𐔌 cw: age gap but it's not specified, innocent reader with low honor arthur, mild corruption thoughts, he eats his own cum out your hole, breeding and very mild pregnancy .ᐟ
the gang knew arthur was hiding something, something they had no right to see, touch, or sniff across the western plains. it wasn't a grand mansion ripe for a robbery or a score that would net them a pretty dollar. instead, it was a secret that kept him absent for long hours and busy days, forcing him to ride out at dawn before the fires were even stoked and return long after the kettles went cold.
by then, everyone was too occupied to interrogate, and the air in the camp no longer carried the warm scent of stew and beer. he would arrive humming softly under his breath, smelling like clean linen, homemade roast, and floral perfumes. the sinews of his shoulders no longer bunched in tension beneath pristine, clean blouse, but melted away.
he had a pretty thing out there who cared for him, it was impossible to miss. they could see it written all over his weathered face, in the defensive scowl he slipped the second anyone teased if he’d found himself a fancy lady.
the house lay tucked in a valley where flowers bloomed in full season and grass grew long and unconstrained, a sanctuary where no horses passed with thundering hooves that dragged rattling wagons, and no loud voices shattered the peace. travelers passed the other way, drawn toward a weathered wooden sign welcoming them to strawberry, a town nestled between towering pines and lush, emerald meadows.
yet it stood apart where timber walls looked in silence, adorned with lacy curtains and a fence rails mended by arthur’s own gritty hands, splashed with fresh white paint. kitchen hot with working stove, slow roasting the choice cuts of an elk he’d brought down on his ride back, wild sage and lavender bundled to hang from the rafters, the crisp scent filling every corner.
gathering into a heavy, fragrant trail that seeped through the propped open window panes and drifting out to timber line, teasing the hungry bellies of wolves and foxes that lurked behind. it was a place he could find blindly, as no matter how many hundreds of miles of trail lay between you, his horse would always find the way back.
he comes to the porch where you stood waiting, framed by the flower pots lining the wooden windowsill, the dress hemline caressed by the summer breeze in the very same way it stirred the petals. he dismounted his horse, offering an ever so gentle pat to its mane. his guns rattled softly within their leather holsters with the heavy, rolling sway to his broad hips, spurs catching slightly on the grass below.
you threw your arms around his strong neck the moment he came within reach, finding his sun bronzed skin still warm and rich with the scent of woodsmoke. chestnut brown beard prickling your plump lips as you pressed a kiss to his mole dotted cheek. that high pitched squeak escaping you when his large palms found their familiar place upon your tempting ass, fingers kneading into the pert globe with a tight, shameless grip.
he flashed a dopey, affectionate grin that depeened his crows feet when you chastised him with a flustered “arthur!” yet made no attempt to escape his embrace, choosing instead to lean deeper into the solid weight of his brawny chest.
arthur’s cerulean eyes snagged to how your hips shimmied as you arranged the dinner, eyelids drooping hooded. his tongue slipped lazily across his upper teeth, catching for a brief moment against a sharp canine before he sucked it back in, gaze utterly devouring you. plated on painted porcelain beside his broad arm resting across the tablecloth was a rich spread, mashed potatoes and juicy meat that had soaked in fresh herbs and vegetables.
he rolled his tattered cuffs up past ropey forearms to burly biceps, allowing you to trace the sight of veiny, hair dappled skin before you moved to pour him a glass of lemonade, fussing over him to ensure he was well fed.
within moments, his ruddy cheeks were stuffed with your cooking, weathered fingers wound tightly around the fork as he mixed the food on his plate. tawny eyelashes fanning low over chiseled cheekbones when his eyes fluttered in pure delight, chewing mouth letting out nothing more than a muffled, appreciative hum that vibrated through his chest as contented rumble.
younger than him by an age that would raise far more than mere questions, one had to wonder, what business did a man like him have beside a doll like you? why a hardened outlaw was sharing a bed with a girl who looked like porcelain? he had seen blood, he had spilled blood, he was a man built from violence, his hands had broken jaws and triggered the guns that populated shallow graves.
you, on the other hand, were born to wear whispering silk and win over rooms with nothing but a glance. you were meant to never know the face that violence wears, huddled beneath his arm in bed, the eiderdown comforter slipping down your tangled, naked bodies, tracing a gentle fingertip across the bullet scar on his shoulder and whispering “why would they do that to you?”
arthur would only close his eyes with shaking head, a lopsided, tired smile breaking his rugged features and curling at lips corner with a tut “beh'cuz the world’s full of bad men, sweetheart” his scarred knuckles descending over your curved hipbone with a slow, stroking caress, chapped lips leaving a featherlight touch against your hairline.
there were no concealing the evidence of his devotion upon your skin, bruises that lingered from the ankle bone and moved an upward patch, mottled hickeys and teeth bites that were sharp enough to make you keen in the way that got him even more hard. they're at your breasts, around sore nipples that get peaky when the dress fabric catches on them, provoking a tiny hiss.
your supple inner thighs, tender skin rendered to aching at even littlest movement, at your plump butt, where he laved a teasing tongue before sinking his fangs in and gnaw. but those are places where only you and him can see, while some are also a warning to other people, graced upon your form.
delicate throat looking mauled but keeping people at distance from trying anything funny, from approaching what's arthur's when he's not close to guard it with ferocity.
even though you squirm in fluster when women and men alike raise their eyebrows at those, you always trace them with slow fingertips when getting ready for bed, sitting by the mirror and shuddering once remembering his every greedy rasp. heart racing with anticipation for his inevitable return, knowing you'll arch for more.
you loved him beyond measure, giving him free rein over your body and space. welcoming him just as he was, even when he arrived with heavy boots caked in thick dirt that ruined your welcome rug, or with fresh blood splattered across the already burgundy collar of his new blouse. carrying the raw, heavy scent of sweat and the unforgiving open road upon his skin, yet it brought you no disgust.
instead, you melted into his every touch, allowing his rough, calloused thumb to press firmly into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your head back to accept the sloppy kisses he teases against your mouth seam. gentle palms flattened to the hard, broad planes that are his back, rippling as you clung to him, mouth close to ruddy ear, moaning arthur's name in a way that made gooseflesh erupt all over his corded forearms.
spine curved into a deliberate, pretty arch, rocking back and impaling yourself further on his gorged cock, as he pulled back until nearly losing the gushing heat around him, then thrusting in again, hips slamming to jolt you, breasts bouncing with the movement.
cunt pulsing around stretching intrusion, swallowing him from root to swollen tip, spongy walls clenching hot and tight, mewling a cry when his hips grounded in deep, slow circles that had your pussy fluttering and tightening, slick sopping.
teeth closing around your skin, tongue running soothing line across the pinched edge as you choked, the tension gathering at the base of your spine and making it rigid, hips rolling in slow, grinding arcs that lose their rhythm to uncontrollable. you tighten your legs around his broad hips, fingers trembling across his scarred shoulderblades and nails digging into the sweat salted skin.
every sound that get's punched out your crumpling lungs by merciless pounds goes straight to his cock, throbbing within your clamping gummy walls. “gonna give ya a babe that looks lak ya, make ya pregnant, would have to stay then” arthur panted against your forehead, ample chest vibrating through with a husky growl, and you whined a fractured “yes, yes arthur, please!”
whole body arching as he railed into your wet, eager heat, cunt snug and walls clamped with needy, wavering pulls that milked his girth and demanded it's release. roughened thumb chafing clumsy circles at your puffy clit, rolling and pinching the nub until you're creaming the flowery linens and coarse tuft at his groin.
he was right there, spilling hot ropes against the rounded lump of your cervix, seed spreading and dribbling in frothed mess between your quaking legs. his pudgy abdomen flexing, warm palms cupping your calves, holding them with immense care. and when you reached out to brush away a sweat drop that beads from his brow, he leaned into the touch, nuzzling your palm with a dazzling smile and a sweet, lingering kiss.
you wriggle when arthur tries to clean you up, face tucked to dewy cunt, licking a fat stripe from your cum daubed hole right to the ass, your fingers scrabbling against his scalp, twisted in umber brown tresses. trying to tug him away, eyes tear glazed with either fluster or utter mortification, cheeks burning hotter than they ever would from the sunburn.
yet he persisted, burly arms bracketing, tongue sweeping deep and tasting his own seed until a violent tremor seized your thighs, clamping together tightly as the sudden rush of your sweet release flooded his mouth with slick. he departed just as the sun dipped into its deep orange hue, casting a golden glow across the meadow and cooling the breeze that caressed your bare legs.
you stood at the threshold, draped only in his light brown tartan shirt, its hem hanging long enough to shadow your thighs, though the sight remained undeniably seductive. his goodbye kisses were agonizingly drawn out, lips lingering over every contour of your face, dragging past the slope of your nose to the curve of your jaw, breath faint with the honey tea you had brewed for him before his departure.
holding his worn hat firmly atop his head so it wouldn't be stolen by the wind, which seemed to howl a desperate plea for him to stay. hand drawing from your waist with heavy reluctance, finally falling limp to his side, fingertips twitching with the tales of your warmth, but he had to go.
it would not be for long, this time. when he returned, carrying a few groceries he knew you would need and a bouquet disheveled beneath his arm, you opened the door with a caution that had never been there before. lake filling the meadow with it's rush, your eyes fluttered round with pure joy as you chirped his name, a sound he had grown so deeply accustomed to.
standing with your palm carefully pressed, as if cupping something precious, right against the curve of your lower belly, which was far more rounded than before. it was not weight, nor was it the result of eating well, it was the life of a child, his child, growing right beneath your heart. you looked up at him with simmering nerves, lips bitten raw, tremors already wormed deep.
“ain't 'unna leave ya now, honey, aah swear” arthur rasped, a sudden lump in his throat scratching sharper than any serrated blade. abandoning everything he had brought, not caring where it lands, he pulled you close to cradle your dainty figure against his chest. broad, heavy palm pressed over yours, squeezing your hand against the small swell of the belly, making you feel safer than you ever had, your forever man.
⟡ 𝓐rthur not being able to shake his mind of virgin ᯓ.ᐟ reader's curiosity on the subject, rewarding her with it after she’s shared with him that she has never experienced it before.
⟡ cw. ⌇ height difference. secret relationship. light soft dom / sub power dynamic. reader's first time, oral ( female receiving ). mdni.
⟡ wc. ⌇ 3,353.
it’s been days since your secret meeting with him; gentle and sweet arthur. he’s made sure to stay busy around camp, not riding off too far or too long at a time if he had any say in it. his early mornings were marked full for cleaning his weapons and in the afternoons, he spent his time chopping the camp’s much-needed firewood like he usually did. arthur was intentional in his actions, occupied on purpose.
and busy he was, but he couldn’t help that all of his chores reminded you of your recent and shared time together. oh, how his muscles mimicked how they looked then, contracting the same way in swinging and sharpened blade as they do pinning you to the bed. the sweat that shined on his skin was as similar in the sunbeams as it was in the late night’s lamp light. arthur was hard at work, and so it was easy for small flashes of the memories to sink into your thoughts, distracting you from your own daily duties awaiting to be done.
still, arthur’s big, strong hands worked the barrel of his scoped rifle this fine and beautiful morning. he was lathering a heaping, thick layer of oil down the cylinder, coating it wet before he rubbed it onto the steel and wiped away the overflow with a ripped and worn rag. liquid warmth from the sun’s kiss spread in between his fingers, dripping from the cloth’s knitted corner and down onto the ground below. the sight was more than suggestive.
“jesus, arthur.” you had whispered to yourself, clutching at the necklace that sat along your neckline and closing your eyes for just a moment. the pendant fumbled between your fingertips as you reminded yourself to keep it together, not needing any suspicious eyes catching onto your lousy excuse of spy work. you needed to remove arthur from your mind completely, your first thought being to set off and find pearson to help with the afternoon’s meal.
but like all hardworking men, arthur deserved a break; and he’d thought he’d accomplished enough this morning to earn himself a real one. arthur pitched the spent and golden shells to the weathered surface, laid the rifle to the wood and searched the grounds for a certain cooking wagon. he wanted to know where his little audience had gone, and what exactly she was up to. arthur stood from his unsteadied stool and fixed his vest. a few followed footsteps later stood a taller and slightly-towering man, the butchering block table being the only thing in between you both.
“it’ll be ready ‘round noon,” you greeted him warmly, never looking up from the board with your still-working hands. your knife sliced through the gathered vegetables easily, turns out tasks weren’t as hard to complete when you weren’t so distracted by looking at him. “if it’s the stew you’ve come looking for.”
arthur did that thing that he sometimes does, biting the corner of his lip. it’s a tell he has, does it right before he nods his head a few times in thinking something over. he was keeping his smile to himself, stopping it’s formation before it could even start. he looked to the sky and found the blistering sun’s placement in the vast blue sea.
“hm.” he said, double checking his guess with a slyly retrieved pocket watch. “s’bout half an hour or so now, i’m sure i could find somethin’ to do in that time.” arthur breathed a deep sigh, almost disappointed with having to wait. he was sure to keep his voice low.
“haven’t you done enough, mr. morgan .ᐣ” you asked him gently, splitting the carrots with a dull blade, glancing up briefly to only acknowledge his presence. “perhaps some rest may do you some good.” you suggested, in the sweetest way you knew how to for the time being.
“i think we’re high past the formalities of—” he started to say.
“anything else i can help you with, mr. morgan .ᐣ” you asked in saying it sharper, hoping he’d get the hint now. your eyes cut away from the work and up to his own, peering in the corners of yours towards the well-rounded man and back to arthur's. pearson’s back was turned toward you all, his frame being too busy bickering with missus adler about making a needed run to town, and by the sounds of it, the conversation wouldn’t be continuing for much longer.
an amused chuckle left arthur’s lungs.
“ain’tchu gonna offer me some to try .ᐣ” he asked, checking the toes of his boots before looking for your eyes again. your hands stopped shifting completely.
“try.. what .ᐣ” you asked arthur.
“the stew,” he never-minded the distant and low-boiling pot, smiling as if he were clever. “‘f course.” arthur stepped closer to the edge of the stained grain and cleared his throat. “i wanna know what it tastes like.” he said quietly. “or are you gonna keep me waitin’ for that, too .ᐣ”
your mouth opened to speak, but it felt as if a bullfrog had hopped in and stolen your voice, was stuck swelling in your throat and suffocating your bitter words back down.
“hand me two’a those rolls and a can of pineapples,” arthur said nonchalantly, pointing behind you and onto the small shelf on the wagon. “please, darlin’.” he added, evident that he wasn’t used to saying it much.
you sat the knife to the long of it’s blade, laid it flat right where your wrist just was. you turned to grab what he’d requested, now knowing that arthur didn’t like to ask twice. your head and heels spun, his buzzy words were making you dizzy with an alluring annoyance. all day, you’ve tried your best to behave. the hem of your skirt flared in the swift action, a detail arthur was sure to catch. two three-day-old buns and a tin can later, you faced arthur once more; extending your first hand out for him to grab the dented can. unbuckling the metal clasps on his bag, the leather flapped open for him to toss the fruit in before snagging a tucked away and folded note. reaching for your wrist, arthur grabbed both of the baked breads at once and left the little message for you to take quickly. his hands hovered with the lightly-crushed rolls, giving you time to close your palm around the paper. naturally, your hands folded together before you at your waist, keeping the gift safe until further inspection.
ℳeet me 𝓉onight. 𝒮ame spot, 𝓊sual 𝓉ime.
𝒰ntil 𝓉hen, 𝓐rthur.
it read. a page torn from his journal so it had seemed, a piece now forever missing in it for such a simple message, something he could have very well spoken. a choice of few words, yes, but still they said so much. the first cross of ‘t’ in tonight nearly connected the second, and there was a light smear of grey lead in the letters; he’d written it and then ripped it off, likely a few times in practice before picking the perfect one.
the moonlight was bright enough to render arthur’s light useless in the broken and burnt treeline. still, he held the squeaking metal in his hand; wielding it high enough to broaden his view once he had heard your familiar footsteps. his horse was spooked, shuffling her hooves in the unkempt greenery in the late hours of the night. “woaah, girl. it’s alright.” arthur’s calm voice assured her while he pat her mane and velvety coat. the shake of her reins made a sound along with her snort, and in blowing out her nose, she was breathing a lot louder than you all had liked.
“c’me on.” arthur said, extending his hand for you to grab. his forearms were more than strong enough to hoist you up in a quick and curling motion, arthur sat you straight into his lap. he was kind enough to scoot back so that the horn wasn’t shoved uncomfortably into you, placing your hips perfectly onto his so that they’d rock into his lap with every trot you’d soon set off to take.
the shallow creek beds and railroad’s industrial framework was known to just about everyone as bard’s crossing, a little ways away from the camp’s overlook. arthur’d just been here, it was becoming more obvious in the clearer and nearing efforts of his set up as you rode closer. the lit campfire was waiting for his return. a blanket had been spread out by the burning wood, gravel and grey stones have temporarily turned an amber orange in the glow of the lively firelight. it was nice here, cozy; private and alone.
“oh arthur,” you sat up from his chest, hands pushing off of his thighs to sit properly. “it’s perfect.” you said still watching the volume of your voice, taking in the view. arthur sat back before swinging his leg around his saddled mare to jump to his boots. steadying himself, he turned to offer you assistance once more.
“ain’t gotta watch what you say no more.” he reminded you of while helping you down. “can say whatever you want, ‘sloud as you’d like.” but the sight was just too gorgeous. the moon-glowing cast reflected off of the water and illuminated the majority of the surrounding and open area, engulfing your gaze in amazement at the naturally occurring scene. “you hear me .ᐣ” arthur asked in the silence to be sure, especially in his last statement.
“yeah, i hear you.” you said, swatting your free hand in the air at his insignificant words, vanishing them away like it was stagnant smoke well past its stay.
“now hold on, missy.” arthur said, still holding your hand high and in a harmless jerk to keep you close to him before being let loose to explore. your free hand was free no more, your palm falling flat against arthur’s solid chest— an act sure to get your full attention. he had your eyes. “you’ve been givin’ me a lotta attitude for no good reason.” arthur spoke while looking down at you.
“what’chu runnin’ from .ᐣ” his eyebrows furrowed in his study, he examined your pupils with haste for any changes he may had not picked up on.
“does it look like i’m running to you, arthur .ᐣ” you said playfully, pulling your hand back in retreat; arthur refused to let it go so easily. “now, would you— let me, go.” you snickered in a façade-breaking laugh, his worry being a noted revelation.
“i don’t wanna.” arthur said in the shuffle, reluctant in his release, his hold firm but still gentle. he was wrestling with you now, quick to push with each pull, guiding your hand up and around until you tired out. he was wise to think of expelling your energy quickly, saving his true strength to overpower you and your pitiful attempt of taking him on. there was nothing left of your front to play out, laughing in full defeat as arthur tugged your limb around like it was a marionette’s string. “an’ you can’t make me.” arthur pulled you right back up when your knees went weak. his last tug was more intentional; he kissed you, pulled your lips up and into his before forfeiting his funny act.
finally, he let go.
but it didn’t take long before warm hands were searching for his broad chest again. he kissed you more desperately this time. his sweet peck was fleeting, and the more he had the easier it was for him to lean in. truly, lean. his bandolier was in the way, so arthur wordlessly discarded the many gun belts to the ground. it didn’t seem like you all were in any immediate danger and they’d be just fine at an arm’s lengths away if anything were to change. his movements were for all of the fish and wildlife to see, the flames danced upon his silhouette with no sign of shame here, arthur was finally able to take his time.
“ah missed you.” his drawl was thick, words being made out in between kisses. his hands wandered quickly down your body before settling on the backs of your thighs. arthur was strong in lifting your weight effortlessly and straddling you to his hips. your legs wrapped around his waist like second nature. his beard had grown out a bit since you’d touched it last so his stubble was slightly more scratchy but still every bit of handsome.
“i missed you.” you whispered to him, not for the sake of anyone else.. but for the intimacy of being with arthur again. his hands cemented you to him easily, arthur walked you over to the rug and dropped to his knee. a free hand of his hit the dirt to soften the process. there were no words needed, only his actions. your back laid onto the covered ground, arthur was sure to not break the flow of connection. he kissed you again, being back into the familiar position he’d found himself in not too many nights ago. after a mutual exchange of heavy breaths and lust-shifted eyes, it was clear what was on both of your minds.
“take this off.” you told him, tugging at the unbuttoned collar of his lined shirt.
“yes ma’am.” he said without a fight, sitting on his spurs to undo the few unfastened buttons left as quickly as he could. arthur’s heart was racing, and he couldn’t give a damn about making you say please when you were looking at him like that. he took a deep breath, slowing his thudding chest before detaching the last little plastic piece. his adam’s apple bobbed, arthur took a thick swallow and his shirt remained split down the middle.
“what’s wrong .ᐣ” you asked him, meekly. the ridge right above your nose creases in a small way that he admires.
“nothin’,” arthur said, looking over your body. “nothin’s wrong.” his grin showed the bottom of his top teeth. arthur grabbed your hips and drug you closer to him. he pulled off his long-sleeved shirt and discarded it to the dirt. “please let me.” he asked, and you already knew what he meant.
a small shake of your head quickly confirmed arthur’s ambitions. his hands split your knees, your skirt falling in between your skin to still cover your center. arthur put his hands at the hem and pushed the stitched dress up your revealing legs. he was dragging his thumbs, pressing them into the plush of your flesh to massage the muscles underneath. your chest rose and fell at a matched pace, lifting your breasts with you on your back to him in his plain view. his dick was aching already.
but arthur was a gentleman, and a man of his word. and though he hadn’t promised it to you, he was going to make sure that was the last time he’d ever have to ask if he could do this again. “my sweetheart.” he sang praisingly down onto you, sinking into the safe and secure mentor he was appointed to be. his exploration stopped with your skirt cutting off right at your cunt, he wanted you to do it for him.
“show me.” arthur said.
you were quiet but obedient in listening to him. your fingers scrunched the material into a bundle, pulling the fabric up to show him your bare and uncovered pussy.
“oh, jesus.” it was arthur’s turn to whisper. the lack of layers took him by surprise. arthur readjusted his cock through his pants, it was starting to strain. “does it hurt .ᐣ” he asked.
you shook your head again, this time saying no. “good.” arthur was relieved. “leave it like that for me.” he said, nodding at the placement of your clothes. it was understood, and arthur started to move. he hovered over your body, dipping his head into the crook of your neck; the air from his lungs tickling your nape as he got closer.
“what if someone hears us .ᐣ” you giggled into his ear. arthur planted a kiss into your skin. “let ‘em.” he said back, travelling his lips lower to your collarbone. he paused only to lick back up to where he had started. his tongue was cool against the warm summer’s heat, making you yelp out from the sensation. “gotta stop being so afraid of everything.” arthur spoke into your ear before resuming his line of work. “i ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you.” he cooed, pressing his hips back into yours like last time.
arthur bit at the frilled neckline of your blouse, pulling it in between his teeth before letting it go in light restraint. he kissed on top of your barely exposed breasts, trying his best not to spend too much time on your chest; as he’d be taking away from the main event.
you could feel the urge to close your legs as he got closer, nearing his face to your wet core. fear of your natural aroma and the saddle’s sank into your mind to rob you of your comfort. leave it, you thought of him saying, and still your legs locked up. “relax, darlin’.” arthur said, feeling your tension under his body tighten. “‘s just me.” he reminded you of, kissing your shown flesh once. “ain’t nothin’ i ain’t seen before.” he said, speaking against your skin.
“it’s not..” you swallowed, the duality of the situation all slurring together. “that.” you said, under the spotlight yet again.
“then let me see.” arthur said collectively, he was assertive in his speech. his movements waited for safe passage, spreading your legs when they relaxed fully. he repositioned himself to get more comfortable, arthur’s breath could be felt on your inner pelvis. “tell me,” he started to say. “you don’t know that i can smell you already .ᐣ” his voice was deep and gravely. his admittance was embarrassing, one instantly clenching your thighs to retract to where they just were. arthur grabbed at your skin in time, using the help of his hands to keep you pried open for him. he laughed once, amused with the fight you put up.
“always could’ve.” arthur kept talking, contorting you into whichever position he needed you to be in for this. his hand pushed you into the ground once more, keeping you in place while the other stretched one of your hamstrings wide and out to the side. the act forced your cunt’s lips to unstick, opening and showing him your tight hole. “even before you came ‘round temptin’ me.” arthur added, licking a second spot clean with the drag of his tongue.
“arthur, please.” you heaved out in overwhelmed breaths.
he sunk himself forward, nuzzling his scarred nose into your wetness. it was shocking, the feeling of being inhaled and toyed with; arthur shaking his head softly to brush the bridge and tip of his nose in between your folds. up and over your sensitive pearl, he added his tongue. dragging it over just as he had a moment ago, arthur looked up past your peaked breasts to see your face. he pushed his hand further, your leg’s tendon feeling a small burn in reaction. opening up, it certainly allowed arthur to dig his tongue inside; sending you squealing at the feeling. you bit your lip, trying your best to stay somewhat quiet, drowning your fingers into the strands of his hair.
arthur shoved the remainder of your skirt over your hipbones, halfway up your stomach and flipped out of the way. your legs collapsed under his hold, truly allowing you to be at his mouth’s mercy. long, drawn-out drags of his tongue licked through where he was just huffing your scent. he pulled back his face, steadied himself over the spot he’d previously left his print at and glanced at you. clear crystals of salvia dripped from his chin; splashing down onto your hot skin. “who’s is it .ᐣ” he asked looking down onto you, expecting an answer; and you know that arthur doesn't like to ask twice.
credits; divider used can be found here ♡. pics by me. and the ones used in the beginning were all found on pinterest. notepad spiral & tear dividers are both here. 🗒️
⟡ essie speaks ⌇ the way i’ve been staring at that reaction pic in my drafts for like two months now… lmfao. anyway, i feel kind of bad for the absolute sexualization of arthur in this 😵💫 but given reader is a hormonal young adult experiencing sex-related things for the first time.. i .. couldn’t see her not looking at him in any other way. still, i hope you all enjoyed ♡. if you liked this, i have more of my arthur eating reader out works here and here. 🤭 come chat ✉️༘⋆
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.
status: complete
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 Arthur’s canonically perfect round ass naked in your kitchen. Includes Arthur enjoying a very ripe, very juicy, very pink peach in front of you. (I’m serious)
It was a late winter day in the Aurora Basin, quiet, blessed with the kind of warmth that was rare this time of the year, the kind that you accepted like a gift after what felt like a lifetime of dark, snowy skies. Behind you, your little cabin seemed to share the sentiment, smoke curling lazily from the chimney as if sighing beneath the early noon sun. Its weathered timber, grayed by years of mountain storms, soaked up the golden light with gratitude, its reflection blurring across the glimmering surface of the Basin.
On the line, the laundry you’d washed earlier that morning stirred weakly and tiredly—cotton drawers, plaid shirts, lacy chemises—fluttering as if forced awake by the light. You glanced back at them as you strayed farther from the cabin, silently hoping that the sun would hold its strength long enough for the fabric to dry before the pine-scented chill of evening crept back into the forest.
Days like this were proof that winter was finally bidding its farewell, reluctant and slow, but loosening its bitter hold all the same.
Your boots crunched softly over dried twigs as you ventured toward the tree line, bending now and then to inspect the carpet of copper-colored pine needles. Nestled near the damp, mossy roots of a decaying trunk, you found your prize—bay boletes, round and firm, a cluster of orange caps still unspoiled by frost. You knelt, smiling as you carefully twisted them free, brushing away the dirt with a thumb before tucking them into your basket. Good for stew, good for bait, and a treat for your horse—little rewards for another winter survived.
You straightened up, sunlight seeping through the dense canopy overhead. And you let it melt into your skin like warm honey, savoring the sensation as your eyes wandered over the clearing. The snow had finally retreated, and green had begun to claim back the landscape, lush and alive. You wouldn’t have minded finding one of those flowers again—the ones with the swollen purple bulb and speckled leaves you’d stumbled upon by sheer accident. You hadn’t seen one since last year, but you kept an eye out anyway, more out of fondness than expectation. Perhaps they would bloom once spring set its roots more possessively into this place. They were so beautiful—shaped like little slippers, almost too pretty to belong out here. Too whimsical to exist anywhere outside the pages of a fairytale.
And that was the thing about Tall Trees, it felt whimsical. It had its perks, living out here. This bountiful land most folks deemed too haunted—too wrong—to bother hunting, foraging, or fishing. Which meant the Basin—all its game, its fish, its untouched mushrooms pushing stubbornly through the cold earth—belonged entirely to you.
But as generous as Tall Trees was, you weren’t immune to its moods. The forest felt watchful, as though the leaves themselves were a million little eyes always paying attention. It didn’t feel haunted, exactly—just occupied. That was why you only ever came out in the mornings, when the light was gentle and forgiving. The moment the sun crept past the middle of the sky, signaling early afternoon, you always traced your steps back toward the Basin, and the safety of your porch. There was always laundry to tend to, wood to split, sage to dry, or a snag in a skirt to mend anyway. So you didn’t wander. You didn’t stray far. Some places demanded a certain respect—and Tall Trees was one of them.
You had just spotted another orange cluster, glowing like embers in the shade a few feet ahead, when a loud bang tore through the forest. The echo drilled into your ears, splitting the midday quiet so cleanly it felt like a physical blow. Birds burst violently from the trees, a frantic cloud of wings thrashing against the branches as they fled for the sky.
You froze mid-step, the forest suddenly, unnaturally still, save for the painful hammering of your heart against your ribs as you waited for the follow-up.
A hunter’s second shot, perhaps?
No.
Two more shots rang out in quick succession, followed by the jagged edge of angry shouting—at least three men, raised voices, overlapping in a cacophony of rage. This was no hunter.
Your breath hitched as the basket slipped from your numb fingers, mushrooms scattering across the forest floor like discarded coins. The realization hit you with the weight of a falling tree. You knew exactly where the noise was coming from. You knew the direction, the distance, and the perpetrators.
Damn Skinners.
“No, no, no,” you muttered under your breath, already moving, boots skidding as you rushed toward the narrow trail leading back to your cabin. Not again
You shared this land with those sick bastards—vicious, cruel butchers who turned the beauty of Tall Trees into a graveyard. They were everything that was wrong with humanity, patrolling the roads with cursed intentions, haunting them like demons who tortured anyone and anything unfortunate enough to cross their path, sometimes even wandering as far as the Basin. You knew the way they crept, the way they watched. Every time you heard their hollering, you dropped everything and ran to hide.
Your mind raced ahead of your feet, already mapping the quickest path inside, already picturing the heavy rug you’d yank back, the wooden mouth of the cellar waiting beneath the floorboards, the safety of the dark. You could be hidden in seconds. You had been before.
Another crack echoed, closer now, followed by a raw, guttural scream that died off into a wet choke. You pushed harder, your heart pounding in time with your footsteps as you leapt over a fallen trunk, lungs burning as branches clawed at your sleeves as if the forest itself was trying to hold you back.
Maybe you could reach the cellar before they noticed you. God—you hoped they hadn’t touched your horse.
The cabin finally came into view through the trees, smoke still lifting gently from your chimney as though nothing had changed since you left. A cruel image of domestic peace that vanished when you smelled the sharp, metallic air, heavy with the scent of burnt powder.
And that’s when the realization cut though the fear like ice water.
Skinners didn’t use guns.
They hunted quiet. Arrows that hissed against flesh, knives that whispered against muscle, traps that doomed futures.
You ducked behind the thick trunk of an ancient pine, peering toward your home. A man wearing a hideous skunk-pelt hat was limping away from your porch, moving as fast as his mangled, bleeding leg would allow. He hissed a curse, trailing behind three other dark shapes that scattered back into the dense tree line.
To your left, your horse whinnied, ears pinned back and teeth bared in a defensive snarl, but he was still standing.
Unharmed.
Thank God.
But relief fractured within a heartbeat, because the silence that rushed back into the Basin was somehow worse than the gunshots. It pressed tight and suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, indifferent slap of the water against your old wooden pier, and the fading rustle of the brush where the four Skinners had vanished.
You waited, counting your breaths until the forest felt empty again. Then crept toward the porch, following the wet, crimson trail the limping man and his companions had left behind.
The sight made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat until your breakfast threatened to come back up. You hated blood. Always had. You hated the metallic tang of it in the air, the way it clung to everything, the heavy implication of pain and gore it carried. It was why you’d never taken work at the doctor’s office back home, no matter how steady the pay. You’d preferred the chaos of the post office instead, even when the shifts ran long and loud.
You reached the porch steps, your eyes darting to the door. It was kicked halfway open, red footprints guiding you inside like a gruesome map leading to a nightmare. You swallowed thickly, your skin crawling and your fingers numb as you crossed the threshold.
Two bodies lay sprawled near the hearth, unmoving, their blood dark against your floorboards. Unmistakably Skinners.
A few feet away, in the shadow of your kitchen, slumped against the worn table was a man you’d never seen before. Very much alive, even as he pressed a blood-soaked hand to his side.
He lifted his head when he heard you, eyes blue and icy as the water of the Basin, sharp and assessing beneath the brim of his hat.
For a moment, you simply stared. Your mind scrambled uselessly between run and hit him with something, while your heart thundered painfully against your ribs.
You did neither.
“Uh—” You cleared your throat, the sound far too loud in the quiet, your own voice too small, too polite to belong in a room that reeked of gunpowder and death. “You ain’t a Skinner.”
A sound escaped him—half-snort, half-wheeze—and you couldn’t decide if it was incredulity or sheer indignation. If he rolled his eyes, it was subtle, but unmistakable.
“Most folk would be screamin’,” he said, his voice a hoarse rumble edged with tired irritation, despite the alarming amount of blood soaking through his shirt. “And here I was, havin’ a dull day, until you walked in to enlighten me with the obvious.”
He was right. Up close, it was clear he was no butcher. No hideous pelt fashion. No human bone trinkets. No filth stitched together in mockery of clothing. He wore leather and denim, dust and road stitched into every seam.
And somehow, against all reason and despite the two bodies cooling on your floor, the realization made your knees go weak with relief.
“Dear God—thank you, good sir,” you gasped, a frantic, shaky smile tugging at your lips as you stepped closer. “You saved my home! I was mostly worried they'd burnt the place down… or hurt my horse.” Your gaze dropped to the satchel at his side, hanging open where he’d likely been fumbling for a bandage, blood dripping down the leather. “And those are my peaches in that bag, mister.”
He let out a huff that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t so pale. “I’ve killed the two men in your kitchen, lady,” he said flatly, “and gave the rest a reason to stay clear. I reckon I earned a peach.”
You nodded quickly. Of course. Of course. A juicy peach was the least you could offer this gentleman, who seemed to be deteriorating with every breath he took. His face was the color of old parchment, and a fine sheen of sweat made his skin glint ghostlike in the firelight.
You leaned closer, and then you saw it—the deep track of a blade carved through his hand from back to palm, and two arrows buried deep in the meat of his thigh, the shafts shivering slightly with every pained breath he took. Dark, heavy drops of crimson hit the floorboards like a ticking clock.
“No, no, no, no…” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your head spinning. “I hate blood.”
The man looked down at his leg, then back up at you, his expression flat and unimpressed.
“Well, I’m real sorry, ma’am,” he grumbled. His free hand trembled, but still managed a mocking little wave. “I’ll stop bleedin’ now.”
You spun around, eyes darting frantically in search of anything useful. But all you saw was your unmade bed. A jar of sugar cubes. Big Valley Canned Apricots. The two Skinners with clean bullet holes in their heads. Sloppy Molly’s Salted Offal. The Schmitz Canned Salmon you’d picked up at Manzanita Post last week—
There it was. The moment of clarity you needed.
“Wait here, good sir,” you said, voice certain like a promise. “I’ll go find help.”
“No,” he cut in sharply, as if you’d suggested a mercy killing. “No doctor—” The words came too fast, breaking into a ragged cough that made him wince in pain. “No doctor,” he repeated more quietly, voice dropping to a stubborn growl.
The audacity of such a request nearly took your breath away.
Who else would you bring if not a doctor? The undertaker? He was bleeding all over your scrubbed pine, slumped against your table with two—possibly poisoned—arrows in his leg and a knife wound to his ribs and hand, and somehow you were the unreasonable one for suggesting help.
“You a wanted man, mister?” You asked, already snatching up your satchel and coat, shoving a clean rag into his hand. “Just stay put. I won’t be long.”
You were halfway down the porch steps when another thought struck you—sharp, unwelcome, and oddly specific.
Where was the box of Hedley Baking Company’s Assorted Biscuits you’d also bought at Manzanita last week? The ones you’d been rationing carefully, knowing Saint Denis shipments didn’t always make it as far as Tall Tress. They were supposed to be right above the canned salmon.
You turned back.
Why was he here in the first place?
“Sir,” you retraced your steps into the cabin, “you were lootin’ my home,” you announced. It wasn’t an accusation—more like commenting on the weather.
“I wasn’t lootin’ ‘your’ home,” he said, knuckles turning white as he pressed the rag to his side. “I didn’t know you lived here.”
“Well, you were still robbin’ whoever you thought lived here.”
“I wasn’t. I was inspectin’.” His breath was shallow now, chest hitching with a wet, ragged sound.
“Inspectin’ for what?” You challenged, folding your arms.
“The idiot.”
“What idiot?”
“The one,” he wheezed, his blue eyes narrowing, “who decided to live in a cabin in the middle of Skinner territory.”
You scoffed, feeling a flush of offense crawl up your neck. You knew, however, that his reasoning carried a stinging amount of truth.
You took a steadying breath, doing your best to ignore the way the cabin smelled like a butcher’s shop.
“Just don’t bleed to death while I’m gone,” you said firmly. “You’ve got a lot of explainin’ to do, mister.”
You turned to leave—then stopped halfway through the doorway.
“One more thing—”
“What now?” he muttered. The edge in his voice was sharp with pain, and you understood the urgency, but if those devils came back and found him wounded and alone, they’d torture this poor man to shreds.
“I don’t know how wise it is for you to move in that condition, or if you even can, mister,” you said, already crossing the room, “but those bastards might be thinkin’ of comin’ back as we speak.” With a soft grunt, you hauled the heavy, hand-woven rug aside, revealing the wooden latch set into the floorboards. “So please, hide here.”
He stared at the dark opening in the floor, then slowly lifted his gaze to yours.
“Jesus,” he muttered, studying your face as if trying to decide whether he’d misjudged you entirely. "Is that where you hide the bodies?"
“What bodies, mister?”
“I’m just sayin’,” he half-grunted, each word sounding like it cost him precious breath, though that didn’t stop the snark. “A lady livin’ all by herself in the middle of the most cursed woods in the country. I ain’t accusin’ you of nothin’, but it is suspicious.”
You rolled your eyes, leaving the latch open in case he decided he needed it, and grabbed your coat.
“Just hide if you can, please,” you said shortly, heading for the door for good this time.
-
The gentle firelight spilled across the cabin walls in dusty orange slants, catching in the steam rising from a basin of warm water on your bedside table. It was that fragile hour before dawn, a moment of absolute stillness, when the birds hadn’t yet stirred, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic lap of the lake against the pier outside. It was a hauntingly peaceful contrast to the red chaos of the day before.
Your lower back and neck throbbed from hours of scrubbing, and your hands felt like cracked rubber from the harsh lye and all the water it had taken to scour the blood and brain matter from your porous floorboards. You hadn’t been able to stomach a single bite of dinner after that. And when you’d finally been ready to collapse for the night, the realization had hit you like a splash of icy water: you’d be spending the night in the rocking chair.
Your bed was already claimed.
You wrung out a clean cloth, water dripping back into the basin with a soft plop. Your eyes drifted to the man currently resting against your lacy pillows.
He was still out cold, his breathing deep and slightly raspy, but steadier than it had been when you’d hauled the doctor through the front door. You’d found the physician exactly where you’d hoped—perched on the porch of the general store at Manzanita Post, spectacles slipping down his nose as he turned a page of the Blackwater Ledger.
He’d been a godsend, though he’d grumbled incessantly about being dragged into Skinner territory and the bodies cooling on your kitchen floor.
You’d found the stranger sprawled in a heap of denim and leather right next to the cellar door he’d been too stubborn to enter. For a terrifying moment, you’d thought he was a third corpse. But no, he wasn’t cold like the Skinners lying beside him. Instead, his skin had been burning.
Between the doctor’s grunts and your own aching muscles, you’d managed to get the arrows out and the man into your bed.
Now, as you pulled the quilt down to reach the bandage on his side, you couldn’t help but stare.
You’d handled the laundry of half the men in your hometown since you were old enough to work—the mayor’s soft, expensive shirts; the store clerk’s and his sons’ spindly long johns; the butcher’s oversized, blood-stiffened aprons—but you’d never seen a man built like this.
Even in repose, he looked powerful. Dangerous.
His shoulders were broad and unyielding, sinking into your mattress as if forged from iron. His chest was a rugged, hairy map of old scars and hard-earned muscle—a landscape of a life lived violently. But the mark on his left shoulder was different: a gnarled, puckered mess of twisted tissue that broke the rhythm of his skin. It was shiny and distorted, a scorched patch of history that looked like it had been sealed by fire and grit rather than a doctor’s hand. There was a weathered strength to him that made your small cabin feel suddenly, startlingly cramped.
You carefully began to dab dried blood away from the edges of his bandage, shuddering at the sight of the red staining the white. And yet, your fingers couldn’t help but linger just a second too long against the warm, solid skin of his ribs.
“You’re a lot of work for a man who tried to loot my home, mister,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath.
The doctor had left you with two bottles of tonic and a stern warning:
“Your husband’s got a constitution like an ox, but he’s lost a lot of blood. Keep him warm, keep him clean.”
A tiny, involuntary giggle bubbled in your throat at the sight of your rough “husband” tucked into dainty floral bedsheets. You still couldn’t believe the lie had worked, but instinct told you that a man who refused a doctor was a man with ugly secrets. You didn’t want to know who he was running from; you just knew that “husband” was an easier explanation than “armed looter who saved my life.”
You moved the cloth over the curve of his bruised bicep. It felt like tempered steel beneath your palm. You’d never touched muscle like this before. What kind of life carved a body like his? Besides looting homesteads, that is. You doubted any ordinary life could produce a build like that.
You studied his sleeping face, searching for an answer in the sharp jaw, and the golden stubble catching firelight. Without his hat, he looked less like a threat and more like a man. A very tired, very wounded man who currently had your favorite quilt pulled to his waist and a battered satchel, still holding your peaches, sitting brazenly on your vanity.
You dipped the cloth back into the water, your mind wandering through a forest of unanswered questions. You didn’t even know his name.
Pulling the quilt down further, you moved to the stitched mess on his thigh. The doctor had been forced to cut away much of his denim and drawers to let the wounds breathe, leaving thick, corded muscle exposed to the cool morning air.
As you moved the rag over the skin, something pressed against your hand from his remaining pocket. Driven by a mix of curiosity and the need to clear any debris, you reached in, pulling out a crumpled box of Millicent’s Premium Cigarettes and a sturdy folding pocketknife.
“You loot many strange men, ma’am, or just me?”
The low, gravelly rumble vibrated through the mattress, making you jolt so violently you nearly fell off your chair.
“Jesus!” you gasped, the rag dropping to your lap as you clutched your heaving chest. “Don’t do that again, mister. I ain’t used to hearin’ other voices ‘round the house.”
He didn’t move much—couldn’t—but his eyes tracked you with a sharp, heavy intensity. “You live out here alone?”
“Well—yes. Mostly,” you answered, your heart still hammering too hard for you to think clearly. “I mean… except when I don’t.”
There was a long, skeptical silence.
“…That ain’t exactly reassurin’,” he said, shifting his head slightly, the rough gold of his stubble scraping against your lacy pillowcase.
Seeing him like that—awake and observant, gears turning inside his head in God knows which direction—it suddenly hit you: you didn’t know him at all. He was helpless now, sure, but what about tomorrow? Or next week? When he was all healed and towering over you? He was so broad, so dangerously strong. He’d stood against at least five Skinners all by himself and came out alive. What could you do against a man like him? What if he decided he liked your cabin for his permanent home? What if he decided he didn’t want a witness to his “inspecting”?
“I mean, except when my husband’s here, of course,” you added quickly, the lie slipping off your tongue with alarming ease for the second time in twenty four hours.
“Your husband?” he asked, sounding surprised though not entirely incredulous.
“Yes. Why?” You busied yourself with the cloth again, hands trembling.
“What kind of worthless piece of shit leaves his lady alone to fend for herself in a cabin and in the middle of Tall Trees, of all places?” he grunted, his breath catching as your gentle touch met the wound on his thigh. “If it was me—”
“He…he’s travelin’,” You blurted, staring at the tender wound, your stomach churning at the sight and your mind scrambling for an explanation at the same time. “For work,” you cleared your throat, “he travels a lot.”
When there was only silence for an answer, you glanced up to meet his gaze.
And there it was. His blue eyes were clouded with fever, but there was still a spark of that dry, defiant wit behind them.
“He works for…” you averted his inquisitive gaze, desperate for a detail. Your eyes darted to the vanity, landing right on his satchel where your biscuits still remained taken. “The Hedley Baking Company.”
He cocked one sandy eyebrow.
“You know… the biscuit factory,” you added weakly.
“Saint Denis?” he asked. You nodded fervently.
He let out a long, pained huff of air that might have been a scoff under other circumstances.
“Well, if it was me, I’d take my lady to the city. Buy her a floor somewhere nice and make sure she was safe every time I came home from... makin' cookies. Wouldn't leave her to her luck, only to come back and find a rottin' body in this cabin. Just sayin’.”
“And I'm just sayin’,” you countered, fingers careful as you cleaned the edge of his wound, “for a man who was stealin’ peaches and biscuits from my kitchen just yesterday, you’re awfully rude to my good husband—considerin’ he ain’t even here to defend himself.”
“Or you,” he murmured.
You opted for silence. He was impossible. You pretended to focus on the task at hand, but your mind couldn’t help but wander to that absurd image: a version of you living in bustling Saint Denis, wearing a perfectly starched apron and pristine hair, baking cookies all day while the trolley rattled by your window. It couldn’t be further from the reality of your raw, scrubbed hands and the smell of pine and smoke you woke up to every morning. You almost chuckled at the sheer ridiculousness of it.
“Sorry,” he added suddenly. The word was so quiet, so unexpected, it took the breath right out of you. “Didn’t plan on gettin’ stabbed yesterday.”
“That’s all right.” You offered him a small, genuine smile, pulling the quilt back over his broad chest to keep the morning chill at bay. “I ain’t done yet, mister. Still gotta clean that nasty cut on your hand. But I figured you must be hungry. Doctor said you’ll likely sleep for days, but not before you eat. Can’t take your medicine on an empty stomach.”
You turned toward the kitchen counter, aware of his gaze lingering.
“And no, before you ask, I didn’t tell him your name—which I don’t even know—nor did I mention you were a stranger who just happened to be…” you reached for a spare bowl you kept on the top cabinet, “…inspectin’ my home when those Skinners arrived.”
You glanced back, mischief flickering on your lips.
“Rest, assured mister. I told him you was my husband.”
You’d expected a scowl or a grunt. Instead, you found the corners of his mouth twitching, his cheeks pulling back to return the smile. It transformed his face, smoothing out the hard edges of the bleeding man you’d met on the kitchen last afternoon.
“Thank you,” he murmured. His voice was so weak and heavy with exhaustion that you knew he’d be back in the dark of sleep within minutes. You needed to get some broth into him, and fast.
“It’s Arthur,” he said, the sound of his name stopping you mid-step.
You turned around, wooden spoon in your hand. He was watching you from the pillows, his eyes half-closed.
“Arthur Morgan.”
-
You woke before the sun had fully crested the treeline, the world still caught in that pale, breath-held quiet between night and morning. The Basin lay glassy and still, mist curling low over the water as you knelt at its edge, sleeves rolled tight, fingers aching as the cold bit into your skin. The water was bitter this early, but you’d never minded. You liked to work before the day truly began—an old habit learned back home, when the hours were long and the laundry had to be finished and folded before the town ever noticed you were there.
The past four days had been uneventful—about as uneventful as having a wounded stranger occupying your bed could possibly be.
He’d spent most of it sleeping, just as the doctor had warned. The first two days, he’d burned with fever, stirring only when you pressed a careful hand to his shoulder and coaxed him awake to drink broth. He hadn’t complained about the soup itself, only about being “treated like a baby,” his voice hoarse and obstinate even through the haze of pain.
The two days after that, he’d improved enough to sit up on his own. He’d remained stubbornly grumpy, but his stomach had managed solid food at last—starting with the very peaches he’d looted from you, now soft and ripe and disappearing faster than you’d expected.
And now, it was the fifth day.
You twisted the heavy fabric of his shirt once more, your eyes flicking toward the cabin without meaning to. A man like him wasn’t built for stillness. You could see it even in his sleep, in the tension that never quite left his frame. Five days confined to a bed would drive a man like him to the brink of madness—of that you were certain.
You only hoped he wouldn’t decide to prove you right by tearing open his half-healed stitches.
You wrung the shirt between your hands, watching the water cloud faintly pink before running clear again. It had taken four days of patient scrubbing and soaking in your carefully guarded “magic solution”—a mix of lemon, salt, and secrets—to get the blood out completely, but you’d done it. The fabric was finally clean, saved from ruin.
You huffed a quiet breath through your nose, more satisfied than you cared to admit.
“How could I ever have called myself a laundress if I couldn’t rescue you, Mr. Shirt?” you murmured, speaking to the fabric more than to yourself—a habit you’d picked up living alone in the woods, just to keep you from going insane in the silence.
“Now we just have to get you dried, and then I can stitch you up,” you explained to the shirt, giving it one last soak for good measure. “You’ll look even newer than when your grumpy owner first ordered you from that catalogue.”
“You always this talkative or did the Skinners rattle your brain loose?” A voice, husky with a morning rasp, drawled behind you.
You let out a small shriek, spinning around with your heart jumping straight into your throat. No, you would never get used to hearing another voice in this clearing.
“Mr. Morgan,” you said, half-greeting, half-scolding.
“M’lady,” he replied, tipping his head as if doffing a hat that wasn’t there.
He stood on the porch, chest bare save for the clean bandages you’d wrapped snug around his torso the night before. He was clutching his satchel’s strap in his hand. And you didn’t care how good he thought he felt or how strong he believed himself to be—it was too early for this. Too cold.
“Why are you upright?” you demanded, crossing back toward the line.
“Cause I got two legs?”
“You had two arrowheads deep in one of those legs,” you reminded him, pinning his freshly cleaned shirt to the line with unnecessary force. “I didn’t spend the last five days of my life cleanin’ and re-wrappin’ bandages just for you to tear ’em open again ‘cause you “got two legs”, mister.”
He let out a long, heavy breath, shoulders dipping.
“Ma’am,” he said quietly, the edge leaving his voice. “I really do appreciate what you’re doin’. I do.” He paused, a ghost of a rueful smile playing on his lips. “But if I gotta stare at that ceiling one more day, I swear I’m liable to lose what little sense I got left.”
You shook your head, opting for silence instead of an argument, and turned back toward the water. There were still bloody rags to wash. If he was determined to ignore common sense, you weren’t going to exhaust yourself trying to provide it for him.
The Basin was beginning to wake with you. The sun crept higher, pale gold spilling through the ancient trees and catching on the water’s surface, breaking it into a thousand scattered coins of light. You knelt at the edge, skirts gathered, and dipped the rags into the cold. The soap bloomed white between your fingers, sharp and clean against the iron tang that still lingered in the fabric.
The water numbed your hands first, then coaxed them awake, just as it always did. You worked on instinct, movements smooth and practiced, muscle memory guiding you where thought wasn’t needed. Bubbles rose where small fish darted near the shore, quick silver flashes disappearing the moment your shadow shifted. Somewhere deeper in the trees, a bird began to sing—then another—the woods slowly filling with melody.
Behind you, the porch boards creaked softly.
“You… do this for a livin’?” he asked after a moment. His tone careful, as if testing the waters of your temper.
“Used to,” you replied, wringing out a rag and watching the red bleed into nothing. “Back in Strawberry.”
“Strawberry?” he echoed.
You nodded, not looking at him.
“Been there, mister?”
“A few times,” he said. “Pretty little town.”
“That it is.” You smiled despite yourself, the memory bubbling up easy and warm inside your chest, a stark contrast to the icy lake water. You could almost hear the river running straight through the heart of town, the steady melody of the waterfall singing by your window day and night. You remembered the way mist clung to the flower baskets on the bridges in the early mornings, the petals heavy with pearls of dew.
He was quiet for a moment.
“You don’t miss it? Up there?”
“I do,” you admitted. “Most beautiful town in the whole country.” You paused, scrubbing gently, thoughtfully. “Miss ridin’ out to Big Valley. Campin’ there. Pickin’ lavender so the clothes’d smell nice after.” A small smile curved your lips. “Heard there’s a ranch up there now.”
You hadn’t been back in years. Too many to count.
“Looks like there ain’t a stain stubborn enough for you,” he said, his voice closer now. And you could hear the rustle of the floral blanket he’d wrapped around his waist.
You shrugged, dunking the cloth once more into the water. “Some things just stick with you, Mr. Morgan.”
The words settled between you, soft as the morning mist.
From the corner of your eye, you saw him shift on the porch, head turned in your direction.
“Say, ma’am,” he drawled, “how’d a hardworking woman like yourself leave the quaint little capital of Big Valley just to end up livin’ in a graveyard?” He asked gently, not like a man judging or measuring, but like someone trying to place himself into a life that wasn’t his.
A quiet chuckle slipped out of you. Some days, you wondered the same thing—whether there was an explanation that didn’t sound like good ol’ lunacy.
“I was workin’ a shift at the general store back in Strawberry,” you began, wringing out a rag until only a couple lonely drops fell. “Customer comes in to buy a newspaper. Well—he eyes it. Doesn’t buy it. Mr. Cooper got real mad. Didn’t say nothin’, but I could tell.”
You smiled faintly at the memory. “Anyway, the man starts readin’ the headlines out loud. Then he mentions an advertisement—cheap property, right here in the Aurora. I’d been here once as a cub. Remembered how alive it felt. Thought… how bad could it be?”
He listened without interrupting. The only sounds were your voice, the gentle creak of porch boards beneath his bare feet, and two does grazing along the far shore, heads lifting now and again as if listening to your story.
“Next day, I went to the bank with all my savings,” you finished, heading for the clothesline. “And the rest is history, Mr. Morgan.”
“So,” he said at last, his voice a low rumble, “you hear one strange conversation and decide to move into the woods?”
“I thought it sounded… affordable,” you replied, pinning a damp rag to the line beside his shirt.
“That ain’t usually a good sign, ma’am.”
“Well,” you said lightly, “I haven’t been eaten or tortured yet.”
“Yet,” he echoed, the word heavy with the weight of experience.
“You’ll laugh at me,” you added, hanging another rag, “but I thought bears would be my biggest problem.”
He let out a low chuckle that vibrated in the morning air. “And? Are they?”
“Sometimes.” You sighed, finally turning to face him, clutching a clean, wet rag to your chest. “I figured folks just… exaggerated.”
“They usually do,” he said, glancing around the treeline. “Just not out here.” He leaned a shoulder against the porch post, the blanket around his waist shifting. “That husband of yours oughta have done more research. Ask ‘round or somethin’. Man can’t just drop his wife in a den of wolves and go back to sellin’ cookies.”
You winced inwardly. Right. You had completely forgotten about your “husband” from Saint Denis. Now you had no way of fitting a biscuit-maker into this story of a woman buying land on a whim. You would have to come up with something later, because your imaginary husband was starting to tangle with your reality like unbrushed hair, and you had the distinct feeling that Mr. Morgan was far more observant than you’d given him credit for.
“Are you goin’ somewhere, Mr. Morgan?” you asked, eyeing the satchel clutched in his hand, desperate to divert attention from the crumbling logic of your “marriage.”
“Like this? No, ma’am,” he said with a huff of amusement. “Just waitin’ on a friend.”
A friend? How did he—
Before you could ask, he lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled—sharp, clear, and commanding. It echoed off the surface of the Basin and died into the trees.
A heartbeat later, you heard it. The heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves drumming against the damp earth. The frantic rustle of brush on the opposite shore.
Your breath caught in your throat when you saw it.
The largest stallion you’d ever seen burst from the treeline on the far side of the water, raven-black and gleaming, mane streaming like silk as he rounded the water’s edge to reach the porch. His reflection rippled alongside him, dark and imposing against the gold-lit surface.
“C’mere,” he murmured as the horse slowed to a snorting halt. “You alright there, boy?” His voice dropped—a softer, gentle register—as he reached up to ruffle the animal’s thick mane. “I’m sorry, boy.”
“That your friend, mister?” you asked, stepping closer, helplessly drawn in by the sheer, raw power of the beast.
He nodded, reaching into his satchel. “Sent him off when ‘em damn Skinners showed up,” he explained, offering the horse a handful of oats. “Didn’t want no arrow findin’ him.”
You watched the animal as he ate happily from his owner’s palm. You’d seen far too many horses on the roads near Tall Trees with Skinner arrows buried in their flanks, still hitched to carriages driven by corpses. To see this one whole, healthy, and loved felt like a small miracle.
“And he waited for you all this time?”
“Figured he’d manage,” he said, his eyes never leaving the horse. “Plenty to eat out here. He’s smart.” He gave the stallion a firm pat with his wounded hand. “Ain’t you, boy?”
The animal snorted, a deep, vibrating sound of contentment, clearly pleased to be back at his rider’s side.
“He a Shire, mister?” you asked, your hand already reaching out. He nodded as the horse leaned his velvet-soft nose into your palm.
“He’s massive,” you continued, your voice breathless. “And beautiful. You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve gone lookin’ for him. Could’ve stayed in the lean-to. My horse could’ve used the company, and this handsome boy wouldn’t have been out in the cold all alone.”
He smirked faintly, the expression reaching his eyes and making the "stranger" look remarkably human. “Hear that, boy? Lady here’s sweet on you already. You’re quite the charmer, ain’t you?”
You laughed softly, the sound warm and ticklish like the horse’s nose under your palm.
And then he tipped his head back, the early sunlight catching his face—five days worth of stubble glowing like gold, eyes shifting from cold blue to a warm, honeyed hazel under the morning sky. You realized, distantly, that this was the first time you’d seen him properly in the full honesty of daylight.
The next thought hit you before you could stop it.
This “stranger” in your cabin—this wounded, stubborn man with blood on his hands and your biscuits in his satchel—was actually quite handsome when he wasn’t covered in Skinner gore.
I'd like to request Arthur Morgan with a female reader. She gets all giggly when she's nervous. So, when a simple kiss becomes a make out session she can't stop giggling. I think he'd find it cute, but also a bit confused by it.
Anyways, thank you for reading my request!
Arthur shushes you for a third time.
"You tryin' to wake up the whole damn camp, woman?" He chuckles exasperatedly, drawing his head back from the fragrant slope of your neck. His eyes are turquoise glass in the light of the dwindling oil lamp as the shadowy marionettes of your silhouettes mingle on the canvas wall.
"Sorry, sorry..." You murmur on a slow, steadying exhale, lower lip curving under your teeth in a valiant struggle against a smile. He grunts and shifts his weight on the too small cot, propping himself on his elbow beside you, a sinewy arm curled over your middle to keep you from tumbling off the side. You briefly close your eyes, summoning your most serious thoughts, finding him studying you with something like fond bewilderment upon opening them.
"You good?"
"I'm good."
The corner of his mustache twitches in a lopsided smirk, his gaze trailing to your cupid's bow. "Good."
He kisses you, tentative at first as if to test your resolve. Then again with warm fervor, a soft rumble of satisfaction in his chest as the welcome press of his tongue parts the seam of your lips. On instinct your legs open in tandem, making room for the thick weight of his thigh to slot between them. You break for air, a throaty sigh on your rum-spiced breath, and Arthur's mouth finds the corner of yours, then the arc of your jaw, then your ear, then--
You erupt with giggles.
"Jesus." He scoffs and lifts his head, no malice to be found in the roll of his eyes. "What is wrong wit'chu?"
"I--" You can barely speak, your whole body shaking with the effort of containing yourself.
"Am I ticklin' you or somethin'?"
Cheeks stinging from smiling so hard, you wipe an errant tear with the back of your hand. "I -- yeah, maybe it's that." You giggle again, thumbing his chin scars to feel the rasp of his beard. "It's 'cause you're all whiskery."
"...Y-y'want me to get up an' shave, or...?"
"No, no, no." You laugh and quickly shake your head, settling back down on the cot in a display of good behavior. "I'll be quiet. I promise."
His eyes narrow at you doubtfully. After a beat, he lowers his head ag--
You cackle.
Arthur growls under his breath, and the lines of his face crease at you with such typical seriousness that you have to turn away, your body wracked with silent, uncontrolled laughter. He cracks a smile.
"You're a strange bird, you know that?" He shakes his head. "Actin' like you ain't never been kissed or somethin'."
"I'm just - happy, Arthur." You reply, the corners of your eyes crinkling not with mirth, but affection. "That such a crime?"
He huffs softly, eyes averting, the tips of his ears a dusty pink. "Naw. Reckon it ain't."
You gentle, your palm coming to rest at the back of his head to pull him close. He resists.
"You gonna act right this time?" He furrows his brow at you, as playful as you've ever seen him. "Or am I gonna have to kick y'out and make you go curl up with Uncle by the chicken coop instead?"
Before you can answer, a pebble hits the outside of the tent, square in the shadow of Arthur's head.
"Will you shut the hell up in there? Some of us is tryin' to sleep."
Arthur shoots a glare at the wall. "Yeah, yeah - God forbid you miss out on the beauty rest, Marston. Ain't got no more mirrors left for you to break."
You hear John curse under his breath as he retreats. Arthur lifts his palm from your mouth and gives you a crooked grin.
"Now...where were we?"
He turns his head, blows out the oil lamp, and your laughter fills the dark.
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 ⭑.ᐟ
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! ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) 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 ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜ i'll update you more at the bottom of the post as i don't want to make this too long!! enjoy <𝟑 .ᐟ (for the people i tagged, check the end of the post mwah ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ )
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 it— which arthur internally hoped wouldn't be the case— 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 it— 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 ♡︎ 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 ₊˚⊹♡
arthur morgan hates seeing you frustrated, not because it's annoys him, hell no, it's because he can't do anything to help you, because you keep sulking to yourself, hands crossed over your chest, pretty lips pursed tight, eyebrows furrowing with a wrinkle he wants just to kiss off, but when he approaches, concerned and purring a syrupy sweet — “what got you so upset, my heart?” you just huff and puff, stomping away, stating simply that he shouldn't even worry.
oh no, he's an entirely wrong man for those kind of words, he won't just go about his day when you're the one to have a bad one, when everything falls from your hands, when every noise is annoying, when the sun is too bright on your eyes, when almost every single soul at the camp turns annoying, making you grimace at every little word or question, so arthur has to whisk you, scooped entirely in his arms and squeaking in faint protest, though silenced with a single, tender peck on your lips, as he carries you into his tent.
— “now tell your old fool what got you so upset, missus” he grunts, voice a smoky drawl, smelling heavily of tobacco, and you pout your lips out at the way he talks about himself, ready to object, before noticing the quirk of his eyebrow and an amusing smile stretching his chapped, nicked lips, and you go silent, knowing you just showed your concern for him, when the matter at hand is your wellbeing, your face turning away from his, flushing warm, not looking at him even when he sits down on the bed, cradling you on his muscular, bulky lap, fingers caressing up and down your sides.
— “just.. a bad day.. nothing special” you murmur quietly, gruffly, glancing sideways at him, meeting those piercing aquamarines, squinted at you, telling that he ain't convinced by your words at all, making you sigh in frustration, groaning beneath your breath, looking around as if in search where to hide, but end up wriggling on his lap, curling up, tucking your body into his broad chest, nuzzling in with your cheek and mumbling weakly, reassuring that you really just woke up from the wrong leg, reaching out to grasp his hand in yours, and arthur's calloused, rough fingertips already rub at your knuckles soothingly, throat rumbling with a low coo.
arthur would spend the rest of the day not moving a single feet away from you, not when you're so vulnerable, clinging to him now, feeling lot better than at the start of the morning, but still, he'd take care of his precious darling and wouldn't let anyone ruin your mood, not with a single fucking word, asking no one to bother him in his tent, where he holds you tenderly against the curve of his body, broad, roughened palm stroking down the slope of your neck, thumbing at your collarbones, pressing sweet kisses all over your face that make you nuzzle further into him, even though his coarse beard is rough against your tender skin.
he has some snacks stacked in his bedside chest especially for such occasions, something indulgent and sweet, more for you than him, and he gets them out and feeds you slowly, not shying away to steal some kisses from your candy sweetened lips, plump against his and so addictive he forgets all about those candies and chocolates, leaning in when your sharp fingernails scrape against the nape of his neck, up to tug at the light brown strands of his hair, pulling out a rumbling groan from him, your thighs rubbing together at the mere sound.
and arthur was always good at noticing things, very much so, and it's only right if he'd crumple up the hem of your dress, up those supple thighs, calloused fingers trailing over your skin with a scatter of goosebumps, higher and higher until he'll reach the thin fabric of your undergarments, already soaking wet, sticking to where you're sopping, suddenly needy and achy for his care, his touch, shivering and arching into his touch, hips canting, grinding against his palm, his fingers pressing firm against your clothed pussy, rubbing up and down, circling.
he will oblige gladly, should you wrap your hands around his neck, scratching up his skin like a kitty, wriggling more firmly to settle right against the chubbing up bulge in his trousers, while pleading and babbling sweet — “please, arthur, need you”, and he wouldn't even think of denying you, not when your velvety slick, rippling pussy welcomes him in so eagerly, gushing around his throbbing, ridgy girth, rolling your hips, tilting your pelvic just as you need, slow and deliberate, taking what you want, as he moans, hushed against your parted lips, swallowing your sounds.
