had it really been that long?
You looked down, only to discover you'd stitched barely an inch since sitting there.
"I reckon I'm more distracted than productive."
"I reckon you are."
Tilly lowered herself onto the log beside you, gathering another pile of mending into her lap. For a while neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the quiet pull of thread through worn fabric.
"You alright?"
The question came gently.
Not prying.
Just... observant.
You smiled without looking up.
"I'm alright."
She hummed, unconvinced, but kind enough not to press.
After another moment she nudged your shoulder with her own.
"You know..." she said, tying off a loose button. "Mr. Morgan's looked over here about six times since he sat down."
You blinked.
"...Has he?"
"Mhm."
Almost against your better judgment, your eyes lifted.
Arthur wasn't looking now, he was speaking to John who had wandered over carrying two tin bowls of whatever Pearson had declared stew that evening.
Just as you convinced yourself Tilly had been mistaken...
Arthur glanced up.
His gaze found yours immediately.
His expression softened in that quiet way it always did when he saw you. The corners of his mouth tipped upward just enough to be called a smile before he raised one hand in a small beckoning motion.
Come here.
Simple as that.
The invitation warmed something in your chest.
It also made the guilt settle a little deeper.
Because even now, with Arthur looking at you like you were the easiest thing in the world to find⌠Your mind insisted on asking whether he'd ever looked at Mary the same way.Â
You held his gaze for only a moment before looking back down at your sewing.
Coward.
The word came unbidden, earning the smallest shake of your head.
Arthur hadn't done anything to deserve your uncertainty. If anything, he'd spent the better part of every day making sure you never doubted where you stood with him. He sought you out without thinking, reached for your hand whenever the two of you walked anywhere together, and never once crawled into bed without first making sure there was room for you against his side.
This wasn't his burden.
It was yours.
You just weren't entirely sure how to put it back down.
By the time supper had been scraped clean from everyone's bowls and the campfire settled into easy conversation, you'd managed to convince yourself the feeling would pass if you simply ignored it long enough.
It was a convincing argument.
Unfortunately, Arthur Morgan had never been an easy man to fool.
You were rinsing the last of the tin plates near the water barrel when you heard his boots behind you.
"You keep scrubbin' that thing," he said, amusement tucked into his voice, "there ain't gonna be much plate left."
You glanced down.The bowl in your hands had been clean for quite some time. A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you set it aside.
"Suppose I got carried away."
"Suppose you did."
He stepped up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Arthur reached for the towel draped over the barrel, drying his hands with slow, absent movements before hanging it back where he'd found it.
It was the sort of comfortable silence the two of you shared often.
Tonight, it felt heavier.
Arthur seemed to feel it too.
"You feel like takin' a walk?"
You looked over at him.
"...Now?"
"Ain't much farther than the edge of camp."
His tone was light, almost casual, but there was something behind his eyes that made it clear this wasn't really a question about stretching his legs.
You hesitated only a second before nodding.
"Alright."
The two of you wandered away from the fire without much fanfare. Nobody called after you. Nobody thought anything of it. Couples disappeared for a little peace all the time, especially after a long day.
The sounds of camp faded behind you with each step, replaced by the steady chorus of crickets and the soft rustle of evening wind through the trees.
Arthur kept an easy pace, his hands resting in his pockets as he walked. Every now and then, his arm bumped yours.
Not enough to make you stumble.
Just enough to remind you he was there.
"You been quiet."
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even really a question.
You let out a small sigh.
"I know."
"You wanna tell me why?"
"I don't."
Arthur nodded once.
"Alright."
That was it. No pushing, no disappointed look, just acceptance.
You'd almost convinced yourself he was willing to leave it there when he spoke again, his voice carrying that same quiet steadiness you'd come to lean on more times than you could count.
"...Can I tell you what I think, then?"
You looked up at him.
The moon caught the tired lines around his eyes, silvering the edges of his hat and softening the hard angles of his face.
"You've been lookin' at me all evenin' like you're waitin' for me to disappear."
The words stopped you where you stood.
Arthur took another step before realizing you'd fallen behind. He turned, his brow knitting together ever so slightly.
"I ain't sayin' that to make you feel bad."
His voice was gentler now.
"I'm sayin' it 'cause... whatever's got hold of you..."
He closed the distance between you with two slow strides.
"...I want you to quit carryin' it by yourself."
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The breeze stirred the grass around your boots, carrying with it the distant murmur of camp. Someone laughed behind you. A horse snorted somewhere in the darkness. Life carried on, blissfully unaware that your heart suddenly felt lodged somewhere in your throat.
Arthur didn't rush to fill the silence. He simply stood there, watching you with the same patient expression he wore when coaxing a frightened horse or waiting for a wounded animal to stop struggling.
"I know it don't make much sense," you admitted at last, your voice scarcely louder than the wind.
"It don't have to."
"It does."
You let out a quiet breath, dropping your eyes to the ground between you.
"'Cause if I say it out loud..." You gave a humorless little laugh. "I'm afraid it'll sound as foolish as it feels."
Arthur's mouth twitched, though not quite into a smile.
"I've said plenty foolish things in my life."
"I know."
"I still do."
That pulled the smallest laugh from you, and for just a second, the knot in your chest loosened.
Arthur caught it.
He always did.
"Better?"
"A little."
"Good."
He shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.
"Now tell me."
You looked at him again. Really looked at him. The familiar crease between his brows, the scar near his chin, the silver beginning to creep into the stubble along his jaw. There wasn't a single part of him you didn't know by heart.
Which somehow made this harder.
"It's Mary."
He blinked.
Not because he was offended.
Because he hadn't expected the answer.
His brow softened almost immediately.
"...Mary."
You gave a small nod.
"I know there ain't anythin' between you anymore. I know you came back." You managed a weak smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. "You've never given me a reason to doubt you."
The quiet stretched just long enough for you to find the courage to continue.
"I think..." Your words caught for only a moment. "I think people don't just stop lovin' someone because enough time passes."
He didn't disagree.
He didn't look away.
He simply waited.
"I ain't askin' if you still love her," you said softly. "I'm not even sure that's what I'm afraid of."
You sighed, shaking your head at yourself.
"I kept watchin' you after you got back today, and all I could think was... what if seein' her reminded you of the life you thought you'd have?"
The question lingered between you.
"A home. A family. A place where you could finally stop runnin'."
You looked past him, toward the faint orange glow of camp through the trees.
"What if, for just a little while..." Your voice grew quieter. "You remembered the man you were when you loved her."
The thought had lived in your chest all afternoon, growing heavier each time you tried to ignore it.
"And then you came back here."
A humorless smile tugged at your lips.
"Back to Dutch. Back to the gang. Back to all of..." You gestured vaguely toward the wilderness around you. "...this."
You finally looked at him again.
Arthur held your gaze for a long moment.
Something in his expression shifted, so quietly you almost missed it. Whatever he'd expected you to say, it hadn't been this. He'd been prepared for anger, perhaps even jealousy. Instead, he'd found you grieving a future that had never been yours, afraid that a single afternoon had reminded him of everything he'd lost.
"You been carryin' that around all day?"
You gave the smallest nod.
Arthur let out a slow breath through his nose, his eyes dropping to the ground before lifting back to yours.
"I reckon..." A faint, almost wistful smile crossed his face. "I reckon you're right."
Your stomach sank.
"I don't think people just stop lovin' somebody because enough years've gone by."
The words were gentle. Matter-of-fact. Honest.
"I loved Mary."
He didn't rush past it or soften it with excuses. He simply let the truth exist between you.
"I loved who she was. I loved what we thought we might have together."
His gaze drifted for only a moment, toward nothing in particular, as though he could still see two young people making plans neither of them understood life well enough to keep.
"That ain't somethin' I can pretend never happened."
His eyes found yours again.
"But, honey..." His fingers curled just a little tighter around your hand. "Missin' a dream ain't the same thing as wishin' you were still livin' it."
A quiet breeze stirred the trees around you, carrying the distant sound of laughter from camp.
"When I saw her today, I remembered who I used to be." He smiled to himself, though there was more sadness than joy in it. "Young enough to think life listened when you made plans."
He gave a small shake of his head.
"For a little while... yeah. I thought about it."
The admission stung, if only because he'd trusted you enough not to hide it.
"But then I rode back."
His smile softened as he looked at you.
"And I came home to you."
There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his voice.
"I ain't sayin' that because it's the right thing to say. Lord knows I ain't ever been much good at findin' the right words."
A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.
"I'm sayin' it because it's true."
He took your hand in his, just enough for his thumb to brush across your fingers.
"I can't change the life I almost had."
His eyes never left yours.
"And I don't spend my days wishin' I could."
For a long moment, you simply looked at him. The ache that had settled beneath your ribs that afternoon was still there, but it had changed somehow. Softer now. No longer sharp enough to steal your breath every time you thought about it.
"I didn't know," you admitted quietly.
Arthur's brow furrowed.
"I didn't know if you ever... let yourself think about it."
"I don't much make a habit of livin' in the past."
"No..."
You smiled faintly.
"I suppose you don't."
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. The breeze stirred the leaves overhead, carrying with it the distant laughter from camp. Somewhere behind you, Pearson was almost certainly arguing with Uncle again.
Arthur gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
"I ain't gonna tell you I never wonder how things might've turned out," he said after a moment. "Everybody does."
His eyes drifted briefly toward the trees before returning to yours.
"But wonderin' ain't the same as wishin'."
The words settled over you with surprising ease.
You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself those two things were one and the same.
They weren't.
"I reckon..." You let out a quiet laugh at yourself. "I made the two sound awfully similar in my head."
"They usually do."
You searched his face for another moment before shaking your head.
"I'm sorry."
Arthur looked almost offended.
"What're you apologizin' to me for?"
"For..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "All this."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"Honey."
There it was again.
Warm.
Steady.
The way he said it made the knot in your chest loosen just a little more.
"You don't owe me an apology for tellin' me what's on your mind."
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
"I'd rather know."
The words settled between you, quiet enough that for a moment all you could hear was the breeze moving through the trees.
You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself that Arthur had ridden back from Valentine carrying the weight of a life he'd rather have lived. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten that if there was one thing Arthur Morgan had always done, it was tell the truth, even when it would've been easier not to.
A small smile tugged at your mouth.
"I've been an awful fool."
His own smile answered yours, tired around the edges but warm all the same.
"I wasn't gonna say it."
"You were thinkin' it."
"...Maybe a little."
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
It felt good.
Arthur seemed to think so too.
He stepped closer, the space between you disappearing so naturally it hardly felt like a decision at all. One arm slipped around your waist, drawing you in until your forehead found the familiar place against his shoulder.
"There." he murmured, more to himself than to you.
His chin rested lightly against the top of your head, and for a while neither of you spoke. There wasn't much left to say. The fears that had followed you through the evening had finally run out of places to hide, and Arthur had met every one of them with the same steady honesty he'd always given you.
You smiled into his shirt.
"I do love you, you know."
His arms tightened around you.Â
"I know."
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
"I was sort of hopin' you'd say it back."
That crooked grin finally appeared.
"I love you too, honey."
He said it so simply that it stole the breath from your lungs.
Then, before you could think of anything clever to say in return, he ducked his head and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.
It wasn't hurried.
It wasn't meant to fix anything.
It simply felt like Arthur.
When he leaned back, his smile was still there.
"C'mon," he said quietly, giving your hand another squeeze. "Let's get back."
You let him lace his fingers through yours without another word.
By the time the glow of the campfire came back into view, the knot that had followed you all afternoon was gone.
Not because Arthur had promised you'd never worry again.
But because he'd reminded you that when you did...
.á.á Shh! Donât want them hearinâ now do we?
âCâmon girl, stay quiet fâme canâtâcha?â Arthur muttered into your ear. The two of you were hidden under the covers in his tent, trying to get some much needed alone time as a party raged on at Clemens Point right outside. Arthur propped himself up on one elbow as the other arm rubbed slow yet precise circles over your swollen clit.Â
âIâm tryinâ but yâkeep teasinâ me!â you whispered back, your breath hitching mid-sentence. Each slow drag of his throbbing cock against your walls resulted in whines spilling from your lips, muffled by your hand.Â
âIs that right?â Arthur pushed into you at a slightly rougher pace then before, earning him a glare from youâwhich proved to be futile due to your eyes soon rolling back into your head.
âArthur!â you mewled, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He chuckled lowly at your attempts to stay quiet, knowing he wasnât exactly doing anything to help with the way his thumb pressed harshly down on your clit.
âYouâre okay, girl. Doing so good fâme,â Arthur groaned, pressing soft kisses on the corner of your jaw. Arthur wanted nothing more than to pick up the pace, wanting to pound into you with no worries of other people hearing them.Â
âIâI need more, Arthur,â you pleaded. Your moans had grown the slightest bit louder which had caused Arthur to slow his hips down, not wanting others to realize what was hapoening in his tent. With someone else, he wouldnâtâve caredâbut with you, the mere thought of allowing anyone else to hear you sing the way you did for Arthur when you were under him made him nauseous.Â
âI know, sweetheart, I know. But I gotta give it to ya slow, alright? Donât need none oâthoseâshitâidiots hearinâ my girl.â Arthur peppered kisses down your neck, over your chest, before stopping at your nipples to take one into his mouth.Â
You whined at his words, not liking his answer. Truth be told, you couldnât care less if the world heard what you and Arthur were up to, all you wanted was for him to fuck you properly just like youâd asked him to.Â
âMmhâm close,â you whispered, not trusting yourself to speak louder.Â
Arthur let go of your nipple with a pop before speaking, âYeah? Then cum for me, love. And since my girl did so good, maybe next time weâre in Rhodes Iâll get us a room at the hotel and worship her properly, hm?â
i acc donât remember if theres a hotel in rhodes...mb if theres any spelling errors i didnât catch! </3
.âď¸ ÝË strangers to lovers headcanons with arthur morgan - mdni! (light smut)
Arthur Morgan, who first truly notices you when he catches you grooming his horse.
Arthur loves his horse more than most people, and heâs fiercely protective of the animal. For weeks, heâd seen you around camp â the quiet girl who didn't make a fuss â but it wasn't until he returned from a short hunting session with Charles to find you meticulously brushing the grime from his horse's coat that he actually saw you.
He stopped in his tracks, leaning against a nearby wagon, watching the way your small hands worked with such tenderness.Â
You hadnât only been cleaning his horse. Rather, you were whispering to it, your voice a soft melody that seemed to calm even the most spirited beast. He watched the way you leaned in to kiss the horse's velvet nose, a genuine, sweet smile lighting up your face.Â
In that moment, the hardness in Arthurâs chest cracked just a little. He felt a strange, sudden pull toward you, a desire to be the recipient of that kind of gentleness.
He didn't say much then â just a gruff âThank you, Missâ â but as he walked away, he found himself glancing back over his shoulder.Â
He couldn't stop thinking about the softness of your expression and the way you handled something he loved with such genuine care.
Arthur Morgan, who starts spotting you everywhere you go around camp.
Once he noticed you, it was as if a veil had been lifted. Suddenly, you were the center of his periphery.Â
Whether he was cleaning his rifle by the fire or chatting with Hosea, his eyes would instinctively drift toward you. Heâd watch you helping Pearson with the stew, the way you laughed at something Mary-Beth said, or the way you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear while reading a book by the lantern light.
He began to find excuses to be near you. Heâd linger by the horse picket longer than necessary, or heâd âhappenâ to be walking toward the coffee pot just as you were arriving.Â
Arthur loved the quietness of your presence: you didn't demand anything from him, and you didn't judge the blood on his knuckles or the weariness in his eyes.Â
You just smiled at him â a small, shy thing that made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He started noticing the little things: the scent of wild herbs that clung to your skin, the way your voice hitched when you were nervous, and the way you looked at him with a curiosity that felt like a warm blanket.Â
Truth be told, he was terrified of these feelings, but he was even more terrified of the thought of you disappearing from his sight.
Arthur Morgan, who begins bringing you wildflowers from the fields during his rides.
Arthur isn't a man for poetry or fancy gestures, but he found himself captivated by the colors of the wilderness.Â
On his scouting trips, while the world was quiet and the wind was whistling through the pines, heâd spot a patch of bright yellow primrose or a cluster of deep blue cornflowers. Heâd stop his horse, look at the blooms, and immediately think of you.
Heâd awkwardly pluck a handful, stuffing them into his satchel, feeling like a fool for doing so.Â
âWhat am I doing..?â Heâd mutter to himself, shaking his head.Â
But the moment he rode back into camp and saw you, the embarrassment vanished, replaced by a desperate need to see you smile.
He wouldn't make a grand production of it. Heâd walk up to you while you were working, clear his throat loudly, and thrust the slightly wilted bunch of flowers toward you without looking you in the eye.Â
âSaw these. Thought... thought you might like 'em.â Heâd grumble, his cheeks flushing a deep red.Â
âWhy thank you, Arthur. Theyâre⌠well, theyâre gorgeous.â Youâd reply, face heating up as you grinned up at him.
But when you took them, your fingers brushing his rough skin, and thanked him with that beaming smile, Arthur felt a rush of warmth that no amount of whiskey could ever provide.
Arthur Morgan, who lets his guard down during a drunken slow dance at a camp celebration.
The camp was in high spirits, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and the sound of a fiddle playing a lively tune.Â
Arthur had been drinking â more than usual â and the whiskey had softened the edges of his anxiety. When the music shifted to something slower, more melodic, he found himself standing near you.Â
The courage of the bottle pushed him forward.
He reached out a large, calloused hand, his voice low and slightly slurred.Â
âDance with me... please?âÂ
You didn't hesitate, sliding your hand into his.Â
Arthur was a mountain of a man, and he felt clumsy as he pulled you close, his boots stepping slightly out of time. He wasn't a dancer â he was a fighter and a killer. But as he felt your body press against his, the world around them blurred.
He loosened up, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction as he rested his chin on the top of your head.Â
Closing his eyes, he let himself breathe in the scent of your hair, swaying slowly to the music. For a few minutes, he wasn't an outlaw on the run; he was just a man holding the woman he loved.Â
âYer real prettyâŚâ He whispered incoherently yet sweetly into your ear, a confession born of alcohol and longing, and for the first time in years, Arthur felt truly at peace.
Arthur Morgan, who finally kisses you after you help him back to his cot.
The party had wound down, and the whiskey had finally caught up with him. Arthur was stumbling, his head spinning, and you were the one who caught him, looping his heavy arm over your shoulder to guide him back to his small, secluded corner of the camp.Â
He was leaning heavily on you, his breath warm and smelling of rye, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin tingle.
As you helped him lower himself onto the cot, you lingered for a moment, your hand resting on his chest to steady him. You started to pull away, but Arthurâs hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a surprising firmness.Â
He pulled you down, and before you could gasp, his lips were on yours.
It wasn't a polished kiss; it was desperate, hungry, and filled with all the words he had been too scared to say. He tasted of alcohol and longing, his beard scratching your skin, but the heat of it was intoxicating.Â
While he groaned into your mouth, his hand moved from your wrist to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were clouded with emotion, his forehead resting against yours.Â
âI've wanted to do that... for so damn long.â He whispered, his voice cracking.
Meanwhile, you had hidden your face in the crook of his neck, too speechless to reply.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who is a mess of shyness and awkwardness the morning after.
The sunlight filtering through the canvas of the tent felt far too bright the next morning.Â
When you woke up and looked over at Arthur, he was already awake, staring at the ceiling with a look of sheer panic on his face. The bravado of the whiskey was gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable uncertainty.
Whenever you tried to speak, he shifted away slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.Â
âMorninâ...â He muttered, his voice gravelly.Â
He couldn't quite look you in the eye, his ears turning a bright shade of crimson. He was terrified that he had overstepped, that you would regret the kiss, or that he was simply too ruined of a man to be what you deserved.
But as the day progressed, the awkwardness turned into a tender, tentative courtship. He started holding your hand in secret, his large thumb stroking your knuckles while you walked. Heâd leave little notes or pieces of candy on your bedroll.Â
He was still the rugged outlaw, but with you, he was a boy in love, constantly checking to make sure you were happy, his eyes following you with a devotion that was almost painful to witness.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who treats your first time together with a reverence that borders on sacred.
The transition from kissing to something more happened on a quiet, moonlit night, far from the prying eyes of the camp. He had led you to a secluded spot by a stream, the grass soft beneath you.Â
Arthur was trembling â not from cold, but from a sheer, overwhelming nervousness. He had spent his life taking things by force or fighting for survival; the idea of being gentle, of truly cherishing someone, was terrifying.
As he stripped away your clothes, his hands were shaking. He kept pausing, looking into your eyes for permission, his voice a low, unsteady rumble.Â
âYou sure? Iâ I don't want to hurt you. I'm notâ I ainât a gentle man, darlinâ.âÂ
âI donât think Iâve ever been more sure in my life, Arthur.âÂ
Youâd assured him that you wanted him, and the look of relief and desire that crossed his face was heartbreakingly sweet.
When he finally entered you, he did so with agonizing slowness. He stopped the moment he felt any resistance, his muscles locking up, his breath hitching in his throat.Â
He stayed still, his forehead pressed against yours, waiting for you to adjust, whispering praises into your skin.Â
âYer so tight⌠fuck, sweetheart.â He hissed, his voice thick with emotion.
He didn't rush. He focused entirely on your pleasure, his movements patient and rhythmic. Every time you gasped or arched your back, he would slow down, kissing every inch of your face, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.Â
âMâ Mmh! Arthur⌠feels sâgood..!â Youâd mewled into his ear, and he responded by capturing your lips in a kiss.
Arthur was so focused on your comfort that he almost forgot his own needs, his heart hammering against your chest.Â
And when he finally came inside with a groan against your ear, he'd let go. He collapsed against you, sobbing quietly into your neck, finally feeling like he belonged to someone.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who becomes incredibly protective and affectionate in the aftermath.
After that night, Arthur changed. The softness he had shown you became a permanent part of his demeanor when you were alone. He became your shadow, always ensuring you were fed, warm, and safe.Â
If another man looked at you for a second too long, Arthur didn't need to say a word; one dark, warning glare from beneath the brim of his hat was enough to send them scurrying.
But with you, he was a different man.Â
He loved to wake you up with soft kisses on your shoulder, his large body curling around yours like a protective shield. He started talking to you about his past: the things he regretted, the dreams he had given up on.Â
He trusted you with the parts of himself he had hidden from Dutch and the gang; the parts that were fragile and frightened.
Heâd spend hours just watching you, his hand resting on the small of your back, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration on his face.Â
He still brought you flowers, but now heâd tuck them into your hair, his fingers lingering against your skin.Â
He had found something in you that he thought was lost to the world: a reason to believe that he was more than just a gun for hire.Â
Without fail, this man is naturally dominant. Your pleasure is 100% his top priority, and he will be going extreme lengths just for you to roll his name off your tongue in the most velvety, erotic way.
His go-to positions are missionary, mating press, lotus, etc., etc.
Anything that allows him to watch himself disappear inside you with the tuck of his chin, but also have full access to your breasts and contorting face (his perfect trifecta)
Arthurâs large frame will encompass your body, almost trapping you beneath him. The weight of his chest presses you into whatever surface heâs fucking you on.
Loves to kiss you while rocking his hips. This man can practically taste your moans. Your mouths keep open against each other, allowing him to swipe his tongue against your bottom lip. Â
Is the epitome of talking you through it: âYouâre alright, girl.â âShhh, just like that~.â âKeep breathing for me.â
He doesnât necessarily expect a verbal response in return from you, not that you could muster one up anyway, but a simple shake of your head, or a desperate moan, is the only answer he needs to keep going.
Prefers to roll his hips against your sex rather than harshly drive himself into you, he finds it more intimate that way. To stay as close to you as possible at all times. Chests up against each other, your hearts beating frantically in sync.
Will always have you away from camp (secluded from potential curious eyes), either in a rented room or somewhere deep in the woods. The trauma he experienced from Sean and Karen was enough for him to vow against public sexual ordeals. And more importantly, he would not want to share your pleasure with anyone else. You are his, and he is yours.
Enjoys sex in the bath. This way, both of you are physically relaxed and clean. Not to mention the gleam the hot water leaves across your body, sending the blood pumping fervently into his groin.
Occasionally, women offering âdeluxeâ bathtime services will briefly interrupt your session. Arthur takes charge to kindly dismiss them, his dick still kissing your walls, and your head gently bobbing against the crook of his neck.
Arthur isnât overly vocal outside his guidance, but he keeps his lips so close to your ear you can hear his every breath. Some sharp, some more drawn out, but all relish that same pleasure he gets from just touching you alone. The way you tighten around him, however, earns you a very satisfying groan from him. Itâs deep and guttural to the point you can feel his chest vibrate against yours.
Arthurâs very secure in his own masculinity. He wonât back down if you ask him to do something for you or if you request a change of pace. Immediately, if you suggest something to do on his end, he will do it, and he will do it well.
He will cum inside you. The thought of you filled with something that originated from him is enough to get him going for round two. Even after his own release, heâll still grind his hips against yours, almost playing with the mess that the two of you created. When he finally does pull out, the sight of his seed slowly dripping out of you empties his mind completely. Instinctively, heâll put a finger to your opening, pushing anything that dripped out right back in. Â
Is the absolute KING of aftercare. After fucking you senseless, heâll keep you warm in his own embrace. He wants you to feel seen and valued, appreciated for offering him something so intimate. He kisses your lips gently, tracing his nose against your neck, and stays with you for as long as you need. A glass of water is already at your side, and a washcloth has already run across your body.
He waits for you to fall asleep before he allows himself to. Itâs his final reassurance that you trust him enough in this vulnerable state, your bodies gently pressed together. xx
Summary: A routine trip into the woods for herbs turns violent when a coyote attack leaves you injured and alone. But Arthur finds you, and everything changes.
Warnings: just a lil fluff, Arthur fixing reader, animal attack, drawn out tension between the characters
Notes: This is a very secret spy mission I was on tonight for @thundermartini . this is just a tiny thing to say thank you for being the best of the best, for always cheering me on, for being the bees knees, the cats meow, you are truly one of a kind baby and I love you so much đđŤđŤśđź anywayyyyyyyy I hope you enjoy
Masterlist
Youâve spent so much time in the woods that the rustling of the trees usually comforts you. Today, it doesnât. Today, youâre too far from camp, your satchels too full, your boots are too muddy, and your thoughts are too scattered. The air is warm but heavy, clouds rolling in slow and low above the canopy. You donât like the feeling, but you ignore it anyway.
You find the patch of wild mint tucked beneath a fallen log and kneel down to gather itâsharp, green, fragrant. It reminds you of Arthur, in a strange way. Something rough, wild, but useful. Healing.
You smile a little at the thought. Youâve been thinking about him more than you should.
Once, not long ago, youâd sliced your palm open on a rusted nail behind the horseshoe station. Arthur had been the one to wrap your hand, gruff but gentle, his brow tight with concern. âGotta be more careful, sweetheart,â he had murmured, brushing dirt from your knuckles like he couldnât help himself. You had laughed and called him bossy. But youâd watched the way his jaw worked afterâlike there was something he wanted to say and couldnât.
But he keeps his distance. Like he doesnât think he deserves to get close.
The Van der Linde gang is family, in its strange and fractured way. Arthurâs always treated you kindârespectful in a way some of the others never quite mastered. He listens to you when you speak, doesnât scoff when you talk about herbs and poultices like the rest of them sometimes do. And he looks at you, really looks at you, like youâre not just another pair of hands around camp.
You pretend it doesnât bother you.
The growl is quiet, almost too quiet. You hear it just as youâre reaching for another stem. You freeze, heart skipping.
The coyote lunges before you can turn.
You hit the ground hard. Itâs not a clean fallâyou twist wrong, shoulder slamming into a jagged root, and the pain is immediate and blinding. The breath rushes from your lungs. Claws dig into your back. You scream, shove, thrash, somehow managing to drive your blade into its side. The beast snarls, jerks away, then disappears into the brush like it was never there.
You lie in the dirt, your body screaming, shoulder thudding with pain so intense it turns your stomach.
You canât breathe right.
You canât move your arm.
You donât cry, but your throat burns like you might.
Your vision sways. You lean against a tree and focus on surviving. The pain blooms and blooms and keeps blooming.
When you hear a horse, you think youâre imagining it.
But thenâ
âHey!â
Arthurâs voice is ragged, raw like itâs been torn from his chest. You turn your head, barely, and there he isâboots kicking up dirt, reins dropped, eyes wild.
He falls to his knees in front of you. Grabs your face gently, cradling your jaw like heâs afraid youâll shatter.
âWhat the hell happened?â
âCoyote,â you whisper, dazed. âShoulderâsâbad. IâI canât move it.â
His eyes scan your body, hands hovering over you without touching. Youâve never seen Arthur Morgan look scared before.
He looks scared now.
âYou shouldnât be out here alone,â he mutters, more to himself than you. âDamn it. I shouldâve come with you.â
âI was fine,â you lie.
âNo, you ainât,â he snaps, but thereâs no heat in it. Just fear. âWe gotta get you back. I canât do much for you out here.â
You nod, barely.
He slips an arm around your back, another under your knees, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. You cry out without meaning toâthe movement lights your shoulder up like fireâand you fist your good hand in his coat, trying to breathe through the hurt.
Arthur presses his cheek against your hair. âI got you,â he murmurs. âI got you, sweetheart. You hold on now.â
Sweetheart. The word cuts through the pain like sunlight.
The trail blurs in your vision, pine trees and dark green, the scent of horses and earth. Arthur's coat is warm against your cheek.
âI thought you werenât cominâ,â you whisper at one point.
âI'll always come for you,â he says, and it sounds like a vow.
Back at camp, chaos stirs the moment you arrive. Miss Grimshaw demands space, but Arthur doesnât budge. He carries you to your bedroll himself, eases you down with a gentleness you didnât know he had in him.
Then he kneels. Takes out his knife. Cuts your torn shirt open at the shoulder and exposes the damage.
You look away. You hate how vulnerable you feel.
âLook at me,â he says quietly. âAinât nothinâ you need to be ashamed of.â
You do. His eyes are softer than theyâve ever been. Full of something aching and real.
âThis is gonna hurt,â he warns. âBad. But I need to set it before it swells worse.â
You grit your teeth. âDo it.â
He does. You scream. The pain is so deep and so bright you think you might pass outâbut Arthurâs there, grounding you, you find yourself grabbing onto his vest, your forehead pressed to his collarbone.
He doesnât move. Doesnât flinch. Just lets you hold on while the pain crests and fades.
âYou good?â he asks after a minute, his voice low.
You nod, your face against his chest. âYeah.â
His hand comes up resting carefully against the back of your head. âYou scared me.â
You pull back enough to look at him. His eyes are storm-dark, gaze pinned to yours. Thereâs a vulnerability there youâve never seen beforeânot from Arthur.
âI didnât think anyoneâd come lookinâ for me that fast,â you whisper.
âI always would,â he says simply. âYou know that, right?â
Your chest aches in a different way now. Deep and warm and terrifying.
The air between you feels charged. Strange and thick, like the calm after a stormâor right before the next one breaks.
When it's overâwhen your shoulder is finally wrapped tight and the sweat cooling on your brow is wiped away with careful fingers â Arthurâs still crouched beside you with his hand lingering on your knee like he doesnât want to pull back, and youâre still breathing heavy from the pain.
Your eyes meet his.
And neither of you looks away.
Thereâs something stretching taut in the silence. You feel it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, in the way his thumb brushes the outside of your knee without him even seeming to realize heâs doing it. You feel it in your own chest, the way your breath hitches, the way your lips part just barely.
He leans in.
So slow. Like heâs afraid to spook you. Like heâs afraid to want.
And god, you want.
Your nose brushes his. His breath is warm and smells faintly of tobacco and pine. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw again, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone. His eyes flickerâsearching yours like heâs waiting for you to stop him.
You donât.
He gets so close you can feel the heat of his mouth against yours, your lips nearly brushing.
And then, finally, his lips press to yours.
Itâs not gentle.
Itâs not rushed, either.
Itâs desperate and quiet and full of everything heâs never said. His hand cups your jaw like youâre something precious, like touching you any harder might shatter you. And he kisses you like heâs drowningâlike youâre the only thing anchoring him to the world. You feel the tremble in him, the restraint in his shoulders, the way heâs holding himself back even now.
He pulls away just enough to breatheâbut not far, never far, and then he kisses you again. Slower this time. Reverent. Like heâs trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, like some part of him knows he may never get another chance.
You gasp into his mouth. Your good hand fists in the front of his shirt, fingers twisted in the worn fabric like youâre afraid heâll disappear if you let go.
He lets you. Stays there, close and warm and real.
When he finally pulls back, he doesnât go far. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathe hard, chests rising and falling like youâve just run for your lives.
Neither of you speaks.
The quiet between you hums, charged and heavy, every inch of space that used to exist now filled with something fragile and real.
âI thought I lost you,â he says, voice barely more than a breath. Like it costs him something to admit it out loud. Like itâs the most honest thing heâs said in years.
You press your palm to his chest, right over the thud of his heart.
âYou didnât,â you whisper. âYou found me.â
His eyes flutter shut. His hand comes up and wraps around your wrist, holding it there. Holding you there. His grip isnât tight, but thereâs something desperate in it. Like if he lets go, you might slip through his fingers all over again.
Thenâ
âArthur!â
Dutch's voice cuts through the night sharp and loud, calling him from across camp.
It shatters the moment like glass hitting stone.
Arthur blinks, flinching like someone slapped him. His head lifts. The air between you turns colder, thinner. His hand falls from your face, reluctant.
And just like that, itâs gone. The momentâthe kissâthe closeness. Gone like smoke caught in a breeze.
He stands up too fast, like putting distance between you might dull the ache settling in his chest. He clears his throat, avoids your eyes. But thenâ
Then he pauses.
His gaze drops back to you.
And his hand reaches out one more timeâsoft, hesitant. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, slow and careful, like itâs the only thing heâs allowed to do. His fingers linger just a second too long against your cheek. Like he doesnât want to let go.
âGet some rest, alright?â His voice is rough again. Lower. âIâll bring you somethinâ warm to eat.â
He doesnât wait for you to answer.
He turns and walks away, the weight of everything unsaid trailing behind him like a shadow.
And youâre left there, lips still tingling, heart aching, hand still curled over the echo of his heartbeat.
Ainât no place in this world I'd rather be || <1K
Summary: arthur gives you a bath
Warnings: fluffish, smut, f!fingering, reader has breasts
Notes: biggest thanks to @thundermartini for all the constant support and for making this lovely moodboard, I love you forever my bestie baby đ and big thank yous to @sawymredfox for all the love and support tysm my twin â¤ď¸ and @dilf-luvr-4evr for the corset idea â¤ď¸
Masterlist
The lamplight flickers against the wallpaper, casting long amber shadows across the modest hotel room Arthur insisted on paying for. A âsecret date,â heâd called it, flashing that crooked little toothy grin that always undoes you. You smiled back, trying to mask the way your heart thudded against your ribs. Itâs not often you get him all to yourself. Not like this. Not clean, not quiet, not without Dutch breathing down his neck.
â
The white satin corset he bought for you, adorned with embroidered roses, squeaks as you shift in front of him. Arthur hadn't expected you to wear it tonight. Thought maybe you'd forgotten about it. But when he sees you in it, his hands tremble slightly, and now his eyes havenât left your body in what feels like minutes.
"You look like sin darlin," he mutters.
You look at him from beneath your lashes teasing him. âThat a complaint, Mr. Morgan?â
He huffs a laugh and steps behind you. âAinât nothinâ âbout you Iâd ever complain about, sweetheart.â
His hands rise to your waist as he undoes the corset slowly and deliberately, his fingers catch on the laces like he wants to savor the sound of each little pull. Each loosened breath you take makes you feel more exposed, more seen. The corset slips from your body and falls to the floor. Arthur watches it drop, before his eyes return to your bare skin like he's ready to devour you.
He doesn't rush. He never does, not with you.
âBathâs hot, come on, darlinâ.â
â
Steam curls from the copper tub near the window, scented faintly of lavender, your favorite. You hadnât seen him slip that in.
But of course he did.
He helps you step in, one hand steadying your waist, the other holding your hand as you sink into the warmth with a soft sigh. You close your eyes for a moment, and when you open them, heâs rolling his sleeves up, kneeling beside the tub with a washcloth.
âYou donât gotta do all this,â you murmur, though your voice betrays how much you like it.
He huffs softly through his nose, brushing wet strands of hair from your neck. âHush now, let me take care of you.â
The rag in his hand moves gently across your back, his calloused fingers graze against your soft skin. He works in silence, slow and unhurried, like heâs memorizing every inch of you. When you sigh and lean into him, he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. âAinât no place in this world I'd rather be.â
His hand trails slowly down your arm, his knuckles dragging along your skin with a reverence that makes you shiver. The rag slips into the water, forgotten, as his hand settles over your chest, not groping, just resting. Warm. Present. Protective.
âI can feel your heart racinâ,â he says as his lips brush your ear. somehow, it feels flirty, and it sends a shiver down your spine, makes your skin tingle like heâs lit a fuse just beneath it.
âYouâre so damn soft,â he groans, letting his other hand trail lower, across the slope of your belly. âCould stay right here all night. Touchinâ you. Listeninâ to those pretty sounds you make.â
You gasp when his fingers dip beneath the water, finding the heat between your legs. The water ripples and your thighs part for him.
Arthurâs fingers move slowly beneath the water. His breath is hot against your ear as his fingers part your folds, stroking gently just enough to make your hips shift beneath the surface with a quiet splash.
âThere she is, thereâs my girl. So warm fâme⌠always so ready.â
Your head tips back against the edge of the tub as he circles your clit with practiced ease, his touch is both tender and precise. He watches you the whole time, eyes fixed on your face, the way your lashes flutter and your lips part with each shaky breath.
âThatâs it, tha's a good girlâ he soothes.
Your fingers curl around the edge of the tub, turned on even more by his words. Water sloshes softly as your hips start to rise, chasing the rhythm of his touch. His other hand cradles your jaw, turning your face toward him so he can kiss you slow and deep, his tongue brushing yours in time with the movements of his hand.
The kiss breaks only when you moan into his mouth, breathless and trembling, and he smiles against your cheek.
âYouâre doinâ so good,â he whispers, fingers sliding lower, teasing your entrance now. âMind if Iâ?â
You nod quickly and needy. âPlease, ArthurâŚâ
He eases two fingers inside you, slow and careful, groaning low in his throat when he feels how tight you are around him. âGoddamn, you feel like heaven.â
The water rocks gently with your movements, heat swirling around you as his fingers pump in slow, curling motions, stroking deep inside. His thumb finds your clit again, coaxing you towards the edge with quiet praise and low, raspy moans.
âGood girl, come on now, jusâ let go.â
You come with a cry muffled into his shoulder. Your whole body clenches around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash over you. He holds you against him through it, murmuring soft praises into your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, your lips.
When the aftershocks ease and your body melts back into the water, he slowly withdraws his fingers and gently brushes them over your thigh, soothing you.
âYâalright?â he asks softly.
You nod, dazed and blissed out, and he smiles, leaning in to kiss you again. âGood, âcause I ainât even close to done takinâ care of you yet. Gonna keep takinâ care of you, âtil you canât remember your own damn name.â
pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader (f)
word count: 4944 words
warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, oral (f giving), rough oral, a little choking, a touch of voyeurism, explicit language, it's pretty much a blowjob fic
authors note: idk what to say... this started as a little drabble because me and my fiancĂŠ love having a little smoke together at night and.... well, here we are I guess?? i hope you enjoy you lovely lot, and if you've asked to be tagged and you're not please let me know!! I have a new system for keeping track of my taglist and I may have lost some requests in the transfer
taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i *if i've missed you please let me know!!!*
You pull Arthurâs jacket tighter around your shoulders, settling into the old wooden chair while it creaks beneath you. Thanks to being in the middle of the Lemoyne swamps, it isnât too cold despite the moon hanging so high in the sky above you, the jacket is more for comfort. From where you sit, you can see near the whole camp, watching lanterns flicker off incrementally as each member of your makeshift family retires for the night. A few of the boys stay up, drinking by the fire, their voices muffled and distant in the thick air.
Itâs been a week to the day since you last saw Arthur, before he left to track a rather sizable bounty down and attempt to cushion out the camp funds, and God do you miss him. The days feel so much longer, nights so lonely youâve considered saddling up and finding the bastard yourself just to bring him home sooner. Comfort can be found, though, in the ways Arthurâs presence has bled so deeply into your life that his physical being doesnât even need to be here.Â
His smell lingers on the jacket he left (the one he wore every day before he had to leave just so you could wear it when you missed him), that perfect mix of tobacco and whiskey and something so ineffably Arthur that you soak up every time you wrap it around your frame.Â
Heâs there in the routines you've built your lives around, intertwined as they are, the ones you canât shake even if heâs not beside you. The cup of coffee in a morning, his so much better tasting than yours but you try anyway. The first morning after he left, you made two, ending up giving the extra to a very grateful Abigail to save face.
Thereâs a nightly routine, too. The one where you get ready for bed, then climb through the window to meet him on your balcony. Heâs always there waiting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, patting his lap ready for you to crawl on. Heâll drag a match across his boot, (or sometimes the bottom of yours, if youâre still wearing them) lighting up the smoke before handing it to you. Youâll pass it between each other, catching up on your days, limbs entangled just how they should be as you watch Shady Belle fall asleep around you.Â
Without him, those routines bring you comfort, grasping onto the remnants of your cowboy until his safe return. Thatâs why youâre sitting in this spot, pulling a cigar out of the little tin stash box Arthur left behind. Normally itâs just a cigarette, you could never survive a cigar a night and have the throat to tell the tale, but thereâs something inexplicably Arthur about this brand of smokes, something youâre seeking tonight.Â
You pluck a match from the tin, striking it against the table beside you, never having gotten the knack of igniting the thing on your boot as effortlessly as Arthur does, and light the cigar between your lips. The all-familiar woody essence dances across your tongue, your tired muscles relaxing from the first few tokes.Â
Itâs just you, the moon and the crickets as you sit on the balcony, Arthurâs smoke between your lips. You wonder what heâs doing. He should be sleeping, but knowing him heâs probably up planning, or doing exactly what you are right now. You pray heâs safe, hasnât been gotten by the law or worse, gotten himself killed. You canât let yourself even think about that, the very idea bringing a tremble to your limbs. To combat the sudden spike in anxiety, the next time you bring the cigar to your lips you drag in just that bit more smoke, letting it soak down your spine. Not nearly as experienced in smoking as Arthur, you cough a little, but you recover much quicker than you used to.Â
Memories of that first time, of Arthur offering you the little brown stick and you nervously nodding, bring a little smile to your face. Oh, how you spluttered, Arthur giving you his drink on instinct, only realising that the whiskey burn would do the opposite of help once it was too late. Youâd have been in your right mind to be embarrassed as hell, but by the way he chuckled as he rubbed circles around your back told you that he found it nothing but adorable.Â
You sit there for a few minutes, basking in the precious peace so seldom found nowadays and taking a drag every now and then, the smoke riding a sigh from your lips. Your eyes slip closed, trying to shut off as many senses as you can to really connect with that smell and taste, imagining him emerging from your bedroom window to be here with you.Â
Heâs much less graceful than you are, often catching some part of his person on the windowsill when he climbs out onto the balcony. So many nights spent patching up little holes in his pant legs, right where that out sticking nail used to be in the frame before he âbested it in combatâ (i.e. pulled it out with a hunting knife and threw it ceremoniously in the lake).Â
Manifestation is a powerful tool, youâve always believed that, but you still nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a large hand grasp your shoulder just as you imagined, Arthurâs gruff, hushed whisper tickling the words âhey, sweetheartâ into the skin of your neck. It takes you a second to catch your breath, heart racing from the shock before everything registers and reality sets in.Â
âArthur?â
Heâs here.
âCâmere, darlinâ.â
You fly out of your seat, the rickety old thing nearly splintering under the force, launching yourself into his open arms to burrow yourself into him. Â Every part of him consumes your senses and you drink it all in like an addict. The smell, the real thing, much more of that Arthur essence than the whiskey or cigars, probably because he forewent breaks in his journey for those little pleasures to get back to you sooner.Â
He seems to be taking you in as much as you are him, inhaling long through his nose and sighing it out contentedly, feeling whole again after so long without you in his arms.
âI missed yaâ, beautiful.â He says softly into your hair, holding you tight against him, his knuckles brushing up and down the small of your back through layers of clothes youâve stolen from him.Â
âI missed you so muchâŚâ You mumble into his shirt, hardly able to breathe through the wall of hard chest muscle youâre pressed against, caring even less.Â
Itâs only then do you remember the cigar, forgotten and abandoned, smoking away on the table propped up on a jar lid turned makeshift ashtray. Most of the boys donât bother with one, and neither did Arthur, until a fateful night a few months before you started dating when you first handed him the jar and told him you read something about birds and rabbits eating the butts of cigarettes. He kept the little piece of junk right next to his bedside, waiting for you to find it after that first night together.Â
Arthur spots your momentary pull of attention, pulling his chest away to raise a brow down at you with a little chuckle rumbling his chest.
âHaving a fancy smoke of a night, are we?âÂ
A cheeky little smirk- Arthurâs favourite, actually- tugs at the corner of your lips, waiting patiently for him to kiss it away.
âThe smell reminds me of youâŚâ you play coy, earring yourself that kiss when Arthur lifts you up to his height, kissing you softly, letting his world and yours fall back into place together.Â
âWell Iâm here now, angel. Wanna sit? Could do with a nice cigar with my girl to celebrate a job well done.âÂ
Youâre eager to nod, heart fluttering at the prospect of getting to sit with him and hear all about his trip. He untangles from you to sit down first, patting his lap for you to crawl into. You fit perfectly together (you should do, you were made for eachother), head resting on his shoulder, legs splayed over his thighs with your arm draped over his shoulder. The cigar has gone out, so Arthur strikes a match so expertly on his spurs before shaking it out and placing his hand on the small of your back for support. You lean into him, watching him take puffs of the cigar and feeling the tiniest bit of tension leave his joints. He looks so natural with a smoke between his teeth, commanding an air of power with each movement he makes. Smoking doesnât suit just everyone, you think, but God, does it suit him.
âWeâre celebrating? You got the bastard, then?â
âSure did,â he says, smoke spilling from his lips with each syllable. Arthur looks you over again, drinking in the dearly missed view, before kissing you on the forehead and flipping the cigar between his fingers to offer it up, âEventually found him up in Fort Brennand, but he werenât alone. Nearly lost a damn eye, but luckily only Woffard had to be brought in alive, so I dropped the other bastards and ran.â
You hang on his every word, your hero. You know heâs downplaying the fight, the danger of it all, but he does it so that you donât worry every time heâs gone. It never works, and you always do, but you love him for trying.Â
âOh, Arthur, Iâm so glad youâre alrightâŚâ You coo, pressing a hand to his cheek, feeling the weeks worth of stubble scratching against your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, not unlike a cat, and your find yourself keeping your hand there to mindlessly play with his hair, tipping his hat off to put on your own head. He chuckles, reaching to adjust it on you.
âCourse I am, couldnât leave you here all alone with this bunchaâ fools, could I? Besides, someones gotta bring home the bacon around here, and you know Marstonâs too trigger happy to bring a bounty in alive.â
âSo you got the full price?â Your eyes gleam, the proudest smile on your features as Arthur nods and shifts both your weights for a moment to pull out a stack of bills and smack them on the table dramatically.
âYouâre damn straight I did, baby.â
Of course he did. Arthur never fails, and God knows how much the camp needs this right now, freedoms diminishing by the day as Dutch makes more enemies and plans jobs that just seem to keep going wrong. But you donât want to think about that right now. Right now, there is only you and Arthur, and the promise of a whole night spent with him uninterrupted. You hand him the cigar back, along with a stolen kiss, and he takes another mesmerising drag. The way he holds it, every so often tipping the ash into the first gift you ever gave him, it does things to you that you just canât explain. Itâs just a cigar, and yet youâre pressing your thighs together tight to futilely subdue the tightness coiling between them.Â
âIâm so proud of you⌠I always am.â Unkempt locks of hair are twisted between your fingers, your face so close to Arthurâs you can pepper his cheek, temple and lips, whenever not occupied, with little kisses, Arthurâs hat sometimes tipping up against his forehead on your head. The two of you are always like this after a few days apart, unable to get enough of each other or keep your hands off one another. You shift your weight to access him better, catching his bottom lip between your teeth to press a long, tender kiss there. He hums under you, hand splaying under your jacket to grasp at your shirt. Itâs seconds before you feel it, that hardening that nudges up against your thigh, prodding and reminding you just how much Arthur has missed you.
You pull away from the kiss, just enough to raise a teasing brow at how sensitive your cowboy is to your touch. He shrugs, unashamed, with that cheeky grin and those glistening eyes directed right at you.Â
âWhat? I missed yaâŚâ His words are accompanied with a pinch of your ass, which makes you writhe on top of his stiffness, the friction dragging a low growl from deep within his chest.Â
âI can see that, cowboy⌠I missed you too. I missed you more.â You emphasise, nipping at his lip again and splaying your fingers across his chest. He rises to your touch, and you feel him stiffen more so under you. It takes a second of manoeuvring, but youâre soon straddling him, hovering above him like the angel he sees you to be. From this angle, with the moon behind you, youâre glowing.Â
âYou absolutely did not, you little sirenâŚâ He growls again, pulling at the flesh of your ass so that youâre grinding against him, the friction of denim against denim igniting you both and burning so wonderfully.Â
âOh, yeah? I can prove it.â Thereâs a little cock of your head, a raise of one teasing brow as you start to slide off him. He looks confused, disappointed, even, until your knees rest on the planks of wood on the balcony floor and he instinctively spreads his legs to give you the space between them. Your fingers splay across his thick thighs, and they tense under your touch, as does Arthurâs jaw. Heâs starved after a week without you, clearly trying to reign in a control heâs struggling to possess. Thereâs no wonder, having his girl knelt before him like this.Â
âYou wanna take this to the bedroom?â He growls out, abandoning the still smoking cigar in the jar lid. You look up at him, peeking out from under the rim of his hat.Â
âNo.â You reach for the cigar, taking a few drags yourself before flipping it in your fingers just like he did and placing it between his teeth, âFinish your smoke.â
A distant laugh captures Arthurâs attention for a second, reminding you both just how close you are to the other gang members. Youâre somewhat hidden by the railing, but if they looked in your direction, Arthur is fully visible from the chest up. A simple bob of your head- and youâre planning on plenty- would bring you into view.Â
The look Arthur gives you when he quickly diverts his attention back from Marston and the others is downright feral, especially when your hands reach for his belt buckle. Nimble fingers make quick word of the obstruction, and youâre soon pulling Arthurâs thick, long length out from his jeans. He groans at your very touch, involuntarily bucking his hips up into your hand.Â
You laugh, the sound a tempting little giggle as you tell him âPatience, cowboyâŚâÂ
He almost snarls in response, clearly having been goddamn patient enough over the last week where all he could do is fuck himself with your name on his lips and the thought of you knelt just like this between his legs at the forefront of his mind, always.Â
Just as you lean in, when your soft lips trace over his rosy, swollen head, he pulls you back by plucking his hat from atop your head and throwing it to the side. He rests the cigar between the fingers of his free hand to free his mouth to speak to you.
âNeed to see you while I fuck that pretty little mouthaâ yours, angelâŚâ
His words soak through you (and soak you through), and you just canât wait a second longer, needy to have his cock deep down your throat, desperate for the burning of your lungs and the stinging in your eyes when he loses that control he so often vehemently clings to.Â
Unable to wait a second longer, you run your tongue from base to tip, feeling every vein pulsing under your muscle and eliciting a deep groan from Arthur. When you finally take him in your mouth, his hand reaches to cup your cheek, following you down as you take as much of him as you can.Â
âFuck.â He groans, fingers reaching to tangle in your hair, scratching at your scalp. Heâs probably louder than he should be, your eyes flickering to the general direction of the others as a warning, but they soon snap back to your cowboy, an intense eye contact burning at your skin as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. Arthur never takes his eyes off you, guiding you up and down his length and bringing the smoke to his lips. The tip of the cigar flares a deep, fiery orange, and smoke billows from his mouth with each laboured breath you coax from him. The way heâs sitting, fingers of one hand pulling at your hair, controlling your movements, and the other limply holding the smoke, he exudes a power many seek to master but never quite get. It makes your heart swell and your cunt throb for him, knowing on your knees before him is the only place you ever want to be, knowing only you inhabit it.Â
You can taste Arthur, his salty essence leaking from the pure ecstasy youâre providing and spit pools in your throat, mixing with it and dribbling down your chin. Arthur catches it with his thumb, guiding you off his cock to push the digit into your mouth and let you suckle from it. You do, hungrily, adjusting on your knees to better take Arthur deep down your throat and-
âArthur! That you?âÂ
Marston.Â
For eyes widen at each other, Arthur instinctively pushing you a little lower by your shoulder to keep you out of sight. John hasnât seen you, and youâd like to keep it that way, being in the incriminating position you are between Arthurâs legs.Â
You spot the irritated sigh, the twitch of Arthurâs jaw as he plasters a fake friendliness onto his features and peers over the balcony to see his brother standing on the clearing below.Â
âSure is. Whatchuâ want?â
Straight to the point.
âWe didnât hear you get back. How longâve you been here?â
All that tension youâve worked so hard to dissipate comes back to Arthurâs form with a crashing force. You can almost hear his plea for just one second aâ goddamn peace, merely by the way he sighs before answering.Â
âNot long, thought Iâd try and sneak past you fools and get some shut eye.â
Subtle, cowboy.
Ever oblivious, or simply not caring, John continues, âHowâd it go, then? You got the bastard?â
He has you pressed against his thigh to hide you from sight, cock standing to attention right beside your face. Itâs too tempting, especially with a none the wiser Marston stood right below. When your tongue darts out, hovering above Arthurâs twitching, aching cock, his eyes flick down to you, warning residing deep in his eyes. You take it as less of a warning, more a challenge.
You wouldnât.
Oh, but I would.
And you do. You lift up, just enough to fit the head of his throbbing cock past your lips and slide the whole length in. It bumps the back of your throat, but upon hearing Arthurâs strangled, poorly hidden groan, you canât seem to stop yourself.
âY-uh⌠Yeah, I got âemâŚâÂ
Itâs impressive, how he can just about hold a conversation despite his cock being so far down your throat his balls rest on your chin.Â
You canât see John, but you can only imagine how his head must tilt and his brows must pull together at the strange response from Arthur.Â
âYou alright, brother?â
He wonât be.
You blink up at Arthur, feigning an innocent, near angelic expression as you inhale through your nose and push him even further into you. You hum, low and quiet, letting the vibrations pass through him. Arthur whimpers, instantly knocking any and all sounds youâve ever heard from top spot and replacing them as your favourite in the whole world.Â
âI-Iâm fine. Just tired.â He tries to hint again, to no avail. His fingers are digging into your shoulder with a bruising force, that control slipping bit by bit with every passing second, every little movement. Tears prick at your eyes, that burning in your lungs youâve been reaching for finally igniting. Youâre stuffed with him, feeling so full that itâs hard to breathe. When you go to release him, to be able to gasp for precious air, you realise you canât, Arthurâs huge hand holding you right in place with his palm flush against the back of your neck. Revenge.Â
âWhereâs the Mrs?â
A raise of a brow. Youâre not married, but everything is so naturally right between you and Arthur that the gang just seem to have defaulted to that. It makes you beam, wanting nothing more than to be this manâs wife, the kind of wife that makes him cum down your throat while he has a menial conversation.Â
âS-Sheâs- fuckâŚâ When he grips harder at you, you gag around his length, tears now streaming down your cheeks and mixing with your spittle and the little bits of precum that leak out from Arthur. âSheâs in bed. I-I better go check on her, a-actually.â He whimpers again, fingers now gripping into your hair to keep you in place. Youâre not sure how much longer you can last like this, struggling to breathe, overflowing and, God, so wet for him.Â
John sounds unconvinced. Youâd giggle, if you could.
âAlright⌠Well, gânight, brother.â
Arthur barely manages a grunt, and you can feel his thighs tensing and twitching from the sheer effort of not bucking his hips up into you and giving the pair of you away. He stills, most likely waiting for Marston to fuck off already, before he rips you away from him and pulls you to your feet, gripping your aching jaw with force enough force to keep it open.Â
âYou goddamn siren.â He isnât mad. Heâs trying to be, but you know Arthur far too well, and heâs burning with a fire far hotter than mere anger. Need.Â
The mischievous glint in your eye is all you can offer for response, what with his iron grip on your face, but you do manage to slip your tongue out and lick the pad of his thumb, tasting the mixture of fluids still lingering.Â
Itâs all getting too much, knowing what you just did and who you did it around, hearing Arthur unable to string a sentence together because of you. You donât think youâve ever been so turned on in your life, so desperate for a release that youâre pathetically writhing in Arthurâs hold. He notices, forced anger on his features replaced with a cockiness that only comes from knowing heâs regaining the power in the situation.Â
Your cheeks tingle when he releases you, sitting back in the seat and leaning back, one elbow resting on the arm of the old wooden chair and picking the cigar back up. God, you could ride him in that chair till morning, if you thought the wood wouldnât splinter under the force.Â
âYou gonna finish what you started, my little siren?â He asks, taking an especially long toke from the smoke while he waits for you to drop to your knees before him. Your cunt throbs, screaming out for his attention, but it would seem your antics have earned you punishment.Â
Your knees hit the wood with a force, though an involuntary whimper escapes you, hips grinding pathetically against nothing. Arthur notices, smirking like a goddamn cheshire cat at his little wanton whore.Â
âPatience, angel.â Your own words echo back to you like a slap in the face. You definitely deserve this.
The grip you had on the power in this game youâre playing with Arthur officially disappears when his hand snakes around the back of your neck, grasping at your hair and winding it around his wrist like a leash. You have to tilt your head so the tugging at your scalp is a mere burn rather than a sharp pain, but thatâs just where he wants you.Â
âNow, little siren, Iâm gonna teach yaâ some manners, and youâre gonna finish what you started, alright? And if youâre a good girl, maybe Iâll think about getting that sweet little cunt of yours offâŚâ
Itâs all it takes, the promise of Arthurâs fingers deep inside you while he sucks on your clit just how you like it, lapping up your juices like a man starved, and the defiance in your eyes dissipates. Arthur bends you to his whim, messy, sloppy putty in his hands as he drags you onto his weeping cock. Youâre all but drooling for him, leaking out of the corners of your mouth when he slips into you. Your scalp tingles with the pull, especially when Arthur involuntarily tightens his grip with a hiss of his breath. His tip bumps the back of your throat, but he doesnât stop even when youâve fit all of him in that you can.
âFuck, good girl, just like that baby girlâŚâ he groans, and when you open your eyes to look up to him, he is watching you with a gaze so intense you feel like it could tear you apart. The tension burns between you, coiling so tight the chirp of a nearby cricket could snap it.Â
Thereâs an unspoken question in your eyes when you start to nearly choke on his length of when youâll be released, but his eyes darken, âCome on, baby, you can take more, canât you?âÂ
He seems to register your fear, but it phases him little. It seems more a challenge, really, coaxing him into rocking his hips into you, pushing you even further onto his cock until you feel it start to breach past your throat in a way you didnât even know possible. You splutter, wriggling and writhing as you try your hardest to breathe through your nose.Â
âShh⌠good girl,â he coos, a ravenous look taking over your usually so lovable cowboy. Youâve pushed him, and God do you live for it. âNot much further⌠wanna see you take all of my cock, alright? You gonna do that for me, angel?âÂ
You canât nod, but it isnât much of a question, not much choice available with your limited movements and the way Arthur has completely commandeered your body. Youâre irrevocably his, body and soul.Â
It doesnât feel possible to fit more of him in, your throat burning for relief that wonât come until Arthur is satisfied, but when he bucks his hips into you, you feel his base press against your nose. He groans hard, the noise initially from the sensation of having your throat wrapped around his cock, but when he sees the sight of you, tear stained and gagging on him, the moan is pulled out into a noise of pure ecstasy.Â
âGood girl⌠my good fuckinâ girl.âÂ
His thumb rubs lovingly over your wet cheek, a sensation you cling to as the corners of your vision get fuzzy. Fuck, youâre not sure how much longer you can hold out, but youâre so desperate to feel Arthurâs spend trickling down your throat, feel him lose control and moan just for you that youâd honestly be willing to die for it.Â
Your expression, complete with lust-fogged, watery eyes, and beautifully flushed skin, teases the last of Arthurâs restraint like a razor thin blade against that final thread. When it finally snaps, youâre allowed one gasp for air, before heâs thrusting back into you hard. You can feel him stiffen, even more so than before, as his hips splutter into your mouth and he starts to tumble over the precipice into that realm of pleasure that only the two of you share.Â
âF-Fuck, sweetheart, Iâm gonna-â But he interrupts himself with a visceral, primal groan, the vibration of it shattering the both of you. You take advantage of his practically inebriated state to regain some of your own anatomy, managing to swirl your tongue around his pulsing head inside your mouth. The hot, salty spend blooms across your tongue at that, Arthur guiding you by the cheek to bob up and down on his cock while he paints your throat white. His moans are a melody youâll never tire of, animalistic and vulnerable all the same.Â
It feels like it never stops, Arthurâs spend filling your mouth up and leaking out from the corners of your lip. You can hardly stay still, writhing your needy cunt against your own heel, desperate for a reward youâre earning when you look him in the eye and swallow it all down. Pride blooms across Arthurâs features, saturated with a love that warms you from the inside out. His thumb caresses your face softly, wiping the tear tracks as you finally release his cock from your mouth and he guides you to your feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.
âMy good girlâŚâ He coos, barely above a whisper as you breathe each other in, both as breathless as the other. Your throat aches, your jaw burning, but youâd do it a thousand times over to experience what you just did all over again.Â
âNowâŚâ He splits the sentence with another kiss, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, âGet on inside, sweetheart, I think youâve earned yourself a reward.â
pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader (f)
word count: 4944 words
warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, oral (f giving), rough oral, a little choking, a touch of voyeurism, explicit language, it's pretty much a blowjob fic
authors note: idk what to say... this started as a little drabble because me and my fiancĂŠ love having a little smoke together at night and.... well, here we are I guess?? i hope you enjoy you lovely lot, and if you've asked to be tagged and you're not please let me know!! I have a new system for keeping track of my taglist and I may have lost some requests in the transfer
taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i *if i've missed you please let me know!!!*
You pull Arthurâs jacket tighter around your shoulders, settling into the old wooden chair while it creaks beneath you. Thanks to being in the middle of the Lemoyne swamps, it isnât too cold despite the moon hanging so high in the sky above you, the jacket is more for comfort. From where you sit, you can see near the whole camp, watching lanterns flicker off incrementally as each member of your makeshift family retires for the night. A few of the boys stay up, drinking by the fire, their voices muffled and distant in the thick air.
Itâs been a week to the day since you last saw Arthur, before he left to track a rather sizable bounty down and attempt to cushion out the camp funds, and God do you miss him. The days feel so much longer, nights so lonely youâve considered saddling up and finding the bastard yourself just to bring him home sooner. Comfort can be found, though, in the ways Arthurâs presence has bled so deeply into your life that his physical being doesnât even need to be here.Â
His smell lingers on the jacket he left (the one he wore every day before he had to leave just so you could wear it when you missed him), that perfect mix of tobacco and whiskey and something so ineffably Arthur that you soak up every time you wrap it around your frame.Â
Heâs there in the routines you've built your lives around, intertwined as they are, the ones you canât shake even if heâs not beside you. The cup of coffee in a morning, his so much better tasting than yours but you try anyway. The first morning after he left, you made two, ending up giving the extra to a very grateful Abigail to save face.
Thereâs a nightly routine, too. The one where you get ready for bed, then climb through the window to meet him on your balcony. Heâs always there waiting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, patting his lap ready for you to crawl on. Heâll drag a match across his boot, (or sometimes the bottom of yours, if youâre still wearing them) lighting up the smoke before handing it to you. Youâll pass it between each other, catching up on your days, limbs entangled just how they should be as you watch Shady Belle fall asleep around you.Â
Without him, those routines bring you comfort, grasping onto the remnants of your cowboy until his safe return. Thatâs why youâre sitting in this spot, pulling a cigar out of the little tin stash box Arthur left behind. Normally itâs just a cigarette, you could never survive a cigar a night and have the throat to tell the tale, but thereâs something inexplicably Arthur about this brand of smokes, something youâre seeking tonight.Â
You pluck a match from the tin, striking it against the table beside you, never having gotten the knack of igniting the thing on your boot as effortlessly as Arthur does, and light the cigar between your lips. The all-familiar woody essence dances across your tongue, your tired muscles relaxing from the first few tokes.Â
Itâs just you, the moon and the crickets as you sit on the balcony, Arthurâs smoke between your lips. You wonder what heâs doing. He should be sleeping, but knowing him heâs probably up planning, or doing exactly what you are right now. You pray heâs safe, hasnât been gotten by the law or worse, gotten himself killed. You canât let yourself even think about that, the very idea bringing a tremble to your limbs. To combat the sudden spike in anxiety, the next time you bring the cigar to your lips you drag in just that bit more smoke, letting it soak down your spine. Not nearly as experienced in smoking as Arthur, you cough a little, but you recover much quicker than you used to.Â
Memories of that first time, of Arthur offering you the little brown stick and you nervously nodding, bring a little smile to your face. Oh, how you spluttered, Arthur giving you his drink on instinct, only realising that the whiskey burn would do the opposite of help once it was too late. Youâd have been in your right mind to be embarrassed as hell, but by the way he chuckled as he rubbed circles around your back told you that he found it nothing but adorable.Â
You sit there for a few minutes, basking in the precious peace so seldom found nowadays and taking a drag every now and then, the smoke riding a sigh from your lips. Your eyes slip closed, trying to shut off as many senses as you can to really connect with that smell and taste, imagining him emerging from your bedroom window to be here with you.Â
Heâs much less graceful than you are, often catching some part of his person on the windowsill when he climbs out onto the balcony. So many nights spent patching up little holes in his pant legs, right where that out sticking nail used to be in the frame before he âbested it in combatâ (i.e. pulled it out with a hunting knife and threw it ceremoniously in the lake).Â
Manifestation is a powerful tool, youâve always believed that, but you still nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a large hand grasp your shoulder just as you imagined, Arthurâs gruff, hushed whisper tickling the words âhey, sweetheartâ into the skin of your neck. It takes you a second to catch your breath, heart racing from the shock before everything registers and reality sets in.Â
âArthur?â
Heâs here.
âCâmere, darlinâ.â
You fly out of your seat, the rickety old thing nearly splintering under the force, launching yourself into his open arms to burrow yourself into him. Â Every part of him consumes your senses and you drink it all in like an addict. The smell, the real thing, much more of that Arthur essence than the whiskey or cigars, probably because he forewent breaks in his journey for those little pleasures to get back to you sooner.Â
He seems to be taking you in as much as you are him, inhaling long through his nose and sighing it out contentedly, feeling whole again after so long without you in his arms.
âI missed yaâ, beautiful.â He says softly into your hair, holding you tight against him, his knuckles brushing up and down the small of your back through layers of clothes youâve stolen from him.Â
âI missed you so muchâŚâ You mumble into his shirt, hardly able to breathe through the wall of hard chest muscle youâre pressed against, caring even less.Â
Itâs only then do you remember the cigar, forgotten and abandoned, smoking away on the table propped up on a jar lid turned makeshift ashtray. Most of the boys donât bother with one, and neither did Arthur, until a fateful night a few months before you started dating when you first handed him the jar and told him you read something about birds and rabbits eating the butts of cigarettes. He kept the little piece of junk right next to his bedside, waiting for you to find it after that first night together.Â
Arthur spots your momentary pull of attention, pulling his chest away to raise a brow down at you with a little chuckle rumbling his chest.
âHaving a fancy smoke of a night, are we?âÂ
A cheeky little smirk- Arthurâs favourite, actually- tugs at the corner of your lips, waiting patiently for him to kiss it away.
âThe smell reminds me of youâŚâ you play coy, earring yourself that kiss when Arthur lifts you up to his height, kissing you softly, letting his world and yours fall back into place together.Â
âWell Iâm here now, angel. Wanna sit? Could do with a nice cigar with my girl to celebrate a job well done.âÂ
Youâre eager to nod, heart fluttering at the prospect of getting to sit with him and hear all about his trip. He untangles from you to sit down first, patting his lap for you to crawl into. You fit perfectly together (you should do, you were made for eachother), head resting on his shoulder, legs splayed over his thighs with your arm draped over his shoulder. The cigar has gone out, so Arthur strikes a match so expertly on his spurs before shaking it out and placing his hand on the small of your back for support. You lean into him, watching him take puffs of the cigar and feeling the tiniest bit of tension leave his joints. He looks so natural with a smoke between his teeth, commanding an air of power with each movement he makes. Smoking doesnât suit just everyone, you think, but God, does it suit him.
âWeâre celebrating? You got the bastard, then?â
âSure did,â he says, smoke spilling from his lips with each syllable. Arthur looks you over again, drinking in the dearly missed view, before kissing you on the forehead and flipping the cigar between his fingers to offer it up, âEventually found him up in Fort Brennand, but he werenât alone. Nearly lost a damn eye, but luckily only Woffard had to be brought in alive, so I dropped the other bastards and ran.â
You hang on his every word, your hero. You know heâs downplaying the fight, the danger of it all, but he does it so that you donât worry every time heâs gone. It never works, and you always do, but you love him for trying.Â
âOh, Arthur, Iâm so glad youâre alrightâŚâ You coo, pressing a hand to his cheek, feeling the weeks worth of stubble scratching against your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, not unlike a cat, and your find yourself keeping your hand there to mindlessly play with his hair, tipping his hat off to put on your own head. He chuckles, reaching to adjust it on you.
âCourse I am, couldnât leave you here all alone with this bunchaâ fools, could I? Besides, someones gotta bring home the bacon around here, and you know Marstonâs too trigger happy to bring a bounty in alive.â
âSo you got the full price?â Your eyes gleam, the proudest smile on your features as Arthur nods and shifts both your weights for a moment to pull out a stack of bills and smack them on the table dramatically.
âYouâre damn straight I did, baby.â
Of course he did. Arthur never fails, and God knows how much the camp needs this right now, freedoms diminishing by the day as Dutch makes more enemies and plans jobs that just seem to keep going wrong. But you donât want to think about that right now. Right now, there is only you and Arthur, and the promise of a whole night spent with him uninterrupted. You hand him the cigar back, along with a stolen kiss, and he takes another mesmerising drag. The way he holds it, every so often tipping the ash into the first gift you ever gave him, it does things to you that you just canât explain. Itâs just a cigar, and yet youâre pressing your thighs together tight to futilely subdue the tightness coiling between them.Â
âIâm so proud of you⌠I always am.â Unkempt locks of hair are twisted between your fingers, your face so close to Arthurâs you can pepper his cheek, temple and lips, whenever not occupied, with little kisses, Arthurâs hat sometimes tipping up against his forehead on your head. The two of you are always like this after a few days apart, unable to get enough of each other or keep your hands off one another. You shift your weight to access him better, catching his bottom lip between your teeth to press a long, tender kiss there. He hums under you, hand splaying under your jacket to grasp at your shirt. Itâs seconds before you feel it, that hardening that nudges up against your thigh, prodding and reminding you just how much Arthur has missed you.
You pull away from the kiss, just enough to raise a teasing brow at how sensitive your cowboy is to your touch. He shrugs, unashamed, with that cheeky grin and those glistening eyes directed right at you.Â
âWhat? I missed yaâŚâ His words are accompanied with a pinch of your ass, which makes you writhe on top of his stiffness, the friction dragging a low growl from deep within his chest.Â
âI can see that, cowboy⌠I missed you too. I missed you more.â You emphasise, nipping at his lip again and splaying your fingers across his chest. He rises to your touch, and you feel him stiffen more so under you. It takes a second of manoeuvring, but youâre soon straddling him, hovering above him like the angel he sees you to be. From this angle, with the moon behind you, youâre glowing.Â
âYou absolutely did not, you little sirenâŚâ He growls again, pulling at the flesh of your ass so that youâre grinding against him, the friction of denim against denim igniting you both and burning so wonderfully.Â
âOh, yeah? I can prove it.â Thereâs a little cock of your head, a raise of one teasing brow as you start to slide off him. He looks confused, disappointed, even, until your knees rest on the planks of wood on the balcony floor and he instinctively spreads his legs to give you the space between them. Your fingers splay across his thick thighs, and they tense under your touch, as does Arthurâs jaw. Heâs starved after a week without you, clearly trying to reign in a control heâs struggling to possess. Thereâs no wonder, having his girl knelt before him like this.Â
âYou wanna take this to the bedroom?â He growls out, abandoning the still smoking cigar in the jar lid. You look up at him, peeking out from under the rim of his hat.Â
âNo.â You reach for the cigar, taking a few drags yourself before flipping it in your fingers just like he did and placing it between his teeth, âFinish your smoke.â
A distant laugh captures Arthurâs attention for a second, reminding you both just how close you are to the other gang members. Youâre somewhat hidden by the railing, but if they looked in your direction, Arthur is fully visible from the chest up. A simple bob of your head- and youâre planning on plenty- would bring you into view.Â
The look Arthur gives you when he quickly diverts his attention back from Marston and the others is downright feral, especially when your hands reach for his belt buckle. Nimble fingers make quick word of the obstruction, and youâre soon pulling Arthurâs thick, long length out from his jeans. He groans at your very touch, involuntarily bucking his hips up into your hand.Â
You laugh, the sound a tempting little giggle as you tell him âPatience, cowboyâŚâÂ
He almost snarls in response, clearly having been goddamn patient enough over the last week where all he could do is fuck himself with your name on his lips and the thought of you knelt just like this between his legs at the forefront of his mind, always.Â
Just as you lean in, when your soft lips trace over his rosy, swollen head, he pulls you back by plucking his hat from atop your head and throwing it to the side. He rests the cigar between the fingers of his free hand to free his mouth to speak to you.
âNeed to see you while I fuck that pretty little mouthaâ yours, angelâŚâ
His words soak through you (and soak you through), and you just canât wait a second longer, needy to have his cock deep down your throat, desperate for the burning of your lungs and the stinging in your eyes when he loses that control he so often vehemently clings to.Â
Unable to wait a second longer, you run your tongue from base to tip, feeling every vein pulsing under your muscle and eliciting a deep groan from Arthur. When you finally take him in your mouth, his hand reaches to cup your cheek, following you down as you take as much of him as you can.Â
âFuck.â He groans, fingers reaching to tangle in your hair, scratching at your scalp. Heâs probably louder than he should be, your eyes flickering to the general direction of the others as a warning, but they soon snap back to your cowboy, an intense eye contact burning at your skin as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. Arthur never takes his eyes off you, guiding you up and down his length and bringing the smoke to his lips. The tip of the cigar flares a deep, fiery orange, and smoke billows from his mouth with each laboured breath you coax from him. The way heâs sitting, fingers of one hand pulling at your hair, controlling your movements, and the other limply holding the smoke, he exudes a power many seek to master but never quite get. It makes your heart swell and your cunt throb for him, knowing on your knees before him is the only place you ever want to be, knowing only you inhabit it.Â
You can taste Arthur, his salty essence leaking from the pure ecstasy youâre providing and spit pools in your throat, mixing with it and dribbling down your chin. Arthur catches it with his thumb, guiding you off his cock to push the digit into your mouth and let you suckle from it. You do, hungrily, adjusting on your knees to better take Arthur deep down your throat and-
âArthur! That you?âÂ
Marston.Â
For eyes widen at each other, Arthur instinctively pushing you a little lower by your shoulder to keep you out of sight. John hasnât seen you, and youâd like to keep it that way, being in the incriminating position you are between Arthurâs legs.Â
You spot the irritated sigh, the twitch of Arthurâs jaw as he plasters a fake friendliness onto his features and peers over the balcony to see his brother standing on the clearing below.Â
âSure is. Whatchuâ want?â
Straight to the point.
âWe didnât hear you get back. How longâve you been here?â
All that tension youâve worked so hard to dissipate comes back to Arthurâs form with a crashing force. You can almost hear his plea for just one second aâ goddamn peace, merely by the way he sighs before answering.Â
âNot long, thought Iâd try and sneak past you fools and get some shut eye.â
Subtle, cowboy.
Ever oblivious, or simply not caring, John continues, âHowâd it go, then? You got the bastard?â
He has you pressed against his thigh to hide you from sight, cock standing to attention right beside your face. Itâs too tempting, especially with a none the wiser Marston stood right below. When your tongue darts out, hovering above Arthurâs twitching, aching cock, his eyes flick down to you, warning residing deep in his eyes. You take it as less of a warning, more a challenge.
You wouldnât.
Oh, but I would.
And you do. You lift up, just enough to fit the head of his throbbing cock past your lips and slide the whole length in. It bumps the back of your throat, but upon hearing Arthurâs strangled, poorly hidden groan, you canât seem to stop yourself.
âY-uh⌠Yeah, I got âemâŚâÂ
Itâs impressive, how he can just about hold a conversation despite his cock being so far down your throat his balls rest on your chin.Â
You canât see John, but you can only imagine how his head must tilt and his brows must pull together at the strange response from Arthur.Â
âYou alright, brother?â
He wonât be.
You blink up at Arthur, feigning an innocent, near angelic expression as you inhale through your nose and push him even further into you. You hum, low and quiet, letting the vibrations pass through him. Arthur whimpers, instantly knocking any and all sounds youâve ever heard from top spot and replacing them as your favourite in the whole world.Â
âI-Iâm fine. Just tired.â He tries to hint again, to no avail. His fingers are digging into your shoulder with a bruising force, that control slipping bit by bit with every passing second, every little movement. Tears prick at your eyes, that burning in your lungs youâve been reaching for finally igniting. Youâre stuffed with him, feeling so full that itâs hard to breathe. When you go to release him, to be able to gasp for precious air, you realise you canât, Arthurâs huge hand holding you right in place with his palm flush against the back of your neck. Revenge.Â
âWhereâs the Mrs?â
A raise of a brow. Youâre not married, but everything is so naturally right between you and Arthur that the gang just seem to have defaulted to that. It makes you beam, wanting nothing more than to be this manâs wife, the kind of wife that makes him cum down your throat while he has a menial conversation.Â
âS-Sheâs- fuckâŚâ When he grips harder at you, you gag around his length, tears now streaming down your cheeks and mixing with your spittle and the little bits of precum that leak out from Arthur. âSheâs in bed. I-I better go check on her, a-actually.â He whimpers again, fingers now gripping into your hair to keep you in place. Youâre not sure how much longer you can last like this, struggling to breathe, overflowing and, God, so wet for him.Â
John sounds unconvinced. Youâd giggle, if you could.
âAlright⌠Well, gânight, brother.â
Arthur barely manages a grunt, and you can feel his thighs tensing and twitching from the sheer effort of not bucking his hips up into you and giving the pair of you away. He stills, most likely waiting for Marston to fuck off already, before he rips you away from him and pulls you to your feet, gripping your aching jaw with force enough force to keep it open.Â
âYou goddamn siren.â He isnât mad. Heâs trying to be, but you know Arthur far too well, and heâs burning with a fire far hotter than mere anger. Need.Â
The mischievous glint in your eye is all you can offer for response, what with his iron grip on your face, but you do manage to slip your tongue out and lick the pad of his thumb, tasting the mixture of fluids still lingering.Â
Itâs all getting too much, knowing what you just did and who you did it around, hearing Arthur unable to string a sentence together because of you. You donât think youâve ever been so turned on in your life, so desperate for a release that youâre pathetically writhing in Arthurâs hold. He notices, forced anger on his features replaced with a cockiness that only comes from knowing heâs regaining the power in the situation.Â
Your cheeks tingle when he releases you, sitting back in the seat and leaning back, one elbow resting on the arm of the old wooden chair and picking the cigar back up. God, you could ride him in that chair till morning, if you thought the wood wouldnât splinter under the force.Â
âYou gonna finish what you started, my little siren?â He asks, taking an especially long toke from the smoke while he waits for you to drop to your knees before him. Your cunt throbs, screaming out for his attention, but it would seem your antics have earned you punishment.Â
Your knees hit the wood with a force, though an involuntary whimper escapes you, hips grinding pathetically against nothing. Arthur notices, smirking like a goddamn cheshire cat at his little wanton whore.Â
âPatience, angel.â Your own words echo back to you like a slap in the face. You definitely deserve this.
The grip you had on the power in this game youâre playing with Arthur officially disappears when his hand snakes around the back of your neck, grasping at your hair and winding it around his wrist like a leash. You have to tilt your head so the tugging at your scalp is a mere burn rather than a sharp pain, but thatâs just where he wants you.Â
âNow, little siren, Iâm gonna teach yaâ some manners, and youâre gonna finish what you started, alright? And if youâre a good girl, maybe Iâll think about getting that sweet little cunt of yours offâŚâ
Itâs all it takes, the promise of Arthurâs fingers deep inside you while he sucks on your clit just how you like it, lapping up your juices like a man starved, and the defiance in your eyes dissipates. Arthur bends you to his whim, messy, sloppy putty in his hands as he drags you onto his weeping cock. Youâre all but drooling for him, leaking out of the corners of your mouth when he slips into you. Your scalp tingles with the pull, especially when Arthur involuntarily tightens his grip with a hiss of his breath. His tip bumps the back of your throat, but he doesnât stop even when youâve fit all of him in that you can.
âFuck, good girl, just like that baby girlâŚâ he groans, and when you open your eyes to look up to him, he is watching you with a gaze so intense you feel like it could tear you apart. The tension burns between you, coiling so tight the chirp of a nearby cricket could snap it.Â
Thereâs an unspoken question in your eyes when you start to nearly choke on his length of when youâll be released, but his eyes darken, âCome on, baby, you can take more, canât you?âÂ
He seems to register your fear, but it phases him little. It seems more a challenge, really, coaxing him into rocking his hips into you, pushing you even further onto his cock until you feel it start to breach past your throat in a way you didnât even know possible. You splutter, wriggling and writhing as you try your hardest to breathe through your nose.Â
âShh⌠good girl,â he coos, a ravenous look taking over your usually so lovable cowboy. Youâve pushed him, and God do you live for it. âNot much further⌠wanna see you take all of my cock, alright? You gonna do that for me, angel?âÂ
You canât nod, but it isnât much of a question, not much choice available with your limited movements and the way Arthur has completely commandeered your body. Youâre irrevocably his, body and soul.Â
It doesnât feel possible to fit more of him in, your throat burning for relief that wonât come until Arthur is satisfied, but when he bucks his hips into you, you feel his base press against your nose. He groans hard, the noise initially from the sensation of having your throat wrapped around his cock, but when he sees the sight of you, tear stained and gagging on him, the moan is pulled out into a noise of pure ecstasy.Â
âGood girl⌠my good fuckinâ girl.âÂ
His thumb rubs lovingly over your wet cheek, a sensation you cling to as the corners of your vision get fuzzy. Fuck, youâre not sure how much longer you can hold out, but youâre so desperate to feel Arthurâs spend trickling down your throat, feel him lose control and moan just for you that youâd honestly be willing to die for it.Â
Your expression, complete with lust-fogged, watery eyes, and beautifully flushed skin, teases the last of Arthurâs restraint like a razor thin blade against that final thread. When it finally snaps, youâre allowed one gasp for air, before heâs thrusting back into you hard. You can feel him stiffen, even more so than before, as his hips splutter into your mouth and he starts to tumble over the precipice into that realm of pleasure that only the two of you share.Â
âF-Fuck, sweetheart, Iâm gonna-â But he interrupts himself with a visceral, primal groan, the vibration of it shattering the both of you. You take advantage of his practically inebriated state to regain some of your own anatomy, managing to swirl your tongue around his pulsing head inside your mouth. The hot, salty spend blooms across your tongue at that, Arthur guiding you by the cheek to bob up and down on his cock while he paints your throat white. His moans are a melody youâll never tire of, animalistic and vulnerable all the same.Â
It feels like it never stops, Arthurâs spend filling your mouth up and leaking out from the corners of your lip. You can hardly stay still, writhing your needy cunt against your own heel, desperate for a reward youâre earning when you look him in the eye and swallow it all down. Pride blooms across Arthurâs features, saturated with a love that warms you from the inside out. His thumb caresses your face softly, wiping the tear tracks as you finally release his cock from your mouth and he guides you to your feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.
âMy good girlâŚâ He coos, barely above a whisper as you breathe each other in, both as breathless as the other. Your throat aches, your jaw burning, but youâd do it a thousand times over to experience what you just did all over again.Â
âNowâŚâ He splits the sentence with another kiss, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, âGet on inside, sweetheart, I think youâve earned yourself a reward.â
struggling to sleep? come sit by the fire a while.
sleep tight, cowboy is a little collection of late-night arthur morgan stories: shared bedrolls, dying campfires, quiet conversations, cold feet, sleepless nights, and all the places he almost learned to call home.
some stories belong to a larger six-part series. some are just little nights by the fire. either way, thereâs always room for one more.
⨠every place we called home
one night in every camp. an established arthur x reader series following the gang from colter to beaver hollow, told through the quiet hours in between everything else.
01 - colter - after blackwater, you only need to see arthur come home alive. a kiss in the snow, a small fire, and a cot far too narrow for two. (coming - july 10th)
02 - horseshoe overlook - the first warm nights after colter, and arthur learning that being cared for does not always come with a price.
03 - clemens point - a summer night by the lake, fireflies in the dark, and the dangerous comfort of pretending this life might last.
04 - shady belle - you wait up for arthur in a house that never feels like home while something beyond its walls begins to fall apart.
05 - lakay- arthur comes back from guarma for one night, neither of you lets go.
06 - beaver hollow - the last camp. the last night.
⨠little nights by the fire
short, standalone bedtime stories for the nights you need arthur close.
cold feet - arthur regrets letting you into his bedroll approximately thirty seconds after your freezing feet find him.
night watch - you fall asleep against his shoulder while he is meant to be watching the camp.
stolen blankets - arthur wakes up cold and discovers exactly who is to blame.
can't sleep - he finds you awake beside the dying fire and stays until morning.
bad dreams - arthur wakes before you do and quietly pulls you closer before the nightmare can take him too far.
one more minute - you keep insisting you are getting up. arthur keeps tightening his arm around your waist.
pairing : arthur morgan x fem!reader ŕ Ë. áľáľ
synopsis : after getting caught staring at arthur, he decides to tease you about it during dinner. part 1 is here!
wc : 3.2k
tags : fluff, mutual pining, teasing, reader is shy, love confession, first kiss, the trio (mary-beth, tilly, karen) is present
a/n : you have asked, and i delivered. part 2 of my first published one-shot here! it took me days to write, especially since there's a lot of dialogue and because it's longer than what i usually write on here. not sure how i feel about it but i hope you all enjoy it nonetheless!! (ËśËáËËľ)
tagging the people who requested for it : @kaitlynthea @fangfullq @qilinxingg hope you guys like it âĄ
you hadn't left your tent at all for the rest of the afternoon. after quickly finishing that last batch of laundry, you found yourself particularly entranced by the dull and dirty canvas of the little home you shared with tilly.
in other words: you wanted to avoid arthur morgan at all costs. after that awkward predicament you found yourself in earlier in the day, you just couldn't bear to see him. not now, anyway. maybe until long enough passed so it would naturally slip his mind. but you knew you were being too hopeful; if arthur morgan managed to find even the most furtive bounties in the most recluse areas of the state, then you would be a piece of cake for him.
however, even if there was no point in hiding from him in the long run, you could try to do it for as long as you could before he personally sought you out.
the hardest part of it all would be dinner; which means right now. you now reluctantly have to abandon this new-found hobby of yours which consisted in making out things or faces from the dirt patches on your side of the canvas, to instead get your dinner serve and pray arthur would be too busy with other gang members to be able to strike a conversation with you. oh no, by then you would long have retreated to your tent, hoping that counting those patches would soothe your nerves and lull you to sleep.
you peak from your tent flaps to look for him throughout the camp, but he seems to have vanished. good, this meant the field was clear for you to spend a bit more time with the girls before turning out for the day.
you find mary-beth, tilly and karen all sat by one of the tables in camp. you greet them before taking a seat next to them.
after a bit of casual conversation, which mainly consisted of karen threatening to rip mrs grimshaw's head off, to which you wouldn't oppose after today, you decide to ask the question you couldn't get out of your mind.
"where's arthur?"
"out hunting with charles... i think." mary-beth raises an eyebrow. "why? you lookin' for him?"
"yeah, i think she wants to stare at him for a little longer."
"karen!" you chide.
tilly chimes in. "oh, god forbid a girl has a hobby! if there was somebody easy on the eyes out here then i'd surely do the same."
you all laugh, a comfortable silence settling on you as you eatâ well try to eat, pearson's stew.
you sigh. "i asked because i'm looking to avoid him after... that."
karen drops her spoon in her plate. always so quick to react, this one.
"avoid him? why?"
"cause he'll tease me bout it!", you bury your face in your hands, "god, i'm still so embarassed that i got caught."
"it ain't so bad," mary-beth attempts. "i mean, i'm pretty sure everyone already forgot about it-"
"i didn't."
" well, everyone but karen already forgot about it, i bet."
tilly shrugs. "'sides, it's about time you two did sumthin' bout your... situation."
all the girls sigh heavily and nod, looking at you expectantly.
mary-beth shakes her head in feigned disappointement. "ain't that right... you and arthur are some of the most oblivious people i've eva' seen."
"everybody knows yer sweet on each other expect you two." karen rolls her eyes in playful teasing.
you had never really considered the possibility of arthur ever returning your feelings. you've never felt quite... adequate for him. he was the gang's enforcer, almost carrying the whole of it on his back with all the errands dutch makes him run. and rightfully so; he was good at what he did.
and with his busy agenda, you believed it left him little time to worry about romantic endeavors, and much less with you, a much quieter background gang member.
"i... is he?" you hesitate, reluctant to even believe there existed a world where he would see you as a potential romantic partner.
tilly blinks in confusion. "have you not seen how he handles it when anyone else is starin' at him like that? he ain't the type to like being scrutinized while workin'."
"well maybe he just... didn't want to frighten me-"
"girl," karen cuts you off, "just face it already. you're telling me you don't see the way he looks at you, at all?"
you did notice that; though you believed he was like that with the women in general, a way to show his respect and not scare them away with his rather large build and usual temper.
you shake your head with a pout. "i mean... why in his right mind would he even go for me?"
mary-beth puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. "oh sweetie, he has plenty of reason to. don't doubt yerself like that."
does he?
you don't have enough time to go down the spiral of self-deprecation that karen gasps and whispers, pointing behind you.
"ladies... trouble is here."
they give each other a knowing smirk, and you only understand why when you peek behind you.
arthur is back.
he was effortlessly carrying a whitetail deer slung on his back, before settling it on pearson's table for him to skin it.
lord... why did he have to look good doing anything? seeing him carry heavy loads like it was nothing at all only added to his manliness. it always made you squeeze your thighs together, wishing to be the one he was carrying like that instead. and with that sheer strength of his... he could manhandle you as he wills.
he gets a bowl of stew and scans the camp... until his eyes met yours. and you could see it; how a mischevious smirk instantly formed on his face. he then...
starts walking over?
you quickly turn around face flushed, before a gruff voice could be heard from behind you. he must be close because you could feel a body's warmth just a few inches away from you. and the vibration of his voice made a shiver run down your spine.
"evenin' ladies."
if the earth could just open to swallow you whole right now, you would have thanked it.
you try to focus on finishing off your stew as a means to distract yourself, and your flustered state makes karen's mouth curl up into a lop-sided smirk. "why good evening mister morgan, we were just talking bout ya."
arthur raises an amused brow. "you were? what's so interesting bout me that you girls would have to yap 'bout it?"
mary-beth shrugs, and if there was no teasing glint in her eyes a few moments ago, this situation was the match to light it up.
"plenty. i'm sure miss ____ would love to elaborate."
you almost spit out the food in your mouth, and give her an outraged look. this was akin to betrayal, really; and the other two didn't hesitate to stab you in the back either. karen first, obviously.
"mmm and i think our presence won't be necessary for that. after all, she was really invested in our chat. must've remembered everthing we said."
"ain't that right", tilly responds as she gets up from her chair, "either way i'm done with my bowl."
the girls all do the same and bid you farewell, leaving you with arthur who sat on the chair across from you. they really handed you over to him so easily; you didn't know what to think of that. and well, you had a bigger problem in your hands right now: arthur sitting right in front of you, with that dumbass grin plastered on his face as he tasted his food.
"so," he starts, "reckon you were talkin' bout me?"
you play with a chunk of meat in your plate, your gaze refusing to meet his persistent one. "they were, yeah."
arthur snorts, "so you weren't part of the conversation? shame. i thought you'd have plenty to tell 'em. 'specially about what happened earlier."
you huff and drop your fork. "i didn't and don't... start with that..."
"and why the hell not? you still shy? cause you didn't seem so when you were starin', sweetheart. ain't exactly polite to, y'know?"
"i... got carried away. i was lost in thought and... you just happened to be in front of me at the time."
arthur found it entertaining to see you making excuses for yourself, and he wanted to see how far you would go before caving in and blurting out the truth.
"you have a knack for..." he idly motions with his hand, "getting lost in thought around me, don'tcha think, darlin'? it ain't the first time."
your eyes widen and you dare to meet his for a split second before instantly glancing away. suddenly, the worn-out wood the table was made of was especially interesting...
"w-what do you mean?" you stutter.
he huffs out a chuckle to see you so nervous. "can recall many times where you were jus'... distracted around me. like that time i helped you cut wood, yeah? when i was done with ya, you were so out of it that you couldn't follow my tips."
ah, yes. that time. he didn't really comment on it back then, but you were wrong to assume he really let it slide as 'normal'.
at that point, you were sure your cheeks were redder than a tomato, unsure how to respond. arthur shrugged off your silence and continued, his tone almost innocent.
how aggravating he was... pointing all this out with utter nonchalance, as if he were counting nothing but his mere mundane encounters of the day.
he sets down his fork and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "y'know, 's also weird how you happen to be distracted round me only. that never happened with anyone else in camp, if my memory serves me well."
shit. now that... you couldn't deny. because it's true: nobody managed to catch your attention like he does. nobody was remotely worth your attention like he was.
but you couldn't just straight up say that, could you? what if he takes it the wrong way? what if he just shrugs it off, like he does the advances of the many working girls with their flirtatious comments and overly tightened corsets?
arthur kept staring at you, waiting for a response, but your silence kind of worried him. did he take it a bit too far? he didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.
you were pretty shy most times; barely looked anyone in the eye when you talked to them. and it didn't help that you were a more recent member.
you take your bowl and get up, mumbling. "i'm done eating..."
you start heading down to the back of the food wagon. but you internally rolled your eyes to hear the grass crunching behind you.
you put your dish in the washbin and were about to make a beeline for your tent, but arthur had already caught up to you, blocking your way.
you back up against the wagon, and he seizes that opportunity to get closer to you, putting a hand right next to your head.
there was no escape now. you were trapped. well, arthur was trapping you. this was the closest he had ever gotten to you after that day when he taught you to chop wood.
he tips your chin up with his index. "look at me, will ya."
and just like that, your eyes were on his. it's almost like your body instinctively responded to his beck and call. so eager to please, it made arthur's smirk widen a little more.
gosh, how you wished you could just wipe that shit-eating grin off his gorgeous face...
this predicament almost made you feel vulnerable. as if your every emotion and feeling was on display for his eyes to see, rendering him free to use them as he wills; your soul striped bare of any remaining semblant of impenetrability.
"so you can gawk at me from afar with not an ounce of shame, but now that i'm right in front of ya, you can't even look at me proper?"
the teasing lilt in his voice makes you want to roll your eyes. partly because he was right.
"it's... different." you attempt after a beat of awkward silence.
"oh yeah?", he raises an eyebrow. "go on then; tell me bout it. how's it any different? ah, ahâ lemme guess. yer scared of getting caught? of being confronted about it? is that why ya were dying to run away when i came back to camp, looking for you?"
you tear your gaze away from him. how were you supposed to answer that? you might aswell just confess while you're at it. damn you arthur morgan; those were the words that burned the tip of your tongue.
your lack of an answer doesn't stop his teasing though. in a surge of confidence at seeing you so silent, he leans a bit forward, just enough to overwhelm you.
"i reckon being closer's better. you get to see me from upclose, yeah? notice sum things that you wouldn't far away from me."
did he just... give you some kind of leverage? arthur hadn't realized he accidentally did; until he saw your features go from flustered to sultry in less than half a second; though it was too late.
"and what is it you want me to notice, arthur?"
damn you and your quick wit, he thought. he clears his throat.
"... nuthin'."
arthur's free hand finds itself rubbing his nape, as he always does when in awkward situations. it's endearing really, so much that your smirk doesn't fadeâ maybe it even grewâ to arthur's apparent displeasure.
oh, how the tables have turned.
"ah, hell. do i have to spell it out for ya?"
a heavy sigh escapes him, almost as if he was carrying some massive burden invisible to you.
"'s just that... usually, when people stare at me, i don't pay 'em no mind. hell, might call 'em out for it, tell 'em to mind their own business. you though?... makes me feel hotter than lemoyne at midday."
your heart did a somersault when his words registered in your head. you hadn't thought your stare could make an otherwise impassive man so... reactive.
"that's why you're blushing right now, huh?"
"ain't blushing. yer just imagining things." he tilts his head down, hiding underneath the rim of his old leather hat.
your chuckle graces his ears, and it feels forbidden for him to hear because of your natural sweetness seeping through it.
he was a bad, bad man, and here you were, gazing at him, then his lips, then back at him again, like he were... someone to love.
to be loved, what a foreign concept to arthur's mind. but if anything, your eyes' gentle back and forth on him was almost longing; a quiet tender act where words failed. could eyes really speak? and if so, were yours repeating the word 'love' to him, over and over again? or was it simply his own mind projecting what he had hoped to hear?
you feel a tug of emotion on your heartstrings when a wistful smile forms on his lips.
his words were soft, hushed; it only happened when arthur revealed something particularly intimate.
"what is it about you, darlin'? are ya a witch? castin' some spell on me with that stare? cause whatever yer doing... it just might be workin'."
"good..." the curve of your lips matches his.
his chuckle was so faint, as though he was afraid to pop the intimate bubble surrounding the two of you during this special moment you shared.
"so you admit it? you really are a witch, ain't ya? how doomed am i?"
you stand on your tippy toes, when your lips dangerously approach his chapped ones. you remove his hat and hold it against your chest, which causes his ocean eyes to widen in surprise; you caught him off guard. it was a rare sight, for someone always so alert.
you whisper, your breath fanning his mouth.
"if love is doom for you, then ... very."
your eyes meet his one last time before you feel a warmth unfamiliar yet pleasant on your lips, and then you realize.
arthur is kissing you.
it was better than how you thought it'd be. one hand came to faintly trace your cheek,â like a collector would his precious fine chinaâ as the other settled securely on the small of your back, steadying you against him.
you could feel the taste of tobacco on his lips; a pinch of pearson's stew as his tongue hesitantly asked your lower lip for entrance and... something else entirely him, when it danced with yours in your mouth.
you didn't want to pull away, really, but you would've died of asphyxia if you hadn't. you wouldn't mind it though: to die in the arms of the man you loved.
you couldn't help but linger near him, even as the kiss ended. your eyes were closed, and arthur's forehead came to tenderly press against yours.
the silence that settles between you is comfortable, serene; like time had come to a stand still just for you two.
arthur was at loss for words and so were you once you both backed away and looked into each other's eyes. it felt like you both didn't want to say the wrong thing, hesitating, your minds tiptoeing around what could possibly follow such a perfect moment.
you decide to break the silence with playful teasing, though your voice was softer than usual.
"you say i'm a witch, yet have you seen yourself? you too have bewitched me, mister morgan. quite skilled at it too, in that effortless way of yours that is as infuriating as it is irresistible. after all,..."
you whisper a few words in his ear, your proximity causing heat to creep up his neck, and those words... oh, they only exacerbated it.
you innocently put his hat back on his head, and quickly peck his cheek before walking away.
who knew you could make something as trivial as wood chopping to be such a sight?
arthur stood there for a good few moments processing your words, his hand caressing the spot you graced with the softness of your lips, like a teenager who just got their first kiss.
when he looked back at the path you took, you were already long gone. he slowly steps away from behind the food wagon, almost reluctantly; a part of him didn't want to leave this quiet and soft bubble you two had created right here.
he sits on his bed with a grunt, but he knew he would get no sleep tonight, not with you on his mind. and even if he did, then perhaps his dreams would speak of all the things he aches to live with you.
thank you for being patient as i cooked up this second part and until next time!!! â(áľááľ)â
Š nexamoon on tumblr, do not steal, post somewhere else, or feed into ai
a Latin phrase literally meaning "with living voice" but most often translated as "by word of mouth."
pairing : husband!arthur morgan x fem!reader
summary : arthur doesn't usually do clean shaves; and when he decides to go against his habit, he finds himself apprehending your reaction. little did he know it would stir up this many emotions within you.
wc : 3.5 k words â.á
tags : fluff, arthur morgan is an insecure man (poor baby, tell him he's handsome), established relationship, husband!arthur morgan, reader gets jealous
a/n : it's good to see me, isn't it? wink wink (did you get that reference?) anyway! i'm sorta back! ę(ËľË á ËËľ) i managed to write this in between my busy uni days and i'm really proud of it! so i hope you guys like it â(áľááľ)â i'll update you more at the bottom of the post as i don't want to make this too long!! enjoy <đ .á (for the people i tagged, check the end of the post mwah â¸(ď˝ĄË áľ Ë )â¸âĄ )
arthur morgan wasn't a man who cared that much about his appearance. he tried to get baths whenever he could, made sure his clothes were somewhat clean (though it was hard, considering his job), and he cut his hair whenever it got a bit too long to avoid looking like a certain someone he despised. he also made sure to shave often so his beard didn't get too thick and bushy for comfort.
but now that he has you in his life, he started paying attention to his looks a little more.
he tried his best to coordinate his outfit colors, attempted to comb and even pomade his hair sometimes to look neater overall, and made sure he could always see his own reflection in his boots.
that was the wife effect for arthur: he wanted to make an effort for you. you had chosen to be with him till death did you part; and as much as he still struggled to believe that he was enough for you, that you didn't make the wrong choice by choosing to marry him... he still wanted to play the part, to pretend that he could be the sophisticated gentleman he thought you did merit.
so when he looked at his own reflection in the small mirror in his tent this morning, he decided that a shave was due.
he always remembered how in the beginning of your relationship, you'd always giggle whenever he nuzzled against your cheek or neck, because his facial hair would tickle you.
you got used to it now; you even grew the habit of scratching his beard whenever he laid down in bed with you, at night. it always managed to put him to rest so easily. and bonus points because he'd sleep like a baby after.
recently though, his beard did grow to be a bit too itchy than usual.
what to do, he wonders.
arthur usually wasn't one for bold ideas, especially when it came to his appearance. but he opted for a full-on clean shave this time.
it had been a while since his last one. he often avoided them because, for one, his face would feel far too exposed for his liking. at least with the beard, it felt like he was hidden, like people didn't instantly see through him. it acted like protection. a shield, if you will.
for second, going for a clean shave always meant he'd get teasing remarks about it from the others at camp, joking about how he must have some lady waiting for him in town, or that they could "finally see him"... which was precisely what he so desperately wanted to avoid.
and for third, the reason that scared him the most: he apprehended your reaction.
your opinion matters greatly to arthur. nonetheless, he knew that, deep down, you were nothing but kind with him. at worst, you'd sugarcoat it to spare his poor and pathetic self, because you knew how deep his insecurities run. still, he found himself wanting to please his wife. he wanted you to want him. to feel attracted to him like he did with you.
well, even if you did end up disliking itâ which arthur internally hoped wouldn't be the caseâ his facial hair grows back quite quickly, so, it wasn't going to last for too long anyway. he just wants to give himself a fresh start.
regardless of whatever doubt still lingered in the back of his mind, it was inevitable now. he had already lathered his face with shaving cream and tried his best not to accidentally cut himself with his razor, which happened a bit too often to him.
a few minutes later, after rinsing off his face and drying itâ there he was. a new man.
he kept scrutinizing himself through the mirror, almost glaring. he wasn't too sure how to feel about it. because in his mind, the lack of a beard wasn't the problem; it was his goddamn face.
he didn't realize how long he stood there having a staring contest with his reflection until he heard whatever new vinyl dutch bought from town being played on his gramophone.
you weren't currently with him in your shared tent. you had slipped away after a quiet good morning kiss to help around camp and make breakfast. you would probably be by the campfire now, waiting for him to bring you two some coffee, so you could sip it and spend some time together before he had to leave camp for the day. it was your little ritual; and right now, you must be wondering what could possible be taking him so long to join you.
so join you he did, without forgetting to bring along two steaming mugs of coffee.
he settles next to you, almost in a shy manner; like a young boy who doesn't quite yet know how to behave around his first love. it was strange, to see a tough burly man like that act with such clumsy hesitance; almost like the tall scrawny boy he once was all those years ago had never left at all. the same tall scrawny boy who had stole your breath away the moment you laid eyes on him, and whom, after years, eventually worked up the courage to confess, and then, to ask for your hand.
you had always found his timid mannerisms to be most endearing; as if he'd somehow forgotten for a moment that you two were quite literally married.
he scoots a little closer to you, his hand reaching to scratch the bottom of his face, which he always did when he struggled to start a conversation. though this time, his muscle memory failed him as he had forgotten his usual beard was gone now, so he quickly fumbled with his hand to rub the back of his neck instead.
the awkwardness of his movements made you chuckle. you took a sip of your coffee, and you watched him do the same, like he just remembered he brought himself a cup too.
"good morning arthur."
your voice was so soft, it felt like that nice morning breeze he's always loved.
"yeah, g'morning darlin'..."
he gives you a side-glance, before he settles on staring at the faint steam rising from his cup.
your gaze stays trained on his side profile, admiring his new look, taking in all the details it allowed you to make out. some moles you had never noticed appeared, and the clean shave made his freckles pop out more. you adored them, always joked about how the sun must be infatuated with him, for it to leave so many kisses on his face. but he always shrugged it off, said they all looked more like burns than kisses. and it always tugged at your heartstrings to hear him say that.
you watched how his fingertips nervously traced the rim of his mug, quietly asking and waiting for a reaction from you, anything; just adress the elephant in the room. why drag it on for so long? how cruel you were, to play with his heart like that. a heart he had so generously entrusted you with.
you knew he was aching for a response, but you enjoyed seeing him anxious over the tiniest things a little too much. and either way, arthur was too fun to tease.
your gaze shifts to the quiet morning scenery in front of you; nature was slowly waking up.
you can't help the smirk that forms on your face, even when you try to sound as nonchalant as you can manage.
"did we have a date today i happened to forget about, honey?"
arthur blinks and confusedly shakes his head.
"not that i recall... no."
"oh, how interesting. so,... maybe you have a romantic rendez-vous with some young maiden downtown?"
that earns you a scoff from him which could be translated to, *how dare you even entertain such a thought?*
"darlin', what are you on about?"
"oh, i don't know", you shrug innocently, "your unusual clean shave just got me wondering, is all."
he groans, and looks you in the eyes for the first time that morning. how they shined like two jewels adorning his face.
"that ain't why i shaved. it just started feeling a bit too itchy... figured i'd just regrow it."
a beat of silence. you keep your gaze trained on his face, a cryptic smile forming on yours.
"hmmm. i see."
it was your turn to scoot closer to him, your knees brushing against his thigh as you put your cup on the floor next to your feet.
"well, i think this look suits you. not more than the beard but, it does fit you well."
"...y'think so?" his eyes widen, and his defensive tone softens under your words. suddenly, he looked like a young child lighting up when getting praised.
"what? you don't believe me?"
"... just don't know if yer still making jokes about me or if yer being honest." he shyly admits, his eyes set on the cup once again.
you giggle and press a kiss on his cheek. it felt strange, not to feel his beard tickling your skin. but for arthur, this enabled him to fully feel the softness of your lips.
goddamn... he should definitely do clean shaves more often.
you nuzzle against his neck, laying your head on his shoulder and he wraps his strong arm around you, keeping you steady against his sturdy form.
"i mean it, arthur."
you look up at arthur and observe as his cheeks turn into a deep crimson. and you noticing it didn't help...
damn it. if he hadn't shaved, maybe his beard would've made it less obvious.
anytime now, you would make a comment about it in that sing-songy tone of yours he loves and hates at the same time. love, because, quite frankly, your voice was one of the most beautiful sounds that ever graced his ears. hate? well, now that he thinks about it, it was a word too strong; he just never knew what to expect with your ever-so witty mind.
"... for a rugged and tough cowboy, you sure can be adorable at times."
ah, there it is. he huffs in indignation.
"that ain't no such thing." he retorted a little too quickly. a blatant lie.
"it is! i managed to make the mean, cold-blooded outlaw blush like a schoolboy."
if your eyes didn't betray you, that made him redden even more.
he straightens his back and shifts a bit away from you on the log, hiding his face under the brim of his hat.
"i...! ain't blushing, yer just seein' things."
"your beard can't save you now~"
there is no denying that, is there? he sighs and grumbles something under his breath as he takes the last sip of his coffee.
his gaze meets yours for a moment, and finds it full of a mischeviousness he couldn't rival; not now, anyway. not when he feels so vulnerable under your lovingly teasing stare.
"... dammit, sweetheart. i can never win with you, can i?" he sighs as he gets up from the log, heading towards your shared tent.
you stay on his trail, almost skipping on the way behind him. "nope. never."
he smiles fondly, as he swiftly moves under the tent flap. you follow suit and sit on his weapon locker, watching as he gathered his flask, his journal, some food.
"you go around saying that and i'll have to silence you, woman." he mutters in a mock warning tone.
he stands in front of you, probably for him to get his weapons. but you don't budge, crossing your legs.
"oh yeah? and just how will you silence me?"
"you don't want to know."
"boohoo, i'm soooo scared." your words were punctuated by an eye roll.
arthur's hand settles on his gun belt as he stares you down. his gaze serious, almost as if he was considering something.
"you'd better be."
you gasp in mock offense. was that a threat? was he really threatening you right now? how could he say that to you? the sun of his days and the moon of his nights?
"arthur morgan, you would not hurt a woman, and especially not your wife." your tone is nearly reprimanding, as if you were admonishing a child for his bad behavior.
"i wasn't thinking of that", his eyebrows knitted in confusion because, how could you even envision a universe where he ever did that?
he cups your chin and tilts your head up to him, his rough thumb gently grazing your bottom lip. "i could shut that smart mouth of yours in tons of ways other than that."
your lips parted further under the touch of his thumb and for a moment it felt like he was casting a spell on you. the energy in the room had shifted, and it felt like you had lost the upper hand. his touch, considering how scarcely he initiated it, especially at the beginning of your relationship, never failed to make your stomach do flips, as if it was the first time all over again.
screw you, arthur morgan, you thought. you hated how he knew that his touch had that much of an effect on you, and what you hated even more, is how he always used that to his advantage.
you gulp and attempt to maintain the sly grin on your face regardless; just to see how far he is willing to go with his... dirty tricks.
"... oh, well. color me intrigued, mister morgan."
that earns you a chuckle from him, a slight darker, the type that made a shiver run down your spine.
he suddenly grabs your forearm, pulling you to your feet, and before you could register anything, you felt warm lips press on yours hungrily. your hands end up gripping his shirt for balance, which makes him place a steady hand on your lower back to prevent you from falling backwards.
this was the type of kiss that made your mind reel; because it felt like arthur was pouring all his love, emotion, and desire into it. the type of kiss that reminded you that, somehow, even after being with you for all this time, that he was still as enamored with you.
once he pulls away, you instantly lick your lips to taste his flavour just for another moment longer. arthur's lips curl up and he tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.
he murmurs in that soft voice he reserves only for you. "'course i'd never hurt you, darlin'. i'd rather die than do that."
his lips press a soft kiss on your wrist before gently pushing you to the side so he could get his guns from his locker.
you were still in a haze from the kiss, a soft smile adorning your mouth when your brain finally registers his words.
"is it just me or did the shaved look bring forth your romantic side?"
arthur gets up and closes the locker with a thud, tucking his revolvers in his gun belt.
"ain't the shave. 's you." his words slip from his mouth so easily, just like the soft kiss he planted on your forehead.
"cheesy", you mumble, as you watch him move past you to take his satchel and slip out the tent.
you follow him only after seconds, your fuzzy mind still taking in everything that happened just now.
he was saddling up his horse, fixing his satchel and verifying everything was there.
but, still, a tinge of doubt and insecurity lingered in your heart. as much as arthur was oblivious about his good looks, you weren't; and by extension, other women weren't either. you never for a second doubted his faithfulness to you, but just the simple thought of another woman making advances or pushing her luck with him... you hated to say it made your blood boil and your jealousy flare dangerously.
just imagining that made your jaw tighten, and turned your expression sour. you couldn't help the bitter overtone of your mumbled words.
"you'd better turn down the offers you'll get from the women downtown."
he snorts at your words as he feeds his horse some oatcakes. he found it funny, how you were certain he would get hit on. maybe you liked the clean shave a little more than you let on.
your instance of possessiveness did tickle his pride, so he answers almost casually.
"darlin', y'don't have to tell me twice."
your brows furrow when he brushes off your concern like that. you're not joking anymore now, no; these are your real feelings on display. however horrible they make you feel for having them.
"it's just because i know they won't leave it." you mutter, crossing your arms.
"i'll take my gloves off then."
he rids himself of them, revealing his hands, rough and calloused from his daily labor, and on his ring finger, a gold band shone under the sunlight, matching yours.
a wedding ring yes, that should "normally" be enough to get others to back off. yet somehow, it wasn't. worse; the forbiddance of being with a married man only further drew in ladies. it supposedly "added to the thrill", or some half-assed justification along the lines of that.
you pout. "you know that won't be enough."
seeing your downcast expression genuinely tugged at his heart, nearly making him regret shaving altogether. and it also made him wonder how such insecure thoughts had even managed to implant themselves in your head?
you feel two large hands settle their comforting weight on your shoulders, and before you knew it, that made you lift your head to look at arthur. he leans impossibly closer to you, his words hushed, but they spoke volumes. the kind of words that hit you just as hard as a romantic poem made of thousands of verses. he speaks slowly so you can weigh in his words and understand them better.
"then, i'll kindly tell 'em that i'm happily married to the loveliest woman i've ever laid my eyes on... better?"
the wistfulness in his eyes told you he spoke truthfully; and the way he held your gaze for moments after, even in silence, said even more than that; after all, arthur was a man of a few words. so you knew to cherish his sparse attempts at verbally conveying how much you meant to him.
your lips trembled before curling up into a small wobbly smile.
"... better."
quite frankly, the man was skeptical of your answer. but he lacked the tactful elocution needed in these tricky situations, where emotions were at stake. especially yours. everything was clear to him in his heart though. but at every attempt, his words always get jumbled up and, suddenly, it feels like they're not making sense anymore. it feels like they're not even enough to translate how he feels in his flesh and bones when it comes to you. and so he grumbles about how he should just shut his trap altogether instead of even trying. thank god you had the patience of a saint with him though.
arthur makes a mental note to bring you something from town; a broach? a shawl? some hairpins?... maybe make you a wildflower bouquet; ah yes, seeing your eyes light up at the sight of the flowery set never failed to make him feel alive like he's never been before.
he just needs to bring you something meaningful, to prove to you that, although he isn't much vocal, his mind always finds a way to drift back to you during his waking hours.
for now, a soft kiss on your pretty lips would have to do.
he holds you close to him for a moment as quiet reassurance, and feels relieved to see your face slowly light up again; the clouds who had dimmed his sun were gradually disappearing.
"come back to me in one piece, my dear." you whisper, as you watch him mount his horse, reaching for his hand to squeeze. his thumb gently brushes over you ring; a quiet reminder that you're his, just as he's all yours.
"always."
you watch him trail away on his horse, giving a greeting to javier who was guarding camp before taking off to town. but your heart rested a little easier knowing that the man you cherish, that the man who loves you quietly, his affection hidden behind fond glances and whispered words reserved for you, intertwined with the graceful pencil strokes that were, according to him, "a mere attempt" at capturing your alluring radiance, can also be openly loud about you, about you and him. and the fact he found himself able to do that sometimes... that made everything all the more special to you.
a/n two : first off, thank you for reading! if you have been following me, you must've noticed that i haven't been active in over a month. mainly because of self-doubt and insecurity regarding my writing. it has truly been a thrill to write for arthur, and i've had the chance to meet and interact with many sweet people who have supported my craft and myself, and for that i am eternally grateful âĄď¸ so for them, i dedicate this piece of writing. thank you for your words of concern and encouragement when i was in doubt. in no particular order, as i hold you all very dear in my heart : @dustyharlan , @stupidgaynerd , @ardeniaa , @d0lliesp1t and of course, @heartsickspider <333 thank you for the many messages and words i have gotten from you all and it is quite literally thanks to you that i find myself posting here today âËâšâĄ
summary: Just a quiet collection of domestic moments shared in a remote forest cabin with a wanted man you happened to find bleeding in your kitchen. Somewhere between shared breakfasts, sketches in a worn journal, and the intimate hush of the woods, the dangerous stranger slowly begins to feel less like a guest and more like a husband you never planned on having.
genre: 50% fluff, 50% smut, 100% Arthur is hot.
warnings: none (just small mentions of blood and stuff)
notes: Fulfilling your Arthur Morgan husband fantasy. Slow burn (patience is the longest yet most scenic road to smut.) Includes Arthurâs canonically perfect round ass naked in your kitchen. Includes Arthur enjoying a very ripe, very juicy, very pink peach in front of you. (Iâm serious)
The morning melodies of the forest wrapped around you like the softest quilt, crisp highland air dancing through your hair, rustling the leaves over and over until you realized how quiet the trail truly was.
It wasnât the absence of soundânever that, the woods north of the Upper Montana were just as alive as those in the southâbut the kind of quiet that settled deep into your bones. It lived beneath the chorus of birds and everything else around you. The rhythmic creak of saddle leather. The steady puff of the horsesâ breath. And the hush of wind moving through pine and aspen, threading itself through every thought until there was room for nothing else.
Last night still lingered in your body like warmth trapped beneath skin. Not just the memory of his lipsâthough that burned stillâbut the devotion of his touch. The way heâd pleased you like no man ever had, as if you were something precious, something to be worshipped rather than claimed. The way heâd looked at you like he was afraid to break the spell by wanting too much.
And you understood the fear.
You, too, were now at risk of asking for far too much.
âYou knew the man who lived here?â Arthur asked, riding just ahead of you, easy in the saddleâas if the land itself had shaped him to fit it.
To your left, Lenora View rested like a postcard of domestic peace. Old, weathered fabric swayed on the clothesline in the morning breeze, grayed by years of sun. Garden tools leaned where theyâd been set down and never picked up again. Wrapped parcels and paper bundles waited patiently on the front step, untouched since â99. The little blue cabin now belonged to the ivy spilling from its flower baskets, roots claiming timber and eaves with quiet, possessive insistenceâtelling the ending to a mystery youâd first heard about last century.
âSaw him around town a few times,â you said, your eyes drifting back to Arthur, watching him without meaning toâmemorizing the lines of his back, the way his head lifted toward the peaks as if greeting old friends. If your hands held even a fraction of the talent his did, youâd pull the reins right there and capture every sharp line, every soft shadow until he was yours to keep, long after the seasons changed and took him with them. âWent missinâ around the time I left town, donât know if they ever found him.â You finished, forcing your attention back to the conversation.
âOh, they did,â he replied, his shoulders moving with the horse, not against it. Free. Untethered. âPoor bastard drove himself off a cliff.â He tipped his chin toward the bridge, where the land fell away into jagged, cruel stone. âWanna know whatâs worse than dyinâ like that?â
Your face contorted with a wince. You couldnât imagine much worse than meeting the rocks face-first. Even if fate gave you the mercy of a quick death on impact, the terror of the fall would be enough to shatter even the bravest soul.
âDyinâ like that on the very road meant to take you to your bride,â he explained quietly, his voice barely rising above the thud of the horse hooves. âMan never showed up at his in-lawsâ porch.â
A cold shudder rippled through you. It was a most horrible fate, indeed. Two, in fact. A lonely corpse forgotten under the shadow of a bridge. And a widow hauling her trunks back inside, step by confused step, as the realization set in that he wasnât coming for her.
You wondered which was cruelerâif she ever learned the truth, if she knew her lover was now a broken heap at the bottom of a canyon, or if she spent her years believing herself simply forgotten. Left behind by a forever that had only just begun to bloom. Haunted by the promise of morningsâquiet and ordinaryâthat now felt borrowed from another life. Coffee shared in comfortable silence. A soft sleeve brushing hers as he reached for the tin. A faint smile she hadnât realized she wore whenever he teased her about the years ahead. Small things. Domestic things. Fragile, beautiful things that had shattered before they could ever truly begin.
The kind that made oneâs chest ache with both possibility and dread in equal measure.
You knew better than to let yourself imagine too far ahead.
A man like Arthur didnât belong to a life measured in seasons and routines, in lavender gardens and evenings by the fire. He belonged to motion. To horizons. To roads that never truly ended. And yetâtreacherous thingâyour mind still betrayed you with images of him splitting wood outside your cabin, of boots much bigger than yours resting by the door, of his laughter carried on crisp forest air as he leaned down to pick bay boletes beside you. Of shared meals eaten off mismatched plates. Of his coatâheavy and smelling of cigarettes and highland sunâdraped carelessly over the back of a chair that had never expected to hold the weight of such a man.
He glanced back then, just briefly, as if heâd felt the weight of your gaze. His eyes softened when they met yours, something unspoken passing between you in the space of a heartbeat. He didnât pry. Instead, he tipped his head toward the sprawling Valley aheadâa silent come see thisâand you smiled despite yourself.
âHow âbout a little race, butterfly?â he called, the breeze playing with those caramel locks you yearned to be the one whose scissors he asked for when they grew too long for his liking. âIf I win, you leave that husband of yours for good.â
âAnd if I win?â you shot back, almost certain that he knew there was no husband thinking about you in Saint Denisâthat the lie was nothing more than a thin, pointless game you both kept playing because it was just too fun to quit.
âDoubt thatâll happen,â he said, a challenge sparking in his blue eyes as he spurred his Shire into a sudden, thundering gallop.
You swallowed your doubts and urged your horse onward, the ground beneath you beginning to blur.
âWell, look at you!â you shouted after him. âAll healed and bouncinâ on a horse like you werenât bleeding to death last time I checked.â Your lips curved and your eyes crinkled under the sun, a smile that carried the ache of all your thoughts gently, like something brittle yet still very much alive. âIf I had known that was all those wounds needed, I wouldâve let you ride much sooner!â
His answer was laughter. Bright and unguarded. A sweet sound carried on the fresh breeze rolling into the open greens ahead of you.
The wind kissed your cheeks and tangled your hair, rushing cold and clean through your lungs as you rode fast along the creek. Morning had long since shaken off its sleep; the sun stood confident now, catching on river water and mossy stone, setting the world aglow as if it had something to prove. It was a freedom so real you could only feel it in the fleshâand never imagine.
Whatever tomorrow heldâwhatever ghosts waited for him, whatever roads might pull him toward an inevitable horizon where you didnât existâthis was yours.
The day.
The sunlight.
The man riding ahead of you through a land far too beautiful to promise anything lasting.
So you let yourself have it.
Fully.
Without apology.
All of it:
The warmth of his familiar hands on your waist as he helped you down from your horse once you reached the sun-drenched fields heâd promised. The air crisp and heady, a smirk gracing his lips after having won a race you would have forfeited anyway. The price of losingâthe promise to leave a ghost of a husband behindâwas a prize far greater than any victory.
You let yourself have the press of his honey lips against yours beneath the bright, unapologetic sunâa sweet, butterfly claim that took hold the moment your feet touched the emerald grass, dusted with clumps of rebellious purple that refused to listen to the seasons. A few sprigs bloomed around your boots just because they could. Just like his kissâborn of pure whim, done simply because he felt like it. Because he could.
You let yourself have the sight of him setting up the tents in the heart of that purple seaâlavender still too young to pick, yet perfect to drink in with your eyesâhis broad shoulders working beneath a vast, cloudless sky. It was a fairytale scene you glanced back at now and then as you knelt in the cool grass a few feet away, picking wild mint for the lunch heâd promised to huntâas if you feared that looking away for even a minute too long, meant the horizon would finally decide to take him back.
You let yourself have the comforting scratch of charcoal against paper beneath the mellow afternoon sun. He sat on a flat rock by the waterâs edge, black hat resting atop his satchel, lost in the quiet sanctuary of his art and his thoughts. A few rocks away, your bare feet greeted the creek like an old friend, threading carefully over mossy stones, skirts gathered as cool highland water slipped past your ankles.
The sharp, clean scent of the creek mingled with the faint, ever-present aroma of his cigarettes, a perfume that had become your new definition of safety. And in the silenceâbetween the birdsong and the rushing water, between the soft grazing of the horses in the field and the wind stirring drowsy leaves awakeâthere was a peace so profound it felt fragile, like a soap bubble that could burst at anytime if the breeze blew in the wrong direction. You watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his large, scarred hand moved with such surprising grace across the journal page. In the early afternoon light, he wasn't an outlaw or a face on a wanted poster. He was just Arthurâsimple and stillâsharing a piece of the world with you.
And for the rest of the afternoon, at least while sunlight seeped into skin and moss alike, the quiet was enough.
But as the first stars pricked through the purple silk of the sky, as the last brushstrokes of orange slipped behind snowy peaks, and the Valley finally surrendered to the evening chill, the fairytale day began to drift away on the night breezeâfeeling more like a memory than the present moment you were still allowed to experience. The quiet ache in your chest nudged you toward him, seeking the kind of bone-deep warmth you knew no campfire could provide.
âHere,â you said softly, handing him a steaming cup of coffee. You lowered yourself beside him at the entrance of his tent, sitting as close as you dared. Your head found the reassurance of his shoulder, resting there as you bid the day a silent, reluctant goodbye.
He said nothing beyond a low thank youâthe words a husky, honeyed rasp carried off by the wind somewhere in the purple seaâbefore finishing his coffee in just a couple sips.
His warm hand came to rest on your knee, a bittersweet reminder that today was still here. That he was still here. You took a sip from your own mug, the cool night breeze kissing your sunburnt cheeks as if to soothe the worries you wouldnât voice to him.
Your free hand found his under the fire glowâsoap-worn fingers lacing through violence-worn knuckles. The gentle squeeze of his palm felt like it was pressing the ache right out of the tight muscle of your heart.
You stayed like that for a long while, listening to the chorus of cicadas humming somewhere in the brush and basking in the quiet comfort of his hand resting in yours. The Valley had gone blue with dusk, fireflies began to spark in the distance, and the firelight from camp flickered low and gold against the canvas of your tents.
Your thumb traced lazy circles along the base of his forefinger, feeling the rugged, uneven ridge of a scarâthickened like a ring of old damage that told a story of its own. You lingered thereâcurious, thoughtful.
âHowâd you get this one?â you murmured, the question more tease than concern. Your gaze drifted briefly toward the darkening woods surrounding the campâsomewhere out there, a cellar hidden under the Valley, and an old woman who might still be haunting it. âWas it the old lady?â
He let out a soft chuckle, the sound a low vibration in his chest.
âThis? No,â he said, leaning back a little, eyes lifting toward the first stars blinking awake overhead. âBastard down in the Bayou.â
You shifted slightly closer without meaning to, your knee brushing his thigh as the night cooled.
âWeâd been trackinâ him and his buddy for weeks,â he went on, gaze unfocused as he was pulled back into the suffocating, muggy wetlands of Lemoyne. âGot âem cornered in some half-rotted shack. I got my man. My friend took the other. All clear, all goodâŚâ His jaw tightened just a touch. âUntil a gator crawled out from under the bed.â
âOhâGod.â
âI got distracted. As one does when a gator shows up.â He huffed a dry laugh, eyes flicking back to you. âThe bastard I was tying up thought heâd try his luck, broke free and caught my finger between his teeth. Wouldn't let go.â
Your hand tightened around his instinctively, wincing as the image bloomed in your mind. The ring of scarred flesh felt even thicker now that you knew the story behind it. âChristâhow come you still got to keep the finger?â
He shrugged, as if being bitten by human teeth was just another part of the job. âPunched his jaw until he couldnât close it no more.â
You winced again, a phantom pain throbbing in your own hand and jaw.
âDonât worry,â he added quickly, the corner of his mouth lifting as he caught your expression. âHeâs fine. Happily livinâ behind bars until they decide to hang him and his buddy. Reckon the law shouldnât take its sweet time, though. Those two are known for their talent of squeezinâ themselves out of tight holes.â
You shook your head slowly, gaze dropping to the fire as it snapped and settled, still making sense of the story youâd just heard.
âAre you a bounty hunter?â you asked after a moment, your voice barely rising above the hush of the wind.
âSomethinâ like that. More like an assistant, really.â His thumb brushed once against your knuckles. âMy friend does the huntinâ. I just help her out sometimes.â
âJesus.â The word slipped out before you could stop it, your thoughts drifting to this faceless womanâthis unnamed force of natureâwondering what kind of life sharpened a lady into a blade like that. âYour friendâs tough.â
âShe is,â Arthur agreed, his voice growing heavy with a different kind of respect. âTougher than most men I know.â
The fire cracked softly in front of you, embers glowing with a drowsy, orange heat, while above, the stars stitched a brilliant quilt across the open sky. You held his hand a little tighter, suddenly aware of the life etched into every ridge and scar along his skinâknowing, with an aching certainty, that a life like his was not something a man simply stepped away from to pick mushrooms and chop wood in a forest cabin until the end of time.
And yetâŚ
That same hand rested gently in yours tonight.
The same hand youâd found clutching his side, shedding precious drops of life on your kitchen table one fateful winter day. The same hand youâd cleaned and bandaged every morning as you nursed him back to health. The same hand you lifted to your lips now, pressing a soft kiss to the skin the doctor had stitched back together what felt like a lifetime ago. Your kiss was a silent plea wrapped in warmth.
To always remember you.
Wherever the wind took him next.
After all this.
After you.
Your gaze drifted up to his, content to simply look at him. Then, drawn into the blue depths of his eyes, you rose to press a wistful kiss over the scar on his chin, wonderingâbriefly, uselesslyâwho had put it there, wishing heâd linger around long enough to share that story with you some other night. Under these same stars.
You nudged him back gently, his back meeting the blankets inside the tent with a soft thud. And then you were straddling him, your weight settling comfortably over his, as you traced a line of slow, honeyed kisses along the caramel bristle of his jaw.
His hands came to rest at your hips, easy and familiar. His chest rose steady beneath you as your mouth drifted to his neck, your kisses sweet, caring and entirely his. That was how you wanted him to remember them: the âpretty lipsâ heâd written about in his journal. Just softness. Just sugar. Just his.
At the same time, your fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt. Slowly. Deliberately. Each eyelet freed with blind familiarity and careful precision. There was no rush in your movements. You had all night, after all; just the two of you and the scent of crushed lavender beneath the blanket.
You pushed the fabric off his shoulders far enough to reveal the rugged map of scars across his chest. His hands roamed the cloth over your thighs, a deep, satisfied rasp rumbling from within him as your lips met the iron-forged muscle of his torsoâscattering butterfly kisses over every patch of skin where violence had stolen the chance for sandy hair to grow.
His hand tightened on your thigh when your mouth brushed the scorched, distorted mark on his left shoulder. You wondered if it still hurtâif the pain still haunted him despite the scar looking old enough to belong to another lifetime.
âAnd this one?â you murmured, kissing it again just to be safeâas if your warmth might help the skin finally heal, hoping the feeling of you might linger on him for days. âWho did this to you?â
âSome Irish clown,â he rasped, his voice low and molten, a pleasant whisper that melted like honey beneath your touch. âDistant time. Different life. Ainât âround here no more.â
You glanced up just enough to see himâeyes closed, brow faintly furrowed, every last thread of tension dissolving beneath your care.
And for this moment, at least until the sun rose again and the horizon claimed him back, he was yours to soothe.
So you did.
You moved down from his shoulder slowly, reverently, kissing every patch of his history that didnât include youâevery chapter of a life that had existed long before your paths crossed. Every shiny, gnarled line of scar tissue that broke the smooth rhythm of his skinâeach one a quiet testament to the man he had been before and the man he had become after them. The outlaw whoâd appeared bleeding in your kitchen one winter afternoon. The gentleman whoâd placed your favorite flowers in a vase just so youâd smile at the sight. The artist whoâd sketched you like his muse instead of the simple country woman youâd always been.
The man whose chest now rose and fell beneath your fingertips, his lungs whistling placidly as your lips traced a downward path, following the coarse line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
His nails bit into the soft skin of your arm when you drifted lower, abandoning all pretense of ladylike restraint, pressing your butterfly lips to the hard, swollen shape of himâheld captive beneath a suffocating layer of rough denim.
But not for long.
Your fingers worked the leather of his belt free, the quiet jingle of metal and the whisper of fabric setting your heart into a wild, impatient rhythmâone your hands did not mirror. Instead, they moved with agonizing control as you unbuttoned his jeans, savoring every second, every low grunt that left his chest despite the desperate anticipation running through your veins, despite the searing summer blooming between your thighs. Wet and unapologetic. Midday heat sizzling over sweat-pearled skin. A haze of a summer fantasy flickering through your mindâpeach lemonade on a sunlit counter, sweet beads of condensation rolling down cloudy glass, reality blurring at the edges.
Your eyes lifted to his as you tugged the fabric down, denim and cotton together. He met your gaze, his eyes fixed on you as if you were the first ray of light to reach him after an endless, biting night. Unable to resist any longer, you surrender to your desires, your attention drifting lower, savoring the iron planes of his chest, the dip of his stomach, until you reached the part of him every nerve in your body ached to feel.
A whimper escaped your lips at the sightâthe sound soft and honest, impatient yet reverent. Just like him: rising solid and proud between well-muscled thighs. The flushed tip already glistening with anticipation, sweet drops sliding down the swollen flesh, following the thick veins that disappeared into the coarse hair at the base.
Your eyes drank him in with gratitude. Unashamed.
He was the most beautiful sight the Valley had ever offered you.
His gaze was heavy, half-lidded, dark with a hunger that made your skin sizzle as he waitedâachedâfor your touch.
And who were you to make a gentleman wait?
You reached clumsily for the front of your shirt, your fingers betraying your eagerness. But you hadnât even undone the first button when his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you cold.
Your mouth parted to protest, but he sat up and pressed his lips to yoursâsoft and deliberateâas if to quiet any complaint before it could form. His experienced, gunslinger fingers took over where yours had faltered.
Your mouth curved against his in a smirk you didnât bother to hide. He had said this was the fun part, after all.
He bared you without inconvenience, sliding the cotton down over your shoulders, revealing skin his lips only seemed to know how to worship. Your head tipped back, suddenly too heavy to hold upright, your neck turning liquid beneath the warmth of his breath. A feeble sound escaped your mouthâhalf-need, half-delightâas his lips pressed soft and tender against your chest, painting a trail of wet heat as they traveled lower, to where plump flesh spilled from the tight lace cradling your breasts.
Your body shivered, a small, involuntary tremor, as the cool highland breeze brushed over skin still damp from his kiss. His rough fingers worked the lacing open with careful, deliberate tugs, each eyelet slipping free until nothing remained between his gaze and the sight of youâbare, undone and aching for him.
Your nipples tightened in the night air, your chest rising and falling beneath his reverent stare, as if your body was thanking him for freeing your breasts from the constricting embrace of fabric.
You smiled at him, your eyelids heavy with want, and for a moment, you wondered if heâd reach for the charcoal behind his ear and start drawing you right then and there.
âYouâre too pretty for a bastard like me,â he whispered, leaning down to press a butterfly kiss against the goosefleshed curve of your breast. âToo damn pretty.â
Your spine arched at his touch, at his praise, the weight of your upper body resting solely on your hands, palms pressed flat into the blankets beside you.
âArthurââ you sighed his name into the star-freckled sky as his fingers guided your skirt up your hips and over your head, leaving only your lacy drawers between you. You lifted yourself slightlyâan awkward, desperate motionâbut it was enough. He slipped them away without making you leave the heat of his lap.
âSweet butterfly,â he rasped, his hand drifting down to the summer raging between your thighs, sinking into it softly, unafraid to be burned. His fingers coaxed a fragile whimper from your lips. âToo damn sweet to be touched by nothinâ but the cleanest, softest hands.â
And yet you wanted hisâblood-stained and bruised. Palms scarred. Fingertips calloused exactly where they curled around a trigger. You wanted those same hands that knew how to ease you open like this, gentle as a promise. Not teasing. Just preparing. Just reassuring. Only the sweetest pressure allowed in this fairytale.
Your hands found his face, cupping it, holding his gaze as the quiet, wet sounds of his touch filled the space between your bodies.
âClean hands ainât makinâ me feel this way,â you breathed, your mouth parting wide in a silent moan, gasping for the air you stole from his lungs. âA-ArthurâŚâ He touched you exactly where heâd learned you liked it the night before, as though rewarding you for making his name sound so beautiful.
âYours is the only name these lips wonât ever stop sayinâ,â you promised, arching against the arm he kept around your back, drawing you closer. His neglected lengthâwaiting with a painful, stoic patience between youâbrushed against your belly as he shifted, a searing reminder of just how much he was holding back for your sake.
âGodâyesâŚArthurââ
He pressed the tender bundle of nerves between your folds with his thumb, the movement as careful and artistic as when he held a piece of charcoal between his fingers.
âMen like me donât get to have this,â he murmured, his voice a bittersweet whisperâdark coffee with barely a sprinkle of sugarâa reminder meant more for himself than for you.
You stilled, your hands resting against the steady, heavy beat of his heart. You gently nudged him back until his head met the blankets, even though it meant losing the delicious fullness of his fingers inside you. You leaned down, pressing a soft peck to his lips, your voice a hush against his skin.
âYouâre a gentleman, Arthur.â Your fingers slipped into the honey locks of his hair, combing through them as you hovered above him, sinking into the honest, blue depths of his eyes. âThe sweetest man⌠and you donât even know it.â
âButterflyââ
âShhh.â You pressed your lips against his again for good measureâhalf-kiss, half-smile.
Then, you left him there as you straightened back, your fingertips reaching carefully for his length. He jolted faintly at your touch, a small shudder running through his massive frame as your gentle hands wrapped around him, just enough to hold him steady. You shifted your hips closer, letting your aching, slick folds brush the prominent veins along his swollen cock.
A sound escaped you at the delicious contact. Though your legs felt liquid, you managed to press your knees into the blankets, rising just enough to glide your drenched slit along himâslowly, from tip to base and back again. Not taking him inside. Not yet. Just tracing the side of his length, letting your body become familiar with every ridge of him, coating him in your heat.
His nails pressed into your knee, his brow drawn tight as he looked up at you, then down to where your bodies met. Both of you were caught in the quiet spell of it, in the hush of that moon-drenched intimacyâin the slow, mesmerizing friction of flesh that had long ached for this. Velvet against silk.
âYouâre one handsome man, Arthur Morgan,â you whispered, shifting your hips in gentle, swaying motions just to see his sharp features tighten in delight. âSo damn handsome. Donât know if they ever told you.â
He gave you a brittle, flickering smile through heavy lidsâa small gratitude for a truth you werenât sure he believed about himself.
You glanced down just in time to see the glistening tip of him brush your swollen bud, a thin thread of sticky desire stretching between you.
And you could tellâby the way his muscles shuddered under your worship, by the way his fingers sank into your skin as your velvet folds soothed the painful hardness of himâthat he was not used to the softness. To the devotion. To the care.
To Arthur, all his bodyâd probably ever been was a tool for survival, a shield for others, a target for his enemies. But to you, it was something precious whose warmth youâd always crave, even after he was long gone from these lands.
âI want this, Arthur, ahââ your voice broke as the head nudged your clit again, a jolt of lightning sparking through your core. âIâI want us like this.â
Every day, of every season, back in our little cabin.
In the summer, after a long day under the sun, sweat-damp bodies tangled in freshly washed sheets.
In the fall, behind the reliable trunk of an ancient pine, a basket of foraged berries forgotten in the carpet of needles beside you.
In the winter, quilts spread before the hearth, snow falling onto the frozen surface of the Basin, your shadows dancing in black and orange against the worn timber walls.
And every spring, in this purple sea, just like nowâthe Valley flowers and the star-pricked sky the only witnesses to your lovemaking.
âPleaseââ
âdonât leave me.
You didnât dare finish the thought aloud. It felt selfish to want more than what he was already giving youâgreedy to ask for his future when this moment alone already felt like every beautiful thing this life had to offer.
âArthurâŚâ With a soft sigh of his name, you finally nudged him inside you, using your hand to tuck the glistening tip into your welcoming warmthâjust barely at first, just enough for your body to bloom around the stretch. He grunted as you lowered your hips slowly, the sound like gravel over silk. You let yourself sink down inch by patient inch, your hungry walls closing possessively around him.
The soothing brush of his hands on your thighs was a caress meant to encourage, to praise you for how well you were taking him in. Yet as you lowered further, the increasing heat in your sensitive flesh brought a flicker of sharp discomfort, and for a heartbeat you wondered if you would be able to fit him fully at all.
But patience was a virtue these lands had long since taught you.
You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his as you sank lower, as deep as the pain would allow. Until it numbed. Until the fullness grew so exquisite you could feel nothing but the solid, pulsing weight of him inside you.
âYou okay, butterfly?â he whispered, the words breathless. His voice was soft as the breeze stirring the leaves outside, sweet as the press of his lips against the back of your hand.
You nodded, barely hearing anything beyond the rasp of his breath. Barely seeing anything but the gorgeous, moonlit fantasy before you: his mouth parted in silent praise, his brow drawn tight with a vulnerability people never expected from a man like him. But then again, theyâd never seen him like you did.
He was such a gentleman, just lying thereâhard and generousâletting you take your time, letting you move as you pleased, letting you use him as you pleasedâutterly content just to see you happy.
And you were.
Happy to be the one taking him in like a compliment.
Like a lock that had finally found its key.
Your palms pressed against his chest as you lifted your hips a few inches, then sank back down again, a little more confident this time, the feeling of him so deeply a part of you now. A low sound escaped his throatâhalf-breath, half-praiseâas his fingers tightened around the fat of your thigh.
You took it as encouragement.
So you did it again.
And again.
Soon, a comfortable rhythm formed between you, your bodies moving in harmony beneath the wide, starlit night. The clean mountain air brushed cool against your bare skin, raising gooseflesh whenever the wind hit your back, but the warmth between your joined hips burned bright enough to chase away any chill.
The world beyond the small tent of stitched blankets and dancing firelight seemed to fall away, leaving only the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, and the steady cadence of your joined breaths.
âYou turn me stupid, woman,â he rasped, his voice deep and rough, as if the words had to fight their way out of the breathless pit of his lungs. âDonât know what you do to me.â
His gaze remained fixed on you as though you were the only thing in the whole Valley worth seeing. His hands slid along your hips, steadying you, guiding your movements without ever trying to take control.
You smiled down at him, your pace growing a little quicker, a little less careful, as the pleasure built inside you like a gathering midsummer storm.
His name left your lips like a prayer, your voice trembling as the sensation tightened deep in your core, spreading through your limbs until they were too liquid and too useless to serve you in this dance no more.
He felt it before you could say more.
With a sudden, gentle strength, he shifted, rolling you beneath him just as your knees threatened to give out. Your back met the blanket, the grass bristling faintly beneath the thin fabric, still warm from his body. He hovered over you, careful not to press his full weight down. One arm braced beside your head, his fingers lacing tightly through yours, while the other slid beneath your thigh, lifting and angling you just the way he needed youâjust the way he knew would make you feel everything he wanted to give you.
âAâArthurââ His name tore from your chest, loud and helpless, as though life wouldnât give you another chance to say it after tonight, as though the Valley itself might carry the sound across the hills and keep it alive long after you were gone. The world blurred at the edges as the delightful fullness of him crested inside you, your body arching softly beneath his muscles, your fingers tightening around his knuckles until they went numb.
âYouâre alright, darlinâ,â he murmured, the low rumble of his voice more soothing than any touch. âIâve got you.â
He kissed you through itâslow, deep, and steadyâhis tongue moving against yours with quiet devotion, as the combined depth of his thrusts became too much to bear. Your walls, swollen with sweet juice, finally surrenderedâa summer downpour spilling between your thighs, drowning him in your delight.
But being the gentleman he was, he didnât pull away from the storm heâd created. His lips stayed on yours insteadâselfless, patientâholding you close without asking anything of you as you came undone in his arms, as fire embers sparked all over your skin, melting the tension away from your muscles. As your body softened beneath him, he continued to move with a deeper, searching rhythm, chasing his own release.
He found it a few heartbeats later. Your walls fluttered around him as he slipped free at the last possible second, just enough to bury his face in the curve of your neck. A low, broken sound escaped himâa grunt of pure, shattered reliefâas his body tensed and shuddered. Sweet warmth painted beautiful shades of white across your belly before he finally stilled, his breath heavy and ragged against your skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Somewhere in the valley, a night bird called. Then another answered from farther off. The creek joined them, the cold water whispering over stone just a few feet away. Outside, the fire crackled softlyâperhaps too small for the mountain cold, but neither of you felt any urge to tend it.
He stayed there, catching his breath against your shoulder, his weight warm and grounding. It was as if he feared that moving even an inch might burst whatever short-lived, beautiful bubble you were trapped in. Not just tonight, but these last few weeks.
And you understood. You stayed still too, only daring to move the hand that now traced slow circles across his freckled back, your fingertips savoring the strength beneath his skin, memorizing the map of his muscles before the trail could claim them back.
âLetâs go south through Black Bone Forest,â he broke the silence first, the words tickling your skin on their way out. âSee that new ranch they built out there. Take it slow. Pick you some of those flowers you like. They grow âround there, too, those orchids.â His fingertips drifted along your ribs, slow and absentminded, as though he were sketching the path youâd follow come morning. âWe can camp near Owanjila if it gets late. Leave at first light the next day⌠then weâll make it south of the Montana before dark.â
You stayed quiet, listening to the low hush of the creek, the brittle crackle of the fire outside, the soft rustle of blankets whenever either of you shifted. You let yourself sink into the simple comfort if itâthe grounding weight of his body, the lazy tickle of his fingertips at your side, and the wide, indifferent scatter of stars overhead.
You watched them as though they might hand down some ancient wisdomâsomething that would mercifully quiet the question your lips were aching to ask.
âAnd after thatâŚâ Your fingers moved slowly across his shoulders, counting freckles one by one, though your heart beat fast and uncertain beneath his body. And you wondered if he could hear it from where his ear rested against your chest. âAre you goinâ to Mexico, then?â
You felt the faint shake of his head.
âI gotta go to Beecherâs Hope,â he said quietly. âAsk John a favor.â
Your heart twisted. Mexico or Blackwaterâit didnât matter. Neither of those plans included you. Still, you liked the way he said that nameâJohnâwith a natural, lived-in warmth, as if you were supposed to know who he was. It made you feel, just for a moment, as though you belonged to some small corner of his world. You pictured the drawing youâd once glimpsed in a stolen morningâthose men with their quiet smiles. One of them, perhaps. A brother.
âWill you come visit me, Arthur?â you asked, voice faltering just a little, the question barely rising above the hush of the wind. Your eyes stayed fixed on the patch of sky framed by the tent opening. âSometimes. When youâre in the area.â
âButterflyâŚâ He drew in a slow, steady breath and lifted himself from the cradle of your arms, propping up on one elbow so he could look at you. The firelight from outside flickered softly across his godlike features, softening the hard lines of him. âYou know I donât much like the idea of you beinâ there alone.â
âThen donât leave.â
The words slipped out before you could stop them. The years youâd imagined togetherâthe four seasons in the cabinâunfolded inside your head like a map you weren't allowed to keep. But what ifâŚ
You pushed yourself upright and cupped his face in both hands, as though you could anchor him to your life by sheer will alone. In that moment, you forgot every promise youâd made to respect the man he wasâhis drifting nature, his wild heart. Because the thought of a life where you didnât fall asleep against his chest every night felt like the cruelest torture imaginable.
âYou can still travel,â you whispered, your voice thick with a desperate, brittle hope. âStill see the world. Camp under the stars. Ride wherever the wind calls you. JustâŚâ Your thumb brushed a slow, loving circle along the bristled warmth of his cheekâlonging, wishful. âJust come back to me in between, Arthur. Come back to me every time, before you leave again.â
Please.
He looked at you for a long moment, the starlight caught deep in his eyes, the same pale glow it cast across the Basin on a clear summer night.
âWhether itâs a trip to Saint Denis for cookies,â he said quietly, his hand sliding to the small of your back, drawing you closer, âor just down to Manzanita for groceriesâŚif I leave you alone for a second while âem pelt clowns still roam those woods⌠how am I any different from that imaginary piece of shit you call your husband?â
A smile broke across your face, his features blurring through the warmth gathering in your eyes.
He leaned in first, slow and careful, as if he were giving you time to change your mind. His lips brushed yours in a soft, lingering kissâsweet and reassuring. An owl hooted in the distance, and somewhere beyond the tent one of the horses shifted, a sleepy huff drifting through the night air along with the faint, comforting scent of woodsmoke and pine.
âEx-husband,â you smiled against his lips, your hand sliding to the back of his neck, your thumb stroking gently just below his ear.
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm and breathy between kisses. âSo youâre single now, maâam? Finally?â He pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your cheek, as if he couldnât quite bring himself to stop.
âNo.â
He pulled back just enough to frown, confusion flickering across his faceâthen understanding dawned, playful and sure.
âYou donât mind your new husbandâs a wanted man in a few counties?â he asked, the weight of his past haunting his voice beneath his playful demeanor.
âAnd whoâs gonna come find him in the middle of the woods?â you teased, though you could still feel the tension behind his question. âYou and the pelt clowns are the only men Iâve seen in all the years Iâve lived out there. If the law ever comes, I could always hide you in my cellar.â
You stole another peck from his velvet lips, as if you could kiss his worries quiet.
âAnd if they see my boots âround the house?â he wondered aloud, his voice deepening as he let himself drift into the shape of the life you were offeringâthe shape of the husband who shared a little cabin in the woods with his butterfly wife. âIf they find my shirts in you closet, my guns in a chest under the bedâŚâ
âIâll just tell âem they belong to my husband.â You brushed your nose gently against his, smiling, perfectly content to spend the whole night spinning little stories if it meant one of them would convince him to stay. âMy sweet husband who sells exotic flowers in Saint Denis.â
He huffed, amused. âYouâre one clever lady, ainât ya?â
You laughed softly as he pressed his lips against yours one more time before drawing you closer, turning you around so your back rested against his chest. His arms circled you in a warm, protective hold. The heat of him seeped into your skin, still slightly damp from your lovemaking, his breath slow and even against the crown of your head.
You stayed like that for a while, your fingers drifting absentmindedly over the soft hair on his forearms, tracing the faint ridges of old scars. Above you, the sky stretched wide and endless, stars scattered like spilled sugar. His chest rose and fell gently against your spine, the rhythm slow enough to lull your thoughts quiet.
âI mean it, butterfly,â he said after a moment, his voice low and thoughtful. âWhat Iâve done⌠it ainât pretty.â The words slipped into the night, carried away by the soft murmur of the creek. âOut there⌠lawâs still lookinâ for folk like me. Last thing I want is that kind of life to find yââ
âWhere?â you cut in softly. âWhere are they lookinâ for you? We could just avoid those places forever.â
He paused, then sighed, as if remembering that the woman in his arms was as stubborn as mountain stone.
âLetâs seeâŚâ he murmured. âAnnesburg. The whole stretch of Scarlett Meadows. Blackwater still, though Iâve been there a few times lately.â He fell quiet again, listening to the creek as though it might whisper the rest back to him. âReckon Saint Denis too. Though Iâve passed through without much trouble. Cityâs too big for the law to care who comes and goes.â
âSâokay,â you said softly, pressing your hands over his where they rested just beneath your breasts. âNever even thought of goinâ to Rhodes or Annesburg anyway. Heard thereâs nothinâ to see there but dust and coal. And who even needs Blackwater?â
He chuckled faintly at your optimismâa low, melodic vibration that traveled from his chest straight into your spine.
âWhat about Ambarino?â you asked. It was the only place you didnât want to leave this world without seeing at least onceâbut youâd gladly give up every mountain peak in the country if it meant he stayed by your side.
âDonât recall ever doinâ anything nasty up there,â he murmured against yours ear.
âThen, Iâd like to see the Grizzlies with you. That round house you drew. The SpringsâŚâ you let the fantasy take root as you spoke. âI read in the Ledger that the water thereâs bluer than the sky. So bright it almost hurts to look at. They say it changes colors, like it canât make up its mind. Little ponds of boilinâ water.â You smiled faintly at the memory of the tattered article. âEver been there, Arthur?â
He only nodded against your head, quiet and content to simply hear you speak.
âAn old traveler once stopped through Strawberry,â you went on, your fingers tracing the thick, prominent vein along his forearm. âSat at Mr. Cooperâs counter all evening, talkinâ about the places heâd seen. Said there was a poppy field real high up north. Bright orange ones. Claimed the land for themselves, he saidâwild little things.â
Arthur stayed still, save for the hand that drifted along your side, his fingers warm and reassuring against your skin, sketching the blooming shape of a future you both knew was a gamble.
âHe told Mr. Cooper you could see the whole country from up there. The Heartlands, Cumberland Forest, OâCreaghâs RunâŚeven Flat Iron Lake if the skyâs clear. Like the land just opens itself up to you. And up thereâŚâ you smiled faintly, picturing the two of you as tiny specks in that orange sea. âHe said the wind never stops. Just rolls through the flowers and makes the whole hill shimmer orange.â
Above you, the patch of sky framed by the tent flap seemed to fill with that imagined colorâthe orange sea the traveler had described, the wide world unfolding beneath it. You could almost see it: a quiet picnic in the sun, his head resting in your lap while the wind stirred the poppies and lulled you both into a lazy afternoon nap. Your horses grazing nearby, tails flicking at flies in the tall grass.
And you wondered if, in his silence, he was painting the same picture in his mind.
âHe said thereâs a lookout tower near the ridge. And a little cabin folk call the Witchâs Hut,â you added after a moment. âNobody seems to know who lives there. Or if anyone does at all.â You let out a quiet, wistful breath. âSaid that field was the prettiest patch of land heâd ever seen, Arthur.â
âI can take you there,â he promised quietly, his voice brushing your ear like a secret. âLate spring, when them flowers are in full bloom. Camp under the stars, just like right now.â
You turned slightly in his arms, searching his face, trying to memorize every detail in the firelightâthe tired kindness in his eyes, the way the shadows clung to the stubble along his jaw. The world felt small and gentle around you, no bigger than the blankets beneath your bodies and the slow rustle of the leaves dancing in the night breeze.
âThat sounds real nice, Arthur,â you whispered, your lips curving into a smile the moment they shaped his name.
âButterflies should always be âround flowers.â He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. Not hurried, not hungryâit was just warm and it was his. The kind of kiss meant for quiet goodnights, and not for farewells.
He shifted, the blankets rustling softly as he drew you down with him. One arm slipped around your waist as your back met the warm fabric beneath. You turned toward him without thinking, fitting against his chest like that was always where you were meant to rest. His hand settled at the small of your back, careful, protectiveâlike you were something too precious he didnât want the night to steal while he slept.
You listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, to the faint thump of his heart beating life into his body beneath your ear. He caught your fingers in his and brought them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that felt like a seal on a contract.
âIâll take you everywhere you want,â he murmured again, as if he wanted the stars to be the guardians of this life you were planning to start together. âThe Springs, the house on the hill, the poppy field.â
You smiled at the thought, watching the faint, pulsing glow of embers through the tent opening, basking in the fresh scent of the wildflowers crushed beneath your tangled bodies.
âThereâs a place up north near the Reservation,â he went on, his voice drifting. âWhere the Dakotaâs born. Waterâs emerald like this valley grass, but deep blue as the midday sky too⌠if that makes sense.â
You nodded against his chest, not quite able to picture a color so vibrant, but content to know that his plansâhis futureâincluded you now.
âYouâll love it up there, butterfly.â
Your fingers curled gently into his as a reply, wishing you could bottle this starlit night forever. Wishing you could fold it up like a letter and tuck it somewhere safe in the event that, despite your best efforts to build a fairytale together, the years eventually decided to take him away some day.
His arm tightened around you just a little more, soft and quiet as the valley itself. It was a wordless reminder that, though the future curled in uncertain, shifting ways beyond the canvas of the tent, the present moment was all you truly had.
And it was enough.
-
Rain hammered the roof in a steady, heavy rhythm, like a thousand angry fingers drumming on the planks overhead. It was the kind of summer storm that came down all at once, wild and unruly, carrying thunder and lightning in its wake. The scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles slipped through every crack in the timber, the forest air feeling softer for itâricher somehowâthe oppressive heat of the day washed away and replaced by the cool, clean breath of the storm.
You stirred beneath the blankets, drifting in the hazy space between dreams and reality. Across the room, the fire in the hearth burned low, reduced to a blurry nest of glowing embers beyond your heavy eyelids, casting wavering shadows along the walls. The cabin was steeped in the soft scent of warmed sap and old smoke that had burned all night, while the world outside was reduced to flashes of pale light and the endless, roaring curtain of rain.
For a moment, you didnât know if it was still night or if morning had come and simply forgotten to bring the sun with it. The sky beyond the small window by your bed was black as pitch, and the downpour made time feel slow and thick, as if the hours had melted into one another and settled quietly in the dark corners of the room.
You shifted, your body instinctively seeking a warmth that was no longer there.
Your hand brushed over the blanket beside you, searching for solid muscle, but found only the faint dip in the mattress where heâd been. The spot still held a trace of his heatâa ghost of warmth beneath your palmâand the sheets still carried the lingering smell of his skin. But the steady rise and fall of the chest youâd fallen asleep against was gone.
You blinked your eyes open, lashes heavy with sleep, and turned your head toward the corner where he liked to drink his morning coffee.
He stood near the kitchen window, his back to you, outlined by the dim, dying glow of the fire. The soft light traced the broad expanse of his shoulders and the strong line of his spine. It caught the firm, familiar curve of his ass before it artistically melted into the muscle of his thighs. There was something about the way he stood, the easy, unguarded posture of a man who hadnât bothered with clothes after the night youâd shared.
He didnât seem to notice you stirring. Just stood there, one arm bent at the elbow, a cigarette resting between his fingersâthe ember at its tip pulsing faintly, a tiny orange star in the darkness.
He looked out at the black window where rain streamed down in silver lines, the storm turning the glass into a shifting, watery mirror that reflected nothing but the quiet life he had spent years searching for.
For a long moment, you simply watched him, listening to the distant thunder and the protest of the trees as they bent under the tempest. Every now and then, lightning flashed, outlining his powerful silhouette against the glass before plunging the room back into firelit shadows. The blankets were soft around you legs, silk against your skin, and in the cradle of their warmth you found yourself wishingâjust a littleâthat this god of the wilderness you just so happened to call your husband would come back and lie down beside you again.
You rose from the bed, your bare feet meeting the cool floorboards with a quiet thud. You were only wearing the shirt youâd fallen asleep inâthe same cotton shirt youâd brought him from Manzanita one distant spring afternoon. The fabric was faded now, worn thin by years of honest use and the countless mornings it had spent swaying on the clothesline beneath the bright sun.
âYou have a beautiful ass, Arthur Morgan,â you smiled, giving the firm, plump muscle a playful squeeze before wrapping your arms around his waist. Your pressed your cheek snugly against the freckles on his back, skin warm and slightly damp from the heat of the room.
He huffed a laughâeasy, unguarded and entirely his. âWell, good morninâ to you, too.â His voice came out a deep rasp, husky like the first words of the day always wereâa quiet contrast to the storm raging outside. âSleep well?â
You hummed your answer against his skin, breathing him inâsalt, moist pine, premium tobacco, and the faint, lingering trace of lavender from last nightâs bath.
âMorninâ?â You glanced toward the dark window where the Basin caught the lightning like a turbulent mirror, doubtful the clock ticked anywhere past three or four. âWe can still sleep a little more. Come back to bed.â
âWas about to.â His hand came to rest atop yours, warm and heavy. âThunder mustâve scared the horses, woke me up, too.â His fingertips brushed your forearm in an absent, affectionate strokeâthe touch of a man who no longer had to keep his hands near a holster. A man who only cleaned his guns out of habit and fondness for the steel, and not necessity. âAnd then I felt like drawinâ somethinâ.â
Your gaze drifted toward the scarred wooden table, where his journal lay open. A stick of charcoal rested across the center crease like a worker sleeping after a long day, proud of the finished lines it left behind on the page.
The firelight turned the paper a soft amber, making the woman in the drawing look even warmer, even more peaceful. She slept curled in thick, soft blankets, the folds of fabric shaded so carefully you could almost feel their weight. Behind her, a small window shimmered with rain, the glass streaked in thin, slanted lines as though the storm lived inside the page itself. You could almost hear the thunder roar, feel the hush of the dark room, the softness beneath her cheek, the deep, earned rest in her sleep.
And perched lightly in her hair was a butterfly, its delicate wings folded like a quiet ornament among the wild tangle of bed-mussed strands. Heâd somehow made that unruly morning mess look soft, almost flatteringâas if it belonged in a storybook instead of a real, ordinary routine.
And even after all these years, after all the lazy afternoons heâd spent trying to teach you the way of the charcoal in numerous, failed attempts, you still didnât know how he did itâhow he could turn something so simple into a fairytale.
âOh, Arthurââ your brows drew together in fondness, a tender little frown and an even bigger smile taking over your face, letting him know how much you liked it. âItâs beautiful.â
âGood, âcause...â He reached for the journal, carefully tearing the page free so it wouldnât crease. âIt was for you anyway.â
You took the paper in your hands. Up close, the details felt even more alive. You couldnât understand how he managed to capture something so vivid in the dim, smoky light of the hearth.
âI love it.â You rose onto your toes to plant a kiss against his caramel stubble, where a few lines of silver had begun to show, glowing faintly in the firelight.
He caught your chin softly, tilting your face up so he could kiss you a little longer, his lips still as sweet after all these years.
Just like that first time in your cellar, all those summers ago, with the Skinnersâ threat hanging over your head and everything still waiting to begin.
The room beneath your feet was still your cellarâthe cedar box still held quilts that smelled faintly of soap and dust, and the walls were still lined with jars of preserved plums and candied tomatoes. But now, an entire shelf was devoted to the journals heâd finished through the years. They sat tucked against the far wall, next to the corny romance novels you usually read for him under the mellow afternoon sunâafter the chores were done, resting on a patch of grass by the shore, with his head in your lap and your fingers threading through his caramel strandsâŚ
No, the cellar was no longer a place meant for hiding. There were no more nights spent listening for footsteps above the floorboards, no more strangers with cruel intentions wandering through these woods.
Arthur had made sure of that.
On the distant sunset when youâd come back from Big Valley, he hadnât taken you home to the Basin like youâd expected. Instead, youâd found yourself hitching your horse to the front porch of a sturdy farmhouse, the railings smooth and well-cared for, the timber still smelling faintly new beneath the crisp evening air. The sun sank low on the horizon, painting the tall yellow grass of the Great Plains a honeyed gold, just like the fur of the friendly Labrador licking your hands.
Heâd bounded up to you the moment you stepped down from your horse, his tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled. Youâd laughed as the fur tickled your skin, kneeling to scratch behind his ears while his tongue slobbered happily over your fingers, the scent of hay and sun-baked earth rising from the yard.
The woman from Arthurâs drawingâAbigail, youâd learnedâcame through the front door at the sound of the dogâs excited barking. Her hair was gathered neatly into a bun, and the soft sway of her skirts made her look as though sheâd simply stepped straight out of the journal page.
âJohn! Come here! Arthurâs back!â she called into the cooling air, hurrying down the steps to throw her arms around him. âDidnât expect to see you again so soon. Thought you were halfway to Mexico by now.â
âOh, Iâd probably be happily drowning my regrets in tequila at some bar in Chuparosa if it wasnât for âem damn Skinners.â He joked, his arm light and familiar around her shoulder. âTwo arrows and several knife cuts later, turns out Iâm still standing.â He signaled briefly to his side and his thigh, his tone light despite the gravity of the scars you both remembered too well. âLong story. The important thing is I wouldnât be here today if it werenât for the gentle hands and the incessant scolding of this sweet lady. Butterfly, this is Abigail.â
âPleasure to meet you, maâam,â you said, smiling back at her.
âOh, just call me Abigail,â she insisted, moving without hesitation to pull you into a hug, her shirt warm against the evening breeze. âThank you for savinâ this man. Heâs one big stubborn fool.â She glanced at him, her brow furrowed in disappointment. âI donât even want to know what he got himself into this time, but Iâm glad you were there.â She turned back to Arthur, though her hand still rested kindly on your elbow. âHow many times will I have to tell you? Someday youâre gonna get yourself killed, Arthur Morgââ
âWhat happened, brother?â
A man emerged from a nearby barn, short black hair under a sun-worn hat and long, deep scars carved into his right cheek. The marks were harshâa jagged reminder of the same violent past Arthur had crawled out fromâbut his expression was anything but. His rough features were softened by the playful grin he wore as he approached.
âFinally decided to move in and help me run this mess?â he half-shouted, boots thudding tiredly across the yard. His voice sounded worn by years of trail dust and campfire smoke.
âJohn here was never much of a farmer, butterfly,â Arthur murmured to you, leaning close enough that you felt the brush of his breath at your ear. âPlays tough, but as you can see, heâll always need me to save his ass. Ainât that right, Johnny?â
âFrom where I stand, that could very well be yourself youâre talkinâ about,â John shot back, his lips curving in a grin. His gaze flicked toward you, tipping his hat in greeting. âMiss.â
âGood eveninâ, misterââ
âWhat would any decent lady be doinâ anywhere within ten feet of a bastard like Arthur goddamn Morgan?â Laughter burst from the house, a voice too loud, too cheerful to belong to the body that followed it out the door. It was none other than the old man from Arthurâs drawingâlong, untamed white beard and hair to match, face weathered like sun-bleached wood. He looked like he ought to be carrying a banjo, just to match the picture in the journal. âHave some self-respect, sweetheart,â he chuckled, giving your shoulder a friendly, yet heavy, pat that stung even through your shirt.
âJesus, you still alive, old man?â Arthur greeted him, already stepping toward the doorway as Abigail ushered everyone inside. âWas hopinâ to come back to better news.â
âAinât that a fine way to greet your elders?â the old man scoffed, shuffling after Abigail. âDonât go actinâ all tough just to impress a lady. I pictured you rottinâ in some ditch down in Casa Madrugada by now.â
âJust pretend he ainât here,â Arthur murmured to you as you crossed the threshold. âHeâs so ancient he might as well be a ghost and we donât know it.â
You let out a small huff of amusement at Arthurâs comment, then quickly pressed your lips together, worried the old man might take offense. But he didnât seem bothered in the slightest. He wore a smile that looked permanently carved into his cheeks as he settled himself at the table, an empty bowl waiting in front of him.
Once inside, the comforting scent of simmering stew, fresh bread, and clean wood wrapped around you like a blanket. The floors were smooth, well-swept planks that glowed honey-gold in the firelight. A braided rug lay beneath the table, its faded reds and blues soft under your boots. Decorative plates hung neatly along one wall, catching the flicker of the hearth in the salon. There, a piano stood silent but ready, and a large portrait of the master and lady of the house stood proudly above the mantel.
Just beneath it, sat a small statue of a squirrel wearing a hat and carrying a tiny gun. It immediately reminded you of Mrs. Hobbsâ work back in Strawberryâshe used to make odd, charming things just like it. There was a word for that, sheâd told you once, you just didnât remember. You wondered briefly if she was still around.
Everything in the room felt cared for. Not fancy, not richâbut warm, lived-in, and honest. It was the kind of place where mornings began with coffee on the stove and evenings ended with tired laughter around the table.
âHeâs been old his entire life,â John explained, dropping into the chair across from the old man. âYou remember him young, Arthur?â
Arthur shook his head, placing his hat on a nearby peg. âHe refuses to tell his age. Reckon heâs forgotten it.â
âThatâs âcause nobody ever asks nicely,â the old man said, folding his hands over his belly as if waiting for a miracle. Or, more likely, the stew.
âHow old are you, good sir?â you asked with a polite smile as you took the seat beside him.
âYou can just call me Uncle, miss,â he said, leaning closer and whispering the answer like a state secret.
âOh my, really? You donât look a day over sixty!â you said, perfectly mirroring the mischievous smile he was giving you.
âI know, sweetheart. My second wife always used to describe me as ageless,â he murmured, looking immensely pleased with himself. âSee? That was easy.â He glanced at the younger men around the table. âLike I said, kindness costs you nothinâ.â
âYeah, yeahâlike I said,â Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes as he pulled out the chair next to you. âWhereâs Jack?â
âJack! Come out! Your Uncle Arthur is here!â Abigail called, setting a heavy iron pot onto a thick wool pad at the center of the table. Steam curled from beneath the lid, carrying the rich scent of beef, onions, and herbs that made your stomach tighten with a sudden hunger you hadnât realized youâd been carrying.
âWhereâd he abduct you from, sweetheart?â Uncle asked, already dipping a ladle into the pot. âBlink twice if you need help.â
You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and Uncle joined in with a wheezy chuckle of his own. He poured a generous helping into his bowl, thick, velvet drops of gravy sliding back into the pot. The sight made your mouth water, reminding you just how ravenous a long day of picking flowers in Black Bone Forest could leave a body.
âI wasnât abducted,â you said, amusement still dancing behind your words. âQuite the opposite. Iâd have lost my home and my horse, perhaps more, if it werenât for Arthur.â
âAww, well look at you, Mister Morgan,â Uncle teased. âFinally doinâ somethinâ gentlemanly for a lady.â
âReckon Hosea would be proud,â John added with a playful grin.
âOh, you two be quiet,â Abigail scolded, placing clean bowls in front of you and Arthur. The pottery was simple but sturdy, still warm from the wash water. âArthurâs always been a gentleman. You two were just too busy with a bottle of bourbon or a damn Cattleman to even notice.â She turned to you, her expression softening. âAinât he a good man, miss?â
You nodded, smiling at her before turning your gaze to Arthur. He looked faintly uncomfortable with the sudden praise, shifting slightly in his chair as if he werenât quite sure where to put himself when the spotlight wasnât a threat.
âFinest gentleman Iâve ever met,â you said softly, your hand finding his knee beneath the table. âThe sweetest, too.â
âYeah, a regular dandy and a charmer,â he muttered, self-deprecating as everyone at the dinner table knew him. But despite the gruff words, his hand slid warm over yours beneath the wood, his thumb brushing your knuckles while the fire crackled in the little salon and the stew steamed between you all.
âThen you ainât been around much, sweetheart!â Uncle burst out, a wheezy laughter that rattled in his chest, the sound so natural on him it felt as if heâd been born chuckling at the worldâs expense. Abigail only shook her head, disappointed but used to it, as she took the seat beside her husband.
âUncle Arthur.â
The young boy whoâd always let you pick out the biggest eggs on a the busy mornings you visited Beecherâs Hope, stepped out of a room behind you. The lamplight caught in his light hair as he paused next to Arthur. He stood at once to greet his nephew, his rough hands turning remarkably gentle as he pulled the boy into a quick hugâthe quiet, careful affection a sharp contrast to Uncleâs rowdy teasing.
You lifted your palm in greeting when he noticed you, a shy smile curving his lips as if he were surprised to find an unexpected face around the dinner table.
âHello again, miss,â the boy said. His eyes were soft and thoughtfulâthe kind that made a person feel welcome without a single extra word.
âMy lady here tells me you are one generous salesman, Jack.â Arthur said as the boy took the seat across from him.
âIs that so?â Abigail asked, smiling fondly at her son while she reached for the bread loaf and began slicing it, the crust crackling satisfyingly under the knife.
âThe lady is one of our best customers,â Jack explained quietly, focusing on his bowl as he dipped his ladle into the pot. âShe always buys more than anybody else.â
It was true. You always stocked up on eggs whenever you rode back from Blackwater. Trips into town were rare, and you liked having plenty set aside for the long weeks of mountain solitude ahead.
âAnd Rufus likes her,â Jack added, glancing toward his mother. âBecause sheâs kind. Doesnât shoo him off like most customers.â
âWell, guess sheâs a dog whisperer, âcause Arthur here clearly likes her too,â Uncle chimed in, craning his neck like a nosy crow to see if his jab had elicited the reaction he wanted from Arthur. âAll that starinâ and holdinâ her hand under the table like a goddamn schoolboyâs got you lookinâ like a bigger fool than usual.â
John huffed a laugh, almost spitting out his stew, and even Jack let out a quiet snicker. You noticed John stealing a quick, contemplative glance between you and Arthur, as if trying to piece together a story no one had spoken aloud yet.
âJust let him be,â Abigail said, her tone a blend of warmth and authority. She set a slice of bread beside your bowl, her smile gentle, and knowing. âHeâs happy.â
Arthur didnât answer.
But his hand returned to yours beneath the table, despite Uncleâs teasing. His thumb resumed its slow, quiet circles against your skinâtelling you, without a single word, that Abigail was right.
Later, as laughter rolled easy around the tableâas John recalled the time he and Arthur had nearly blown themselves to pieces by lighting a cigarette beside a wagon full of dynamite, as Jack eagerly explained to Arthur a new kind of arrow his Uncle Charles had shown him how to make in his most recent visitâyou found yourself sitting back, quietly taking it all in.
It was nice.
Nights like this.
For so long, your evenings had been made of quiet routines and dinners for one, the only sounds the crackle of the hearth and the wind brushing the eaves of your cabin. Youâd forgotten how warm a house could feel when it held more than one heartbeat. How a fire seemed to burn brighter when it lit several faces at once. How a meal could stretch well into the night simply because there was always another story to tell, another memory to laugh over.
Yes, it was really nice.
To hold his hand beneath the table, hidden from the lamplight and teasing eyes.
To fall sleep to the distant grunt of bison somewhere out on the Plains, curled warm next to him in a clean, moonlit room. It was the same room he always stayed in when he visited, Abigail told you the next morning while you and Jack helped her wash the dishes from last night. The warm water had turned your fingers pink, the smell of soap and stew lingering in the air while plates clinked softly in the basin.
Jack was a good kidâquiet, politeâbut there was something pensive about his eyes, something deep and restless beneath the calm surface. His mother mentioned he had a head full of ideas, maybe too many for someone so young. When she teased him about being so well-spoken he might grow up to be a writer, heâd flushed red as a beet, ducking his head as though the compliment blinded his eyes like the bright morning sun.
Watching him then, you understood why Arthur spoke of the boy with such quiet pride. Why his parents did.
And in the days that followed, you began to understand even more.
Because your stay at Beecherâs Hope lasted longer than youâd first expected.
As it turned out, Arthur hadnât brought you there just for the pleasure of the visit. Heâd wanted you as far as possible from Tall Trees while he, John, and their friend Sadieâwhom youâd learned was the fearless bounty hunter heâd told you aboutârode out to purge the woods of the rot and filth of the Skinners. They were gone several days. Long enough for you to notice how Abigailâs jaw tightened whenever the wind carried hoofbeats from the distance, only to relax in disappointment when it turned out to be nothing.
She hadnât been happy about the plan. That much was clear. But she never took it out on you.
Instead, she let you help her around the farmâshelling peas on the porch while Jack played with Rufus in the front yard, washing shirts together by the river in the blue light of early morning, stirring pots over the stove while the kettle hissed softly beside you. And as you worked, she told stories.
Stories of 1899 and the years before that could have very easily filled a dozen novels. She spoke of muddy camps and long rides against snowstorms; of laughter around fires and silly arguments that lasted well into the night; of a man of the clergy who drank more than he ever prayed; of how Sadie had lost everything to the OâDriscolls before finding the steel she yielded now. She spoke of Hoseaâan honest conman with a rattling cough and the kindest eyesâwho was responsible for teaching both Arthur and Jack how to read, and a whole lot about life in the process. She told you how sheâd almost lost John twice, first to wolves and then to lawmen. Of how he was mostly a family man now, but still remained wild and untamed, for the moments his friends needed him to ride with them.
She spoke of loyalty, heartbreak, and the strange, tangled family theyâd all once been. Of how both Arthur and John still carried the invisible wounds of being left to rot by a man theyâd once considered a father.
And by the end of your stay, between Abigailâs honest recollections and Uncleâs⌠more imaginative onesâas Arthur later called themâyou felt like you understood better. The cold steel. The gunpowder. The endless, winding roads that seemingly always led to danger.
And it was because of those yearsâbecause of Arthur and the people whoâd shaped himâthat you now got to live this quiet, gentle fairytale in a remoteâbut never lonelyâcabin in the forest. You had been his butterfly for years now. Perching on the edges of his journal pages while he drew, fluttering around him with little stories of things youâd seen while foraging in the woods, sharing memories from your youth in Strawberry that surfaced without warningâthough there werenât many left he hadnât heard by now.
You pinned the drawing heâd just given you to the board in the kitchen. It hung across from the table, positioned perfectly to catch your gaze whenever it driftedâwhen you drank your morning coffee, when you scrubbed the lunch dishes in the sink, when you sat knitting across from him in the fading afternoon light.
The board had grown crowded over the years. Paper edges overlapped, older memories hiding behind newer ones, some curling faintly with age, others still crisp. Each one held a small, quiet piece of the life youâd built together.
There you were, sitting in the middle of an endless sea of poppies, your dress swallowed by the swaying petals, and though the charcoal was monochrome, your mind insisted on seeing the vibrant, fire-bright orange that had burned across the field that day.
There, bent over a patch of violet snowdrops near the so-called Witchâs Hut, a place youâd visited almost every summer now and which, as it turned out, held no trace of magic other than the quiet peace of the mountain.
Next to it hung a sketch of you perched on a sun-warmed rock at the edge of Cattail Pondâa fishing trip born on a crisp autumn whim, the water drawn so clear it looked ready to ripple at the slightest touch.
Another caught your horses grazing beside the round house near Bacchus Station, their manes lifted by the late spring breeze, your reliable horse looking delicate and small next to the midnight mountain of his Raven Shire. You could still feel the warmth of the sun as it washed the mossy roof in a liquid gold that afternoon.
And then there was your favorite, a masterpiece of perspective heâd simply titled: Sunset at The Loft.
It showed the world breaking open beneath that high Ambarino ridge. You could see it allâthe rolling Heartlands, OâCreaghâs Run reduced to a shimmering pond in the distance, the deep shadows of Cumberland Forest, and the sliver of Flat Iron Lake on the horizon.
It had taken him three full days, perched at the high balcony of the tower, studying the light until his fingers were more charcoal than skin. You remembered those days with a longing, sweet fondness: the rhythmic scratch of his charcoal blending with the cries of birds flying level with the lookout; the focused lines of his face glowing pink under the cherry-colored skies, the way your legs had ached for a week from climbing that dizzying ladder just to keep him company. And when the daylight finally died and he latched his journal shut for the night, that same endless world would shrink down to just the two of you, the crisp highland air, and the low murmur of your voices as you traded stories beneath the cold, bright diamonds of the Ambarino sky.
Quiet moments.
Little fragments of peace.
Sometimes you thought the cabin was growing too small to hold all the bliss that had grown inside it over the years, ever since that day youâd met him in your kitchen with his mangled leg and your peaches in his satchel.
âCâmere,â he called softly from the bed.
He was already lying beneath the covers, one arm crooked behind his head, the other lifting the blanket in a silent, familiar invitation. You crossed the room and slipped in beside him, the sheets already cool from the brief absence of your bodies. He pulled the blanket over and wrapped his arms around you the way he had every night since that starlit evening in Big Valley, all those laps around the sun ago.
Outside, the rain kept pouringâhard and steady against the roof. Inside, you were warm and safe, tucked against his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear.
âYou think theyâll make it?â you whispered into the night, watching a flash of lightning leak through the thin curtains, illuminating the room for a heartbeat before fading back to ember-glow.
âButterfly,â he murmured against the crown of your head, his breath stirring your hair, âin the years Iâve known John, bullets ainât stopped him, snow ainât stopped him, the law hasnât stopped himâŚhell, not even a pack of wolves could.â His chest rumbled rhythmically under your cheek as he spoke. âWhatâs a little mid-summer shower gonna do but get his hat wet? If the man wants to fish, heâll be here.â
You chuckled softly against the heat of his skin. John, Abigail, and Jack were meant to come fish in the Basin today. Some fisherman from the east near Rhodes had spun John a tall tale about a rare bass that supposedly inhabited these high-altitude watersâa "king of the mountain" that had eluded every hook.
But despite all the long, stubborn afternoons he and Arthur had spent trying to lure the beast out of the depths of the Basin, youâd never seen them pull up anything but good âol tiny Rock Bass. You and Abigail didnât share their competitive disappointment, though. You were more than content with the "failure," enjoying countless afternoons picnicking along the shore, watching the water shimmer like shattered glass while Jack skipped stones and Arthur triedâwith a persistence that bordered on crueltyâto convince John it was finally time to learn how to swim.
You loved every second of it. The laughter, the bickering, the simple peace of a family that had finally stopped running. You silently hoped the clouds would break by dawn, if only to see the look on John's face when he inevitably caught another finger-sized fish.
But for now, youâd rest. Cradled in the arm he tightened around you, his hand resting warm at your waist. For now, the world was just the size of your room. You let the song of the rain lull you back to sleep, drifting off in the absolute certainty that come morningârain or no rainâthe day would begin with the scent of strong coffee and the sweet, familiar brush of his lips.
â
It seems like weâve made it to the end of this journeyđ When I started writing this fic last December, I never expected readers to connect with the story in all the ways you guys did. What an amazing time Iâve had with you in the comments every week! I hope the ending did the journey justice! Dying to know what you think about it! Also, you guys are amazing for putting up with my insane word counts, especially the last chapters which were absolutely deranged (what was even that?! lol) As always, thank you so much for your support.đŚđ
Iâll go ahead and link my Kofi here in case youâd like to support my work this way tooâď¸đ ko-fi.com/missbubblesoda
Lastly, it goes without saying that Iâll be back with more stories soon! Iâm currently working in two low-honor fics (for John and Arthur). If youâd like to be notified when I post the first chapters, donât hesitate to reach out and let me know which one youâd like to be tagged inđ¸ Until the next one!đŤ§đ
⌠Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader
⦠Summary: This is the answer for a request from some time ago of an anon asking for Arthur being so in love with his girl that he forgets to pull out and finishes inside of her 𫣠For the life of me, I can't find said ask in my inbox!! Sorry for that little anon, and for how long it took.
⌠Warnings/tags: MDNI!! 18+ p in v, super fluffy, idiots in love, Arthur is so so smitten, coming inside, St Denis.
⌠Words: 2k
Arthur's pic belongs to @/delliebre on Pinterest!
Past events are written in italics.
St Denis. The windows of one of these rich hotels overflow with lewd noises, threatening to collapse under the weight of obsenity. The night outside doesn't absorb them and let them fade, all the contrary. And inside, those silk sheets and fluffy pillows are probably the only good thing this damn town has to offer, Arthur thinks to himself. Especially when he can have you all to himself, lying under him, his large hips spreading your thighs so widely, your back sinking into the mattress at every thrust of his.
"A-Arthur!"
"Jesus, y'feel so good."
Hearing you call his name like that. It's too much, an unthinkable oasis he would never dare imagine for a second, considering the arid desert that is his life. The sound of your voice, so soft and feminine, murmuring his name, crying out with pleasure, whispering to him during intimate nights when only the two of you existed in the world. It was the greatest gift of all.
He remembers the very first time your eyes fell on him. A look he would never have deserved even if he had repented for centuries. A look that not even the most pious of saints would deserve. The second your pupils caught his, he knew it was too late. He'd never see the sky the same way again, because no stars would ever shine as bright as you.
"Oh please, like that!" You pleaded, the pace and angle he had found spreading waves of pure pleasure through you with every move of his.
He groaned deeply in reply, strong arms encircling you on either side as his hips pounded relentlessly, a slow but steady rhythm. His cock plunges deep, all the way in, striking that spot inside of you that makes life worth living.
He stares down at you for a few seconds, your breasts bouncing thanks to his thrusts, making his muscles tighten and that itch in his balls burning.
The first time he had caught a glimpse of them, the blouse you were wearing that day was soaked after a banter with Sean that ended up in the fresh waters of the lake. Walking out of it on the shore, he had confirmation that mermaids did indeed exist. The droplets of water running down your chest, like pearls of diamonds. The swell of them, barely hidden by the damp fabric sticking to your curves, teasing his sanity. You were a test made for mortal men about the sin of Lust.
He had been quick to steal glances from you. From across the campfire. When you were both feeding your horses. When he was cleaning his gun. And you had been looking back. At first, he couldn't believe it; his thick, stubborn skull convinced him it was a trick of the light. But you were. And he loved it. He could feel his neck turning red, his cock getting hot against his will when you would stare at him for too long. Especially when he was chopping wood, he had noticed.
"Arthur don't stop!!"
"I -Oh, God damn it,- I ain't stopping sweetheart, I ain't." Balancing his weight on only one arm, he swiftly grabbed your right leg and brought it to his shoulder, making you cry out, the new angle even better than before. "Ah- Not until you had it all."
And you would get it too fast for your liking. His abdomen rocking back and forth, bending his belly in this hypnotizing movement every time he sinks into you. The veins on his shoulders and neck as all his muscles are used to fuck you good and proper. His big, rough hand holding your thigh up against him. His eyes fixed on your face. It's all too much for you.
"I'm⌠I'm going to-"
"Yeah, give it t'me, girl." He orders between gritted teeth, his fingers digging into the flesh of your leg.
The first time you had made love together. Oh, how he wanted to please you. To show you the love he had been hiding for so long, his journal the only witness to his secret. Because behind the baser instincts and forbidden desires already laid a stronger, much more powerful feeling. Oh, he should have known from the start. He should have known himself after all these years. Sexual attraction was just the tip of the iceberg and always hid something else. The affection he felt for you and still feels for you today has never stopped growing. His need to protect you, to make you happy, to have you all to himself bordered on obsession. The way he had held you that night, touched you. Like it was a privilege. Like you were an angel who'd spread its wings and disappear, far, far away from him in the morning. Slow, and tender, and so different from what you had expected. The roughness had come later, once he was sure he wouldn't hurt you. Once he was persuaded you wanted it. Then, and only then, he had started really letting all out, both of you eager and rough and wild.
You cry out in pleasure, and he fucks you through it, whispering tender praises at you, cock filling you just like you need it, steadily pumping in and out until the very last drop of your orgasm.
Oh that clench around his cock âthat sweet, warm and tight pressure all around him. He had almost forgotten all about it. He wanted to feel it every goddamn day of his miserable life, but most of all, he wanted to make you feel this good every holy day of yours. He loved you, so goddamn much. So much it was almost frightening him. So much he could move mountains for you, dive the deepest Ocean, kill anyone you'd tell him to. Damn it he felt like a goddamn dog you'd keep in leash. But so, so proud he was the one able to push you to that edge.
"Yeah, that's right, that's my girl." He sighs, voice getting desperate as he looks at your pleasured and disheveled face, hair a mess and mouth open, high-pitched moans of pleasure escaping softly from your throat again. Now that he has accomplished his mission, he isn't going to last long.
The way you mended his clothes just like you patched up his heart. The softness of your caresses. The way you were taking care of him more than anyone had before. That night you had kept him completely against your heart so that he could fall asleep. The way you were always standing up for others. That look you gave him when he was being sarcastic. Your words covering his when he said shit about his look in front of the mirror. Your laugh shattering through all the other ones in camp. The way your lips felt. Your perfume still filling his nose when he fell asleep alone. Oh, how he loved you.
He's so close it's becoming almost painful. He can't take it anymore âthe feeling of your naked skin everywhere against his once again, the warmth of your pussy welcoming him in this unholy embrace he shouldn't be granted with. All those memories filling his enamored brain as he keeps on rutting you, unable to stop himself, wanting to do one with you. The pleasure you're giving him is just too much for his poor sanity, and he let go of your leg to snake both of his arms around your middle section, pressing you all against him as his ass contracts and swells to keep on thrusting inside.
He's almost there, but he keeps his cock inside, the hard line of his so firm he's almost impaling you now.
And as he is losing himself in you, one of your hands gently runs through his hair from the base of his neck all the way up to his messy hazelnut strands, touch so gentle, so loving, so perfect, your statisfied blissed state contrasted with his phrenetic one, and you whisper all against his ear,
"I love you."
He moans so deeply it turns into a growl, his head buried in the loop of your shoulder and neck, his cock letting everything go as if you just had ordered him to come. You can feel it, deep inside, his thick and hot cum filling you up for the first time, and you could have been thrown over the edge once again too if it wasn't so soon. His embrace is almost suffocating as he's holding you stronger than ever.
A few seconds pass, and his pace finally slows, his softening shaft moving slightly and sloppily inside your pussy with wet and filthy noises, like a spoon twirling into honey âwanting to put off the moment he'll have to pull out. And that feeling, God. Every last move from him is answering your words. "Me too. Me too. Me too." He's a mumbling mess, words just grunts of pleasure and bliss and desperation against your skin.
Both of you spend and euphoric, you moan and sigh for a few more seconds suspended in time. He then rolls to one of his sides and is about to snuggle against you with that pleased smile he has after sex, when he suddenly goes straight up in a quick and clumsy move. He looks straight at you, eyes wide, mouth opening in an almost panicked expression, not the hint of a smirk on his lips.
"Oh, shit! Shit, sweetheart, I'm sorry I-" His hands fly over your body without daring to touch you, as if he were going to make things worse.
"It's okay, Arthur."
"God, you should have yelled to me, you should have pushed me back!" His throat feels like someone is strangling it. How could he have been so stupid?! He couldn't even stop himself; he had completely forgotten. Not better than a fucking animal in heat. "Damn it Morgan, goddamn bastard y'a are!"
"Push you back, with your full weight on me?" You chuckle, but he doesn't. You sigh softly with a small grin of your own. "Arthur, look at me." You add, one of your hands reaching for the side of his face, stubble slightly prickling you.
He does as you ask, his eyebrow up in a deep expression of regret. His chest rises and falls quickly. The guilt and shame of what he just did are twisting his guts. The fear of what it implies and what he did to both of you even worse. Goddamn dog he is.
"It's okay. I don't mind."
There are a few seconds of pure silence, and you can almost see the gears turning behind his forehead as he processes your words.
"You⌠Ya don't?"
"No. I just told you, I love you." You hold his gaze, deeply. Having been with him for some time now, you know that the words that follow will be important, decisive even. "And I wouldn't mind starting a family with you, if that happens."
Arthur burst out in joy, which, of course, only shows by the way he smirks from one ear to the other and looks down, sighing through his nose. He then turns his head to put a quick kiss on your forehead. He doesn't answer right away, but you need him to. The way all of his worries seem to have vanished forever is more than enough. He gets up from the luxurious bed, searching for a towel or anything else to clean you up. You lazily stay there, not bothering to look at his naked body walking in the room as if he was the master of the place, his cock, still big and heavy even softened, swaying as he moved.
"That's the first time." He says when he comes back with a white, fresh, and perfumed towel. God, being rich was really something else.
"What do you mean?"
"First time you say it t'me." He explains as he sits beside you, carefully cleaning your cunt he had just filled up. There's a wild and savage side in him, hidden between the shame and the guilt that feels so pleased to see his cum dripping out of it like that. What a sight.
"You never said it either, as far as I know."
"'s better when you say it," He chuckles lowly.
"Better for you, dummy."
"Hush now, or I'll crush you under my 'massive weight' again."
You both laugh together. You stay naked for the rest of the night, cuddling, talking, dreaming. It's only when you're on the verge of falling asleep, the comforting warmth of his body against yours shielding you from the freshness of the night, that Arthur answers,
"I love you, too."
a/n: as always, english isn't my first langage, please reach out to me if you spot any spellings! Thank you so much for reading all this to the end, please consider reblogging or commenting if you liked, it would mean the world to me!
Arthur Morgan | drunk sex + thigh riding - 333 words
âN-no, sweetheart, I ainât gonâ take advantage of you..â Arthur was trying his hardest to keep his hands to himself, but the way you were rubbing all up on him like a kitten in heat? He wasnât sure how long heâd last.Â
âSweets, youâreâ youâre too out of it. No,â Arthur muttered, unable to stop you when you climbed into his lap.Â
So now, instead of fucking you properly, he stripped your lower half naked, discarding everything but your panties, and rocked your hips against his thigh.Â
âArthur..nnghâŚneed more..â Your face was flushed no thanks to the alcohol, slight drool dripping from the corner of your mouth. He thought you looked so cute like this, all messy and needy for him. It pained Arthur to not be able to do more.Â
âMy needy babyâŚwho told you it was a good idea tâgo out and get all shitfaced, hm?âÂ
Your puffy clit dragged against the rough material of his jeans, sending jolts of pleasure down your spine with every movement. You felt so sticky, your pussy was leaking juices through your panties and all over his thighâhe was not complaining in the slightest.
You meweled at his words, nodding eagerly. You silently cursed at yourself for getting drunk in the first place since Arthur was always such a gentleman with you. Your grip on his shoulders tightened when you felt the leg under you bounce.Â
âF-fuck! Arthurâ please, sâgood but not enough..â he chuckled at your whines, pulling you down against his bouncing leg harder. He could feel his cock throbbing in his pants, knowing heâd have to take care of himself in private while you slept. This was very tough for him, the same as it was for you.Â
âI know, baby, I know. But good things come to those who wait, no? You just sit pretty on my thigh, get yourself off, then tomorrow when you can think properly outta that pretty little head of yours, Iâll make love to ya.â
i was thinking about sub!ry last night and this was born
3k words, smut, subby ry but nothing incredibly tame for what it is, oral m and f receiving
summary: it's just smut
------------------
For all the things Ryland has noticed about you, youâve noticed just as many about him. He clocked your kinks quickly, studied your responses to his words, his actions, logging information away to reference later. And he was good at referencing, always testing the waters slowly, giving you time to tell him if you donât like something, but his observations were accurate, so you rarely asked him to stop.Â
What he didnât expect was for you to pick up on his kinks. He thought he kept them hidden well enough, thought maybe you would miss the signs if he kept you distracted with his tongue and his cock. But youâre smart, you wouldnât have made it to Erid without the ability to dissect information when itâs presented to you.Â
And the signs youâd noticed? Well, maybe they were subtle but they were enough. It was the way he would gasp just a little when you reached for his length, how he would melt into you when you pushed him against a wall for a kiss. It was how he would ask how he was doing when he was balls deep in you, like he needed the praise more than he needed air. Your favorite, though, was how he would beg so softly when you edged him. Quiet whispers of âplease, can I come?â falling from his lips between whimpers and moans.Â
And you would never tell him no, how could you when he asked so nicely?Â
So you waited, timed it just right so that he would be unaware, hoping that if you caught him off guard heâd be more willing to let things slip. He was out with Rocky for the afternoon, no doubt talking science and sociology and lesson plans for his students. It was just enough time for you to make a plan, deciding that today was the day youâd ask, the worst he could say is no.Â
When Ryland gets back to the house, carrying a basket of goodies from Adrian, he greets you with a kiss and a squeeze to your hip. âMissed you,â he smiles, shifting so heâs leaning against the counter with you standing between his legs. You wrap your arms around his neck, laughing when he presses a sweet kiss to your jaw, âmissed you too.â He pulls back just a little, squinting through his lashes, studying your face.Â
âYouâre up to something,â he murmurs, amusement sparkling in his eyes. âWhat do you mean?â Youâve always been a bad liar, so you go the route of asking questions, leading him to the truth without having to say it. âI donât know,â he chuckles, hands landing on your ass, fingers dipping into your pockets like he belongs there. âBut somethingâs weird.â
âIâm not doing anything, Ry!â You bury your face against his neck, smiling when he tightens his grip and hums. He kisses you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, fingers tangling in your hair just enough to give him leverage. Itâs easy to get lost in him, especially when he licks into your mouth so gently, like even after all this time heâs still trying to map the contours of your body.Â
He leans back, biting his lip to try to hide his smirk when you chase him. You pull him back to you, moaning quietly when he relents and lets you have what you want. âMm, baby,â he groans, âwhat do you need?â The question makes you pause - you could just tell him, just say it outright, ask for complete control and put the ball in his court. Instead, you step back, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the bedroom.Â
You push him down to sit on the bed, climbing into his lap slowly, giving him a chance to catch up. âIâve been thinking,â you start, laying your arms over his shoulders lazily, âabout you,â his brows raise a little, âabout what you like.â His fingers tighten on your hips, teeth worrying his lips again.Â
You press a tender kiss to his neck, smiling when his breath hitches. âJust been noticing things, is all,â you whisper, feeling how he swallows. âOh yeah?â He tries to play it cool but his voice comes out strained. You hum, âyou respond very well to praise,â a quick bite to his throat, âyou like when I⌠take charge.â You whisper the last words right into his ear, placing a kiss to the skin right behind it when his hands shift to your thighs.Â
âBaby,â he whines, gasping when you roll your hips slowly over his, knowing you feel how heâs growing under you. âWould you like that, Ry? Want me to take over, just for tonight?â You pull back just in time to see his eyes flutter closed and his head tip back, adamâs apple bobbing. You kiss the corner of his mouth, letting him sit for a second, giving him a chance to decide what he wants.Â
Finally, he opens his eyes just enough to see you, his breathing picking up already. âPlease,â he whispers, head falling forward in a quick nod. âBaby, please.â And who are you to deny him when he sounds so wrecked already?Â
You kiss him, one hand burying in his hair to hold him still, the other dropping to tease over his shirt. He follows your lead, groaning when you run your fingers over his nipple, hips shifting when you pinch just a little. You separate from him just long enough to slip his shirt off, your movements slow and teasing, tracing each inch of skin you uncover with the lightest touch. He twitches under you, his abs flexing when you ghost over them with your nails.Â
You stand and pull him up with you, hooking your fingers in his belt loops to grind into him with a smile. Heâs slack jawed already, his eyes hooded and dazed. You cup his face, drawing his attention to you, and pop the button on his pants. He makes a desperate sound, keeping his hands on your waist, trying to behave for you. His pants hit the floor, you bite your lip and sink down in front of him, making sure heâs watching before you nuzzle against the thin fabric covering his hard length.
He drops his head forward, sighing when you mouth over him, feeling the heat from your tongue on his tip. His hands find a home in your hair, tugging gently. You push back immediately, knowing he feels the loss. âLet me take care of you,â you murmur, waiting until he nods to return your attention to where he was so desperate for you.Â
Slow hands pull his boxer briefs down, his cock springing free and a gasp falling from his lips again. You canât help how quickly youâre on him, licking a stripe up the underside of his length and moaning at the taste. Heâs faring much worse, chest already heaving, pink flush working its way down his torso, quiet whines slipping out at the sensations youâre giving him.Â
âSit down for me, sweet boy,â you smile up at him, taking note of how his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath hitches. He drops to the bed, legs spread wide enough to for you to slide right up to him. You take him in your hand, stroking slow enough to drive him crazy. A tap to your shoulder makes you look up, a rough whisper of âhere, please,â and heâs handing you a pillow. It just about makes you swoon, how sweet he is even when his only job is to listen.Â
You accept the pillow and slip it under your knees, smiling your thanks and running a hand up his thigh. âAlways so good,â you praise, taking his tip into your mouth before he has a chance to respond. The noise he lets out is strained, a broken moan shaking through him when you circle your tongue around him and suck gently. You work him down slowly, relaxing your throat on each stroke, trying to take as much of him as you can.Â
Heâs a mess above you, hips writhing and head falling forward. Your name flows from his lips like a prayer, his hands twisting in the sheets beside him when you bat him away from your hair. He gives you control, stays as still as he can with his cock all the way down your throat. You feel how heâs holding back a little, doubling your efforts and bobbing how you know he likes. Your hand comes up to cup his balls, it pulls a loud moan from him, spurring you on.Â
âSweetheart, I- Iâm gonna come,â he whimpers out, a shiver wracking through him when you pull off. âWant you to,â you grin up at him, huffing a laugh around his length when he groans as you take him back into your mouth. He nods quickly, letting his moans flow freely, panting like youâre sucking his soul right out of him. You groan around him, feeling how he tenses, listening to how his pleas change as he climbs to his peak.Â
Heâs borderline begging as he comes, voice high and eyes rolling back. âPlease, please, baby please,â he whispers, crying out when you squeeze his balls and swallow, warm spurts shooting down your throat and filling your mouth. He leans over you, his eyes shut tight and his hands flying to your head - not guiding, just seeking contact.Â
You pull off of him with a smile, âso hot, Ry. You sound so pretty when you come like that.â He turns red, glazed eyes finding yours, his mouth hanging open slightly. You pull him down, kissing him soundly, helping him find his way back to you before you continue. When he reaches for you, helping you stand and running sweet hands over your knees to work out any soreness, you know itâs time for the next part of your plan.Â
It doesnât escape notice that youâre still fully clothed, standing over his naked form, sated and spacey on the bed. He stays where he is, looking up at you with an expectant face, like he knows youâre not done. You stroke a hand down his cheek, cupping his jaw and licking your lips. He looks incredible, so open and pliant, ready to do anything you ask.Â
Shaky hands reach for the bottom of your shirt, a soft please slipping out when he feels your hand tighten on his cheeks. âUse your words, Ry,â you whisper, tacking on a smile so he knows heâs allowed. He swallows hard, fingers playing with the fabric while he finds his voice. âPlease, can I see you?â God, he sounds wrecked.Â
You nod, leaning down to kiss him softly, âof course, baby.â He helps you out of your shirt, hands skimming down your sides when youâre free. You let him undress you, whisper sweet words to him as he sheds each layer and touches your skin like heâs worshipping you. And maybe he is, who are you to complain?
Finally, he gains a little confidence and asks, âcan I taste you?â It comes out meek, like heâs not sure if heâs supposed to be asking, but you push him back with a hand on his chest, climbing over him when his back hits the bed. He groans when he realizes where youâre heading, helping you shift until youâre hovering just above his mouth. âWant to ride your face, you gonna let me do that?âÂ
He closes his eyes with a whine, nodding his head when he realizes that youâre waiting for an answer. âLook at me,â you whisper, running a hand through his hair until he peeks up at you under heavy lids. âYou gonna make me feel good, baby?â You smile when he nods again, your body shaking with the force of his movements.Â
You sit all the way down, moaning when his tongue meets you halfway and practically guides you home. Heâs loud right away, whimpering into your soaked core, lapping up the evidence of your arousal. He knows your spots, knows how to make you keen in a matter of minutes. Your moans are music to his ears, the soft praise you speak over him going straight to his head.Â
He sucks your clit between his lips, flicking his tongue and humming against you until your head falls back. He doesnât look away, holding eye contact with you even when you canât see him. âGod, Ryland,â you choke out, âfeels so good.â He groans under you, big hands gripping your hips and helping you grind into him.Â
You feel the ridge of his nose against your clit, feel his tongue spearing into your core, his beard scratching the inside of your thighs. âJust like that,â you sigh, rolling your hips and tugging his hair. You take what you want, knowing that heâd let you have just about anything from him in this moment, grinding and moaning and praising him until you feel the heat pool in your lower stomach.Â
He moves his lips back to your clit, shaking his head and grunting when he feels you tense above him. Your cries reach a peak, waves of pleasure rolling through you with a long moan. You shake and twitch, praising him when your breath returns with soft strokes through his hair. He finally closes his eyes, breathing deeply while he laps up your slick.Â
You tip sideways, falling on the bed with a huff. He chases you, slotting himself between your legs, silently asking for a kiss when he gets to your face. He tastes like you, his tongue moving against yours slowly, still following your lead. You smile at him, hands cupping his face. âI still want you to fuck me, if youâre able to,â you kiss him again, laughing when he whines into it and drops his hips against yours. âMhm,â he nods, letting you feel how his cock is hardening against your core.Â
âStretch me out first,â you mumble, thumbs stroking his beard. He drops to your neck with a moan, hand slipping down to play in your slick. He presses two fingers in, sucking hickeys on your neck while you writhe. âT-two or three?â He asks quietly, tilting so he can see your face. You brush through his hair, enjoying the pace he set. âGive me three,â you murmur, head tipping back when he pushes one more finger in.Â
Ryland stretches you carefully, panting when you scratch down his back and tell him how good it feels. You feel how he grinds his hips into you, feel his length standing at full attention again. Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize that this is the fastest heâs ever gotten it up again, you attribute it to the praise but youâll confirm that theory later.Â
You push his chest, asking him to roll over. He does, sitting up against the headboard and watching you with glassy eyes. You throw a leg over him, wasting no time and lining him up. You sink down slowly, hands finding a place on his shoulders, your lips sealing over his with a sigh. He canât even pretend to kiss you back around the moans heâs letting out as you bounce on him.Â
You sit up just enough to give him an eyeful of your breasts, watching as he locks on to them and his mouth drops open. You press a hand to the back of his head, pushing him until he licks a nipple into his mouth. It shoots through you, making you clench around him and drawing moans from you both. âFuck,â you mumble, petting through his hair, âalways so perfect for me, such a good boy.âÂ
His head tips back quickly, a whine eeking out when he looks at you. Whatever you thought was the best heâs ever looked is quickly being replaced by how he looks now. His hair is a mess, a flush warming his cheeks and chest, big eyes blown out and heavy. Heâs panting, his mouth open and inviting. You lean in just a little, âstick your tongue out, baby.â
He does, eyes rolling back when you spit in his mouth and use a hand to close his jaw. âSwallow,â you tell him, your stomach flipping when he does as heâs told.Â
Your legs are sore, your rhythm breaking quickly. He can feel how youâre slowing down, his brows furrowing when you tip to the side a little. âTake over, Ry,â you whisper into his ear, smiling when he flips you and matches the pace you lost.Â
He buries his face in your neck, whining and whimpering when you wrap your legs around him and meet his thrusts. You want to praise him, tell him how good heâs doing, but heâs hitting that spot inside you so perfectly that you canât get anything out but airy moans.Â
He ruts into you with abandon, quiet pleas falling on your ears. You take a deep breath, whispering, âcome with me, Ryland. Wanna feel you.â He lets out a broken cry, gasping when you circle your clit and clench down on him. Your climax roars through you, legs convulsing as the heat crashes into you in waves. You pull him over the edge with you, feeling how his hips stutter, how he slams home and groans above you.Â
His weight lands on top of you, a shiver running through him when you run your hands up his back and through his hair. You whisper how well he did, how good he made you feel, how perfect he was for you. It makes him twitch where youâre still connected, a final aftershock shaking through him with a sweet whine into your neck.Â
You let him shift, feeling him pull out and slide up against your side, his head landing on your chest with a sigh. âNeed you to be in charge more often,â he mumbles into your skin. You laugh, feeling how he relaxes into you. âI can make that happen,â you squeeze his bicep.Â
Itâs quiet for a few minutes, your breathing calming down and the numbness in your legs fading. A soft snore falls from Rylandâs mouth, his arms lax around you. Pride wells up in you, heâs always been such a nurturer, being able to give him the same treatment he always gives you makes your heart swell. And he sleeps for hours, trapping you under him for so long that you have no choice but to let your eyes close too.
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muah I want to kiss him
multifandom account. I also write sometimes. @crumbledcastle28 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
