I’m stoned but you wanna know a headcanon I have that has the potential to hurt; Arthur slipping up and calling Miss Grimshaw mom.
Like I just know in my heart during his upbringing Arthur would accidentally call Miss Grimshaw mom. With every question, her demands for him to wash up, and general concern for him it would just slip from his lips. A simple “Okay mom.” And an immediate embarrassment as Miss Grimshaw smiled. And it comes so naturally to call her that, because despite his limited memories of Beatrice Morgan something about the way Miss Grimshaw’s warm hands would stroke his hair during fevers and stern voice reminded him of her. She reminded him of something so intrinsically tied to home. Regardless, he’d get embarrassed over his slip ups but, Miss Grimshaw’s heart would soften every time it happened because in the end, just like Dutch and Hosea, Arthur was her son. It was evident to anyone who watched them closely for a while that she held a soft spot for Arthur; honestly for both her boys and young Tilly. She raised that boy right along with Dutch and Hosea. That very fact is what made what Dutch called ‘Arthur watch’ so hard for her.
Everyone was vaguely aware of Eliza and Isaac. It wasn’t ever really a secret. Arthur, despite being scared shitless at the prospect of having a child and sporadic visits, it was evident Arthur was proud to have a son. Which is why when Arthur came back early from visiting Eliza and Isaac everyone’s stomach sank. His eyes were hidden behind the shadow of his hat as the sun began to retire for the day. Arthur didn’t have to speak a word that night for everyone to gather what had happened; that he’d lost them.
He’d hidden in his tent for days, barely eating and only crying faintly in the night when everyone else should have been asleep. Eyes red rimmed and glazed as tired hands clumsily made coffee in the mornings. He’d also gotten careless during jobs, getting injured more frequently and spacing. Miss Grimshaw herself suspected that was only the surface of what was going on in his head, after all he was always a quiet child so bottling up his emotions so tight they’d struggle to surface would only be second nature. It’s knowing this that made Dutch implement ‘Arthur Watch’. A way to, as Dutch put it, “make sure he’s safe”. A way that had the tension in the room spiking and Dutch’s voice shaking as he explained it.
It had to have been midnight with the way the moon glared in her face when Hosea shook Miss Grimshaw awake to replace him in watching Arthur. She was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes when she approached his tent, barely comprehending the sounds that faintly escaped it. But once the last bit of sleep left her mind she was able to fully hear it; fully understand. It was soft cries, muffled in an attempt to conceal them, and her heart broke. Her movements halted and her breath hitched as her heart broke at the pain she heard. But, she steeled herself, lifted his tent flap, and entered. She let out a soft and raspy“Arthur?” And she inevitably heard rustling and a mumbled curse as he lit his lantern. With the light illuminating his face she saw every sharp curve and edge, the thin skin below his eyes almost bruised from restless nights. The red rim around his eyes combined with their puffed up state. His cheeks ruddy and damp.
“Oh Arthur,” before she realized it she was sitting on his cot and patting his shoulder and he slumped into her touch. His body and mind tired. She pulled him closer to her, a way reminiscent in the way she’d pull him to her when he was barely 15 and waking up screaming from night terrors. With his heavy head on her shoulder she combed through his hair with her hand. “It’s okay son, you’ll be okay.” With those words the floodgates opened as he sobbed into her shoulder and all she could do was hold him through the pain. He only lifted his head up to gasp for air and croak out, “It hurts… Mom it hurts.” And her heart broke even more as she held him closer to her.
Summary: A glimpse into the after; of where you and Arthur find yourselves after the fall of the Van der Linde gang.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader
Tags: fluff, mild mentions of smut
Word Count: 2.6k
A/N: a gift for the lovely and kind-hearted @actuallyhansolo, though this piece was inspired by a prompt I received in my inbox ages ago. I hope you enjoy ♥ Also a big thank you to @the-halo-of-my-memory for being the best beta I could ask for :)
1905 — Gallatin, Montana;
“Try not to squeeze ‘er with your heels, else the horse’ll canter. You wanna grip her sides with your legs,” calls out Arthur from across the front pasture. A little neigh follows, carrying through the heavenly sigh of the breeze whistling down through the forests and into the valley you called home. Thistle and larkspur waver in its wake, flowing and flawing with streaks and splashes of color, and the hum of bumble bees fills the air. The only intrusion to the symphony of nature’s awakening is the occasional creak of dead wood as your seat on the front porch leans, forwards then backwards.
Overhead, a flock of warblers glide across the sky. Their song, a rising whistle, twittering and sweet, melds with the leathered yet honeyed tone of Arthur’s voice. A gentleness he reserved for one special person laces his rough timbre. Your eyes draw away from your knitting needles at the sound, and the sight that greets you warms your heart.
Your daughter Cora sits astride a chestnut pony, the straw hat covering her head askew. From beneath the floppy brim the early morning sunshine warms her cheeks, revealing the determined twist of her mouth as she heeds her father’s instruction. She hangs onto the reins and her hat, her neat braid bouncing as the horse trots in circles in the grass. Autumn’s hooves below her thud the earth softly, her cinnamon tail flicking and catching the gold of the sun all the while.
A long, satisfied breath fills your lungs. The windsong, calm as a seaside, lulls you into a deep state of bliss as you listen to the harmony it inspires in the surrounding land. Your porch chair rocks as you hum a thoughtful melody, stitching together the tight, blue row of a sock while taking in the splendors of the hour.
From a thousand places in the grass, little gems of dew wink back rainbows in the sunrays. Clouds drift seamlessly along the horizon like the verses of a poem, embellishing a sky flushed the color of a ripe peach. The sunlight has breached the distant snow-patched mountain peaks, its golden warmth lifting the mantle of fog settled deep in the green dark shadows of the valley. The wind rises forever and again, breathing life into the lungs of the cottonwood forest and stirring all that lay deep within wide awake. Woodpeckers flit amongst the treetops in their quest for insects, but all around far and near bird song prevails.
Comforted by the gift of your present, you tug free more yarn from the basket beside you. A hummingbird visits the columbines growing along the side of your homestead as you knit, gone in a flash of bronze. You pause at the boon of its appearance, but your eyes distractedly settle across the way.
Arthur leans on the paddock fence with his elbows propped up as he watches over Cora. A cup of coffee steams in his hand. He raises it and takes a sip, and you note with amusement that only three of his fingers fit through the handle. His fingernails are clean and square against the tin.
In all of your time together you never tired of the way the morning light poured over his tall frame. A heavenly gold illuminates the outlines of his arms and shoulders in his cotton white shirt. His sleeves, rolled humbly up to his elbows, display his tanned forearms, and a pair of dark suspenders divide his strong back handsomely. You never ceased to appreciate how lucky you were to have this view daily, and with each day, your love for Arthur and your family grew tenfold.
After a hearty breakfast of pancakes and eggs, Arthur took your daughter out to the horse pasture to learn how to ride—much at her own insistence and prodding. From a young age Cora shared his deep respect for horses and spent time with the ones you kept every day, grooming, feeding, and bonding with them. In the mornings you washed the dishes together, and afterwards, Cora bolted outside eager to start her lesson.
Today Arthur had lingered in the kitchen once the porch door slammed shut behind her and you were at once alone. The tick of the clock on the floral-papered wall was the only sound for a moment, until Arthur withdrew from the table.
You stood before the washing basin, drying a plate with a dish towel and adding it to a stack on the counter when he slipped his arms around you from behind and held you close. All of your quiet thoughts of the arriving day paused. Together, you breathed in. Your eyes closed. No words were needed between you to speak of the content that settled in your hearts then. He had only hummed a deep sound that passed through you, and began to gently sway you in a dance as you both basked warmly in the window. A jar of amber honey on the sill bloomed light, pouring gold like a waterfall. The birds sang—they always sang in this heavenly place—and you tilted your head back against his broad chest. You melted in his arms when his mouth pressed upon yours and it was a long, blind time before he pulled away.
When the kiss ended his forehead softened against your brow, him stealing a moment to remember you like this. He traced his thumb along the curve of your cheek, a sense of deep wonder speaking through his touch, and you sighed your assent.
In the beginning doubts plagued him. Years before when he knelt before you with a ring amidst a meadow of lupines, his hands held the slightest tremble until you took them into your own, guiding the pale stone down your finger and kissing away his uncertainties. He made promises to do right by you, and he kept every one of them.
In time, he came to believe in the second chance life had granted you both. It made it all the more fortuitous that your first child was a girl.
The embrace in the kitchen was one of beyond number. Arthur was a man of few words but many looks, so you understood his silent language of showing thankfulness. From the careful touch of his hands, moving as if to measure and memorize your importance to him, to the curve of his blooming half-smile, his expression voiced an ineffable gratitude and a disbelief that you shared this life together. His devotion never waned, but the encumbrance of the past did, the fetters that once hindered your steps toward freedom breaking when he built this homestead for you. They shattered forever when you first told him you were pregnant, standing on the porch in the twilight, his arms in their favorite place around you.
When the tingle of his kiss dissipated from your lips, your eyes had been slow to open at last.
“What was that one for?” You murmured in the space between you.
His soft, sage green gaze found yours, and the love in his eyes could not be misunderstood or undervalued. As always, your heart melted like the April snows at the warmth that look bloomed in your chest.
“Nothin’. Jus’…all you do is make me happy,” he confessed, following the gentle ways the angle of the sun fell upon your face.
“Oh you.”
With your heart strings plucked, you turned in the circle of his arms to embrace him. You nuzzled your nose along the endearing divot of his and let the softness of his smile melt against yours once more. The tannic scent of oak and pine and the musk of gun oil seeped into your senses, and you let yourself get carried away and intoxicated with his nearness and the rasp of his beard beneath your touch.
Cora’s prompting from outside tethered Arthur to his promise and he broke away from you with a sigh, although his warm hands slid down your hips longingly before departing.
“Real eager, that one is.”
“You better get to it,” you laughed and made to finish putting away the breakfast dishes. The other chores of the household could wait for an hour, you decided, as you made to rejoin them on the porch with your knitting.
Cats lazed about beside you presently, preening and stretching their legs before turning their watchful golden eyes to the high grasses in search of mice. One of them stalks up to Arthur at his post, weaving between his feet and brushing a white tail against his knee with affection. He reaches down and scratches its neck, the cat lifting itself on its feet to meet him halfway.
Doubtlessly he was smiling beneath his hat, as you were. You could only imagine what the sunlight must be doing to the color of his eyes as the sides crinkle with amusement.
Cora’s pony begins to straighten its gait and walks in a line, causing her to squeal with delight from her saddle.
“Daddy! I’m doing it! I’m doing it!”
“There you go! Keep holdin’ the reins, just like that. Lead ‘em to the left and right to steer.”
“Mama! Look!”
Your joy is instant.
“You’re doing wonderful!” You cheer. Cora giggles, her cheeks dimpling from her contagious glee. The bow laced at the end of her braid flutters like a butterfly’s wings as she rides through the pasture gracefully. The image of her with her gingham neckerchief around her throat, sitting proud in the saddle struck you with familiarity. She looked so natural, so at ease; so much like her father.
They mosey along at a steady pace and Arthur laughs under his breath. “Well, look at that. You’re a natural.”
He was always so patient and attentive with Cora, shushing her cries and soothing her when she was a baby, encouraging her every little step as she grew. Long ago you envisioned how great of a father he could be, despite his own uncertainty and the paucity of his self-worth. It took years for him to believe he deserved any of the happiness you found in each other, but he always wanted to protect it, never wanting to lose what mattered most to him.
Dutch abused the protective nature of Arthur’s heart, channeled it for his own gain and allocated it to his benefit. For years he strove to bring pride to his surrogate father, giving his all. But he knew. Arthur knew before it was too late when he was being used. You were the first to confess the hidden fondness you held for him, and it was the push he needed to start thinking for himself. Much as he tried to convince you of his own lowly opinion of himself, you persisted in your beliefs that he was a good man, deserving of happiness. Regardless of whether or not he found it with you.
Moments like this were the ones you wanted to capture and hold. Because reaching this place was worth every pain you endured, every mistake, and every misfortune if it meant it all led to this moment.
A breeze stirs the porch wind chimes. Their soft notes tinkle, joining the songbirds singing the joy of another sunrise. In the warm blanket of the wind the scent of alfalfa chases up your nose. You close your eyes against it, listening to the earth and the skies and the peals of Cora’s laughter. When it settles you open them again, finding Arthur’s gaze fastened to you from across the prairie. Caught, he smiles to himself bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck while his gaze dips to the slight swell of your belly and the pair of baby socks in your lap.
Warmth floods through you at the remembrance of that same smile earlier this morning, when the first blue light of day came and slipped through the gossamer curtains. Thoughts of Arthur’s mouth—soft and warm with sleep against your bare shoulder—tucks your lip behind your teeth and turns your gaze shy under his. But it lingered all the same.
The way he traced your skin with the lightest drag of his fingertips as you laid side by side in the early dawn light. How his touches led to languid kisses along your neck until he reached the spot that always made you sigh, your hands slipping along the lovely angles of his stubbled jaw to get lost in the soft, golden brown strands of his hair. How you let him lay you below him before he settled over you, the bedsheets catching on the small of his back. The roughness of his palms sliding along the delicate lace of your chemise, raising it all until it bunched around your shoulders. Parting your legs and lifting them around his hips, his calloused thumb drifting between—
“I think horsey is getting tired,” Cora announces, and Arthur snaps his attention back to her. You cross your legs and take a deep breath to compose yourself, returning your thoughts to the chaste exercise of knitting.
“Let’s give her a rest, then.”
Cora pulls up on the reins and Autumn yields.
Arthur dumps the remaining dregs of his coffee and leaves the cup on the fence, swinging his way through the paddock gate. In a few minutes he would be leaving for town, a star pinned to his vest and a promise to return before sundown. It made it all the more precious that he spent this time with her.
He lifts Cora off the saddle, his hands swallowing her tiny waist. She yelps with delight as he spins her around once, twice, exclaiming how proud he is and how fast she is growing up. Her braid and her skirts swing around her small frame until Arthur sets her down, squatting down to her level. With a mellow voice he speaks, encouraging her to thank the animal and explaining how important it is to show your horse you respect them. Cora nods. She reaches out and strokes Autumn’s neck, patting it alongside Arthur until she whickers and leans into the girl’s touch. With a grin, Arthur produces a crumbling oat cake from his satchel and Cora obediently holds out the treat. She laughs when a wet tongue tickles her hand.
They begin to lead the horse into the stable and Arthur squeezes her shoulders, telling her how well she did. Their words fade into the barn, indiscernible from where you sit, but your heart swells with contentment and a great rush of affection floods through you.
The gold band of your wedding ring rests coolly against your finger. You admire the smooth facets of the oval stone, the mounted sapphire twinkling in the light, thinking again of the first time you saw it and the pure happiness it brought as you trace its edges. Long ago and far away were the days of turmoil and gloom, for as dark as the past was is how bright your future together became. For you were safe at last, harbored in the arms of one another, thriving under the roof Arthur built where your family could grow. And it was all more than you could ever dream of.
A butterfly alights the roses growing along the trellis on the side of the house. Orange and black wings dance, flitting among unfolded dark pink petals and seeking the golden centers within. From one, to the next, to the next, the butterfly graces each bloom and delivers the promise of a sweeter future from its visit, leaving your world also a little better from its passage through it.
hell yeah you can!!! here’s some gn!Reader x Javier stuff. Just a small drabble. The reader makes a bet with Javier that if they can make him cum, then he’ll do whatever they want >:3
"You sure you know what you're doing?" Javier asks for what feels like the tenth time this evening.
"I've already told you, I know what I'm doing," you tut, securing the final knot on his binds.
Renting a hotel was well-needed. There's only so many times you can have quiet sex at camp before it becomes absolute agony. Plus, Javier was far too good to not shower him in praise and moans, so your bubble had finally burst and you'd dragged him into town for the night. Nobody was surprised when they saw you and Javier mounting your horses, probably thankful that they weren't going to have to deal with another night of you two attempting to be quiet.
Usually, Javier takes the lead; he adores being in control, the sight of you on your knees for him is something that makes his head spin every time he sees it. But tonight, you'd decided that you were in charge. Javier laughed at first, but once he saw you pull some soft rope out of your bag, he realized that you were serious, and he was definitely intrigued.
His wrists had been tied above his head to the bedpost, leaving him in the nude, bound to the bed, awaiting your command.
"See? Told you I could manage," you smirk as you shuffle down the bed, spreading his legs slightly and settling between them.
"So, now what, hm? Gonna rob me and leave me like this?" Javier jokes.
"Not yet. I'm gonna have some fun with you first," you purr, palming over his semi-hard cock, gently massaging his length.
Javier lets out a gentle sigh as his eyes flick down to watch you, his length growing the more you touch it. You shuffle onto your front, settling between his thighs, and pick up his cock to begin jerking it. You pop the tip into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the soft skin, earning a few more soft moans and pleasant hums. Your hand moves from his length, massaging his balls as his length slowly slips deeper into your mouth, the tip of his cock eventually hitting the back of your throat. Javier lets out a choked moan as he rolls his head back against the headboard.
There's a strong urge for Javier to close his eyes fully, but he fights it, wanting to enjoy the sight of you between his legs. There's no longer any need to be quiet, so Javier allows himself to get as loud as he wants, softly panting away, showering you in praise and lustful comments. It doesn't take long for Javier's orgasm to begin nearing, especially when he has his sweetheart working wonders to his length.
"Amor, I'm close," Javier tells you, his cheeks a vibrant red shade and his muscles occasionally twitching.
"Good," you say with a smile as you pop your head off his cock, replacing it with your hand as you stroke him. "Here's the fun part. You can't cum until I say so," you smirk, watching his eyes fall wide open as he begins to pout.
"What? Why?" Javier asks.
"Just a little game I thought we could play," you reply.
"I'll only play if we place a bet on it. Say, whoever taps out first has to do anything the other person asks?" Javier offers, catching your attention even more.
"Deal," you say with a small nod.
"It's on," Javier agrees with a smirk, confident that you'll be tapping out from an achy jaw before he cums.
Your mouth is popped back on to Javiers cock, running your tongue up along his shaft, hollowing out your cheeks as you bob your head along his length. Your hand goes back to gently massaging his balls, drawing out an array of moans. This time, you can hear him gritting his teeth together, letting out a few hisses and grunts, clearly trying to contain himself.
You refuse to go easy on him, allowing the tip of his cock to slam against the back of your throat as you swallow down his length, holding yourself there for a few seconds before pulling off with a gasp. Deep throating Javier always makes his knees weak and his mind turn foggy, he's a sucker for it, and lets out a loud moan as you do it. There's a few trails of spit connecting your mouth to Javiers cock, the sight making his stomach knot as he tries his best to hold himself together.
"Someone's going to cum," you playfully tease as you jerk him.
"No, I'm not," Javier replies in an attempted playful tone, though his words are cut short to let out another grunt.
You roll your eyes and shake your head before placing his cock back into your mouth, torturing the poor man even more. Javier's clearly struggling to pull himself together, his muscles continue to shake and his eyes remain scrunched shut, head rolling back against the headboard. You notice the way his hands are flexing, the restraints surprisingly still keeping him bound to the bed.
Javier continues to squirm, letting out another grunt as you deep throat him again. Javier's patience finally runs out as he tells you "alright, you win! I'm gonna- mierda!" he yelps, barely alerting you before his balls empty into your mouth, catching you slightly off guard but you manage to swallow his load without choking.
You pull your mouth off his cock, wiping your spit away with the back of your hand. Your eyes flick up to see Javier in a state; multiple loose strands of hair stuck to his slightly sweaty forehead, his mouth is open as he takes deep breaths, his chest rising and falling heavily. Javier's eyes meet yours though he doesn't say anything.
"Looks like I won," you smile as you shuffle up the bed, beginning to untie his restraints.
"Looks like you did," he replies, still attempting to catch his breath.
Once Javier's free, he gives his sore wrists a rub as he gets comfortable on the bed, eventually pulling you down to cuddle up to him. You snuggle up to him, resting your head on his chest as he relaxes, and once he's finally caught most of his breath, he speaks.
"You know what you want for your prize?" Javier asks.
"I'll have to think about it," you reply, reaching up to wipe his loose hairs off his face.
"How about we raise the stakes even more, huh? If I can make you cum then you'll have to do whatever I want for a week?" Javier offers, his eyes peering down to watch your reaction.
"Oh, you're on!"
4k drabble celebration: [o1/22]: “I’m in love with you.”
word count: 896
notes: well here we go! All prompts for this challenge come from “Super Sappy Lines Prompt List” created by @tiptoe39. Sadly, I can’t link the list without Tumblr sniping this post but you can find a link to it on my tumblr. To start us off, please enjoy some more Mr Morgan~
. . .
"That tickles."
His breath is warm against your ear when he chuckles, his fingers pausing. You like the sound of his happiness, liked how his lips curve slowly against yours when he smiles, or how the muffled rumble of his laughter makes you feel warm. The joy that once came so rarely now flows easier. Perhaps because you are both finally free, or perhaps because it no longer feels like you are teetering on an edge of an abyss.
"You oughta get some rest," his voice sounds against your ear, and you smile mildly, still listening to the sound of his beating heart. You have come too close to losing him, too close to never seeing him or feeling his touch again. "We need to be up early tomorrow, and you're gonna be tired as hell."
You raise your cheek from his chest, resting your chin on top of your hand as you stare up at him. "Yeah? Is that concern I hear in your voice, Mr Morgan? Are you becomin' sweet on me?"
His gaze is warm, and a faint smile twists the corners of his mouth as he rolls his eyes. "Oh, I think I'm a little past that point, don't ya think?" he speaks faintly, his fingers lazily sliding up the length of your spine.
Your skin tingles where his rough fingertips stroke, and you arch into his touch with a small whine. Pressing closer to him, you sigh softly at the sensation, before laying a tender kiss over his heart.
"Well I sure hope so, mister," you mutter mildly, lips tracing up his chest as you feel his arms around you tighten. A small groan vibrates in his chest and your lips twitch again. "Because I'm in love with you, and I don't wanna be no love-struck fool. At least not alone."
"(Name)," he says your name softly, quietly, and you look up at him. His hair is messier than usual but you only have your own wondering—greedy—finger to thank for it. "You don't have to say it—"
Your teeth scrap against his collarbone, and you swallow an affectionate laugh at the noise he makes. Your eyes flicker up, leisurely moving to straddle him as your fingers brush against his stubbled cheek. His eyes open reluctantly, and he gazes at you through half-lidded eyes, his fingers resting against your hip.
"Well I'm gonna do it anyway," you hum lightly, smoothing your thumb against the curve of his cheekbone, and he leans slightly into your touch, making you smile silently. "I'm gonna tell you how much I love you for the rest of my life. You wanna know why? Because I love you."
His large hand settles on top of yours, fingers warm and encompassing, as he holds your hand pressed against his cheek. There is silence between you for a long minute, and your expression softens at the peaceful moment where he appears to savour your words. It makes you sad sometimes, the way he always seems caught off guard by the smallest hint of affection. Even months later, you can still feel doubt lingering in his touches, feel his self-hatred seep back into his thoughts every time the topic of Dutch or Mary comes up.
Ghosts of his past still cling to Arthur even though you try your best to erase them with every kiss and caress. He wants to be free but it's not as easy as either of you would like to admit.
"Mhm. I love you, Arthur Morgan," you tell him again, and a slow breath escapes his parted lips. "Ya know, I can keep goin'."
There is a tug around your waist and you hold back a squeal when Arthur pulls you down against his chest. His arm wraps around your shoulders and he simply holds you pressed to him, your nose buried against the crook of his neck.
"I don't deserve you," he finally says after a pause so long you were starting to grow sleepy in the safety of his arms. "I never have. I oughta let you get on with your life, make somethin' of it. But I'm a goddamn selfish bastard, always 'ave been and I—I'm afraid damnit. Terrified that one day you'll wake up and realise that I ain't no good. Every good thing in my life I've ended up losin'. And I can't—"
He must think you're asleep. That's the only reason he would ever speak so openly about his feelings. It took him months just to admit that he feels something deeper for you, and you knew that he holds everything locked away so tight even you can't fully understand him.
The bed creaks as he wraps his other arm around your waist and rests his nose against your hair. His bare, warm skin against yours feels like home, safety, happiness and you never want to leave his embrace.
"Don't ever leave me," he echoes lowly, and you want to tell him that you never will; not ever, but something tells you that in this moment he needs to hold you more. So you keep quiet and let him think you’re asleep.
The brokenness of his tone stays with you though, and you promise yourself a hundred times—and him too, even though he doesn't know it yet—that you will never leave his side.
His heart is yours to protect now.
. . .
an: I have written 3 angsty/pining Arthur fics, thought smitten/happy/but-still-insecure Arthur might make for a nice change. Hope you enjoyed it, and keep an eye out for more celebration drabbles to come! Thank you for reading <33
Jack's done it. He's defeated Ross and taken his revenge. Jack was hoping he'd at least feel somewhat happy about the whole ordeal, but once he crosses the bridge back into New Austin, he realizes that he feels no different. Jack's always known that he's alone in this world, with his family gone and no friends, he has nobody apart from the nag he rides. Maybe he is the last of his kind, a cowboy, or whatever civilized folk want to call him.
A glass of whiskey is drunk as he stands over his parents' graves. Normally, he talks to them, telling them what he's done today; but today he remains silent, knowing they'd both give him disapproving looks if he confessed the sin he'd just committed, even if he did view it as right. The rest of his evening is spent just like every other evening, doing a few chores then retiring to bed after reading a book. He no longer has any cattle to check on or chickens to shoo into their pen. It's just Jack and his horse as that motivation to become a rancher died a long time ago. He's lucky if he finds the motivation to get out of bed in the morning, let alone run an entire ranch singlehandedly.
A knock on his front door during the early hours of the morning makes Jack jump out of his skin. He sits upright in his bed and waits, assuming that he must have dreamt it, but there it is again, a little firmer than last time but still polite. Jack's quick to his feet and pulls on his pants, deciding that his union suit is clean enough to leave without throwing a shirt on ontop.
He opens the door to see a late-middle-aged woman standing there, a few grey hairs sprouting from her scalp, and the faint outline of wrinkles slowly appearing on her face. She's smiling from ear to ear and Jack can feel the happiness she radiates; it makes him feel warm, maybe even a little bit loved, but this woman is a stranger who's probably just going to ask him for donations for the church.
"Jack? Jack Marston?" she asks in a soft voice.
"Yes?" he questions back, his hand still on the door.
"It is you! You won't remember me, but I definitely remember you, back when you were just a little boy. I used to ride with your parents in that gang they were in all those years ago," the stranger explains, her expression still ecstatic.
"I apologize if this is a little blunt, Miss, but who exactly are you?" Jack questions.
"Mary-Beth Gaskill," she tells him. "I won't be offended if you don't remember my name nor my face, especially since I've aged since you last saw me, but so have you!"
"I do apologize, but I'm afraid I don't. I was... very young when all that was happening, and Ma tried to keep me away from most of it," Jack tells her, opening the door a little more as he relaxes.
"That's no bother! I... I used to write to your parents quite often. I've kept in contact with them over the years. John bumped into me at the station in Valentine a few years back, that's how I got your address. Abigal told me of his passing, nasty thing that happened to him... She told me everything, and when her letters stopped arriving I assumed the worst. So, I just had to pack my bags and come looking. I worried something may have happened to you too, but it's nice to see that you're still standing," Mary-Beth tells him. Although Jacks face remains quite unphased, he adores the way she speaks, bubbly and full of expression, a style he's quite envious of. If only he could be that happy.
"I'm still standing," Jack says with a shrug. "I... uhm," he pauses, wanting to tell her everything at once but his mind becomes foggy. "Do you want to come in?" Jack offers instead, opening the door fully and standing beside it as he gestures inside.
Mary-Beth accepts his offer with a nod, picking up her bag and scurrying inside. She can't help but begin to look around the cozy little home, its walls still smelling like freshly cut pine, despite it being built a good few years ago. Jack excuses himself whilst he goes and gets dressed, leaving her to her own devices.
As Jack returns, she's browsing through the bookshelf, catching Jack's attention as she pulls out one of his favourite books.
"Do you still read, Jack?" she asks him as she flicks over the blurb.
"On the occasion," Jack replies.
"And do you write? I remember you telling us over and over about how much you wanted to become a writer," Mary-Beth says with a smile, still treasuring those days.
"I tried, but... things happened and... I-" Jack attempts to explain.
"I understand," Mary-Beth says with a small nod as she places the book back. "I write myself, it can be hard but it's so fun once you get into the swing of things." Mary-Beth looks at him as she places her bag on the dining table, pulling out a scrappy journal with a handful of pages sticking out of it. "How's about I teach you a few things? Let's see if we can get those ideas flowing, hm?" she offers.
Jack still seems a little hesitant but something inside of him is telling him to go for it, so he nods in agreement, telling her that he'll get a hot drink for them whilst she gets herself comfortable.
The pair spend the morning going over Mary-Beths notes; her mood continues to be ecstatic, her ears often perking up whenever he asks her a question or shows a little more interest. Jack eventually catches himself smiling as a warm feeling enters his chest. For the first time in years, he feels loved, like this long-lost stranger had been sent by his parents in heaven to show him that there is still love in this world, and it's waiting out there for him.
Mary-Beth stays a while and once she leaves, Jack finds himself sitting at his desk as he begins to plot out any idea that comes to mind. It's as if she's unlocked his mind, letting out those story ideas that he buried a long time ago, though he never buried them intentionally. By the time Mary-Beth arrives home, there's already a letter waiting for her from Jack, thanking her for what she had done and explaining that she'd sparked a fire inside of him, and that it continues to burn and keep him warm.
Seasons come and seasons go, and the pair stay in contact. Eventually, Jack finds himself knocking on Mary-Beth's door to personally hand her a copy of his first book, to which she cries and hugs him, holding him tight. It seems that Mary-Beth has stayed in contact with a few of the former gang members, as Jack is re-introduced to Tilly and her family, and gains contact with Trelawny and Swanson.
Within time, Jack finds himself smiling naturally, not having to force it like he once did in his preteen days. He realises that he's always had a reason to smile, though his mind was so clouded that he lost his way. He does have a family, even if they are not by blood, and Jack is no longer alone in this world.
Farm animals return to Beechers Hope and his world seems a little brighter, especially in the mornings. He'll stand on the border of his ranch, arms slung over the fence as he watches the sunrise, ready and willing to take on another day.
Summary: Arthur draws you during a stolen moment–one in which he reflects on the feelings he keeps hidden inside in regards to you.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan (High Honor) x Female Reader
Word Count: 8.4k 🙇♀️
Tags: Mutual pining. Denial of feelings. Angst? Tending an injury. Stargazing. A dash of hurt/comfort. Some smoking and drinking. No major content warnings apply.
A/N: Its not perfect, but if I proofread this one more time I’m never gonna post it so
At the hour in which dreams fade and the cock crows, when the tide of easterly light sweeps away the stars with obligation, Arthur would blink at the receding border of night and allow himself to sit still; a silent witness to each dawn as it was destined to be.
He spent a thousand sunrises this way—pausing with his feet reluctant to touch the cool, damp Earth, and it became a cherished time, one of deep reflection. The brew of the sky offered a clarity for rumination, providing the moments in which he would think to himself about the horizon—the path his life had taken to see a new one each day, and, subliminally, if he would live to see the next.
This tradition never grew old, for no two sunrises were the same. Most days, the sun’s far arrival was a hopeful blush into the dark blue, while others were portent with shades of red that bled into the low, conspiring clouds. Nevertheless, his keen artist’s eyes would gratefully follow the lines of the landscape—the grasses jeweled with dew, drinking the sun’s honey, and the shafts of sunlight striking through the trees—all the while recognizing that the colors beyond were not a wonder to be captured by pencil.
On this day, as the dark came away, a rare and dreamlike shade welcomed him in his matutinal contemplation. A color he was patient for, one that fell his eyes shut in its presence—lightening to a pale in the space of that blink.
The sky was violet.
No dreadful red, no storms to come. Violet, to him, symbolized his deepest dreams of peace. Brief and surreal, yet lingering. Mornings of this color foretold brighter days.
Arthur sits up from his cot, soothing the aches in his neck as the yolk of the sun slides up from the horizon. The wind rises with the gold, rustling the gilded treetops, and within their emerald branches the songbirds awaken and impart their sweet music above to encourage the creatures below.
His consciousness blearily begins to return to him, reminders of his duties creeping back in. The quiet of his mind wanes and he gives one last lingering glance to the fire in the sky as it spreads across the landscape, glowing like the ends of his cigarette, orange and burning.
With a departing flick, he affixes his hat, withdrawing from the shade of his canopy with the comforting weight of his satchel and revolvers beside him.
The girls smile up at Arthur, soap suds caking their arms as they vigorously scrub at the laundry in the wash buckets and their brows sheened with sweat as they work under the sun’s glare. He tips his hat as they bid him good morning, and he continues to exchange polite greetings to the familiar faces that pass him by as he makes his way to the communal coffee percolator.
A flock of geese flies low through the early morning mist that still clings to the water of Flat Iron Lake. Hosea and Dutch stand before the placid surface, hands clasped behind their backs as they discuss something amongst themselves. The dull, rhythmic scrape of Charles’ sharpening his hunting knife drowns out their voices, and his gaze meanders around the perimeter of the camp. Between the cheerful whistles and the curls of wood smoke floating through the air, all is as it should be—the sun beaming bright. However, despite the passing faces, and the flick and swing of horsetails as they grazed, a noticeable absence strikes him and leaves his daily picture incomplete.
It was unlike you.
Most mornings he would listen for the papery scrape of onion skins across a cutting board and find you at Pearson's wagon, knife in hand dicing vegetables for the afternoon stew with precision. With a glance towards the water's edge, he finds the sunlit flaps of your tent undrawn, and his unease abates. He smiles to himself easily as he fixes a cup of coffee, pouring another to bring to you.
Chickens cluck past him as they squabble over scatterings of barley in the trampled grass. For the time being, he knows that this peace is temporary, that the day ahead was sure to be filled with hard riding and gun smoke that would ultimately leave him exhausted. The thought makes him grateful for the bitterness of the brew he swallows. Your presence alongside him would alleviate his doubts about the robbery tip you were both set to investigate—supposedly at first light. And so, he savors the calm of morning during the short walk to your tent; the untouched halcyon surrounding him instilled by the water with its gentle laps against the shore and the ribbit of frogs that dwell along it.
He inevitably reaches the canvas entrance, his eyes cast down to the clover grasses while he collects himself. As he steps inside, the familiarity of the outside world disappears and he is forgetful of all as the flaps close behind him.
The sound of fabric sliding against itself lures his eyes to the waves of your sheets and quilts. Feet glide along legs and he stills as his gaze and the sunlight falls upon the rest of you.
You were dreaming—and perhaps he is, too. Deep in a pleasant sleep, you lay in a nightgown of a feather-white, the gauzy sleeves unconsciously pulled down your shoulders to escape the nascent summer heat. The laces over your collarbone had loosened, and the first instinct he has is to avert his widened gaze at the realization that this is more of your skin than he has any privilege to see.
Arthur was no stranger to your sleeping form. Between the frequency of long journeys and the unavoidable togetherness that followed, the companionship he formed with you was organic; as natural and intrinsic together as the bond between a wolf and the moon.
However, he had another steadfast companion in his life. Uncertainty. The lingering presence of it was one of the reasons why he stole moments for himself to draw what he saw humbly. A desire dwelled within him whenever he observed the natural world around him. One to forget. To appreciate what might be taken for granted. His journal became his sacred place to find his words and to pen the hard truth of present circumstance—a circumstance that left no room for delusions, especially amorous ones. The reflective act highlighted the importance of trust and loyalty, why it mattered most to him in this life, and why family was what he fought for.
The family he surrounded himself with was bonded by something stronger and less accidental than blood—by choice. A choice not influenced by obligation, but by promise and principle. Those of which were no mild oaths to him.
Watching over another sleep—a time when one is most vulnerable—was different when all that existed between Arthur and you was that treasured trust and loyalty. He never anticipated the roots of your bond burgeoning as deep as it has, into something unspeakable, unthinkable—into a feeling far from easy friendship, and laying further in his subconscious than a dream. A dream that a man like Arthur, living the life that he led, was not meant to possess. The sight of you in such a deep sleep unearths a familiar pit of dread over something he thought he long accepted about himself.
Frozen in step, a deliberate breath fills his chest as he considers how awkward it would be to wake you in this state. He should leave. Find an excuse to busy himself with or—
He allows himself to look at you, and he softens at the sight. The honest and innocent nature of your face allays his hesitation into a longing to capture it.
Your honest values he appreciated daily, but he was only reminded of your innocence in quiet, untouchable moments like this one. Because, despite you good intentions and sweet nature, bad luck swept you into this life—as it did to many others, including himself. All of you survived under an irrevocable circumstance, one filled with gambles. You only had the power to change the way you played the hand, not the cards you were dealt. And in the swift game of chance, innocence lost in a cold roll of dice.
Luck seldom favored Arthur. Although, it was the bad kind that lead your paths to cross in the first place. A part of him is thankful for that.
With a resolved twitch in his fingers, he wanders away from this uncharted territory and decides to indulge you in a few more minutes of rest.
Careful not to disturb you, he eases himself onto the crate across from your cot and retrieves the worn leather journal from his satchel. The pages flutter past his thumb, a blur of cursive and penciled drawings—some of you, tucked safe in hidden corners—until his sketches of rare flowers flash by and he pauses.
The petal soft appearance of your eyelids resembles the graceful and soundless bloom of an orchid on the page before him. Deciding that this is where the image of you belongs, he smooths the parchment anew.
He rolls his sleeves past faded scars and a balmy breeze enters the enclosed space, rustling the dark hairs on his forearms. A perfect peace befalls in its wake, whistling through the trees and flapping the laundry on the line outside. Set adrift, he inhales the bliss deeply to fill his lungs, clearing his head before he deems himself ready to begin.
His steadied hand is mindful not to wrinkle the paper as he studies his subject in earnest. His thoughts, the outer dissonance of dishes and pots clattering, and Miss Grimshaw’s subsequent scolding—it all vanishes as he seeks the blessed stillness of his mind. The point of graphite meets the cream page, and the elegance that follows is a contradiction to the weathered hand that guides it.
The drawing begins as all drawings must: with thin, light lines that build off of one another. Through quick glances and sharp attention, the map of your frame comes into existence, and the lines of your proportions follow. It is unrefined at first, only a basic outline, a fact in which he is unconcerned. The time for details would come when he earned them, for the pursuit of art took practice and patience with one’s self, he learned.
The essential shape of you, the curves, the contours, are precisely measured with a hand driven by his concentrated gaze, and the further he draws, the farther he falls into the deeply thoughtful nature of himself he likes to be alone with.
He often found that sacred place when he drew you.
The first time it was a thoughtless sketch; an afterthought rippling in his memory like the creek water beneath your toes on that blistering afternoon.
He remembers it slowly; the noonday smell, the vibrant green stretches of grass spotted with yellow flowers, how the doves had departed from their perch on the power lines as you both rode past. That day had been filled with the radiant sunshine of spring. Butterfly wings had fluttered in the meadows as you crossed through vast fields and wildflowers, riding against the wind carried down from a cloudless sky wheeling with vultures.
The tall grasses had moved gently in the breeze and insects chittered loudly from the wavering stalks. As your steady hoof beats coincided, a trail of dust rose in his wake as you coasted through the Lemoyne countryside together.
His hands sweated into the leather of the reins and he eased up when the sun rose high, the dirt beginning to settle as you slowed your mare to a trot alongside him. She whickered and tossed her head, and you hunched over to console her with reassuring pats and murmurs.
“There looks to be a forest up there, might be a good place to stop and rest the horses for a while.” His announcement broke the comfortable silence between you.
“I had the same idea.” You replied, relief in your tone as you wiped your brow and glanced in the direction where he pointed. He shook his arms loose and followed behind you, rolling his neck and flexing his hand.
Hooves clomped softly in the dirt as you veered off the path and headed into the luxurious shade. The heavy, drooping branches of sumac brushed over your shoulder blades and you ducked low in your saddle, a sight that bemused him as he trampled through the undergrowth behind you.
Arthur remembered overhearing you talking with Kieran one night out by the hitching posts at Horseshoe Overlook. It was after dinner, and the horses toed the crabgrass whilst the moths fluttered around the buttery glow of the lanterns, looking for a place to settle.
You stood beneath the looming pines, fishing a shawl out from your saddlebag when Kieran had come up beside you and nervously asked if your saddle needed polishing. With a kind smile, you accepted his offer, and sat beside him on a log as he worked. Arthur eyed him with distrust from the poker table and lingered on you with a budding curiosity, taking a sip of his beer as a conversation began to flow between the two of you.
Kieran asked you about your horse beneath his hat; a comfortable question for him. You leisurely recalled a time when you were desperate, on the run, and in need of something fast to take you far away when you came across a herd of wild horses roaming through the plains of Dakota. Singling her out and taming her was no easy feat, and when you did, you had named her Nisha. When Kieran asked for the meaning behind her name, you told him it came from an ancient holy language in India, and that it meant “night”.
Arthur supposed it was as good a name as any for a black horse. Although, as time passed, he came to admire your choice more for its uniqueness, and, for a perplexing, unnamable reason, he wished he had been the one to ask you about it first instead of learning by eavesdropping.
Deeper within, a gurgling stream wound throughout the woods. With a click of your tongue you led your faithful mustang to its mossy edge on foot. The water ran pure as quartz, and the mica shimmer of the rocks beneath glinted iridescently, silver and twinkling like starlight in the sun. The horses dipped their heads to drink.
“Thank you for bringing me along with you today. I—“You had passed a brush over Nisha’s oil black coat, pausing your grooming to consider him and the day you spent together. “It was nice to get out for a bit.” You finished shyly, attention fixated on removing a leaf from your horse’s mane. He straightened from refilling his canteen and turned back to you.
“’Course.” He glanced at the prize pelts rolled up behind your sun-bleached saddlebags and gestured to them with his thumb. “You can come along anytime if you keep catching game like that. I ain’t one much for tracking but you sure have a knack for it.” They would fetch a fair price. A surprised hint of pride lightened his voice and your eyes lifted to find his encouraging smile.
“I appreciate that, Arthur. I think I’ll take you up on that offer sometime.”
With a nod, he took his distance to recline against a tree, respecting your privacy as you settled on a rock to tug off your shoes and dip your bare feet in the creek.
Overhead, the sunlight threaded its warmth through the foliage, dappling your skin with the shadows of leaves. Beneath the brim of his hat, he safely marveled at how they drifted over you darkly in the sway of the wind, his hands slowing as he cleaned the brass barrel of his hunting rifle.
With a book in your lap and an apple poised in hand, the hour passed idyllically, and you hummed to yourself as you admired the wild roses that grew along the embankment. The bristled branches stretched over the water, offering their beautiful dark magenta petals to the ripples, where diamonds of droplets beaded the blooms. Little yellow bees buzzed over them.
He decided he liked the sound of your voice, for you sang a song far sweeter than the water’s.
With mesmeric motions, you swilled your feet in the cool brook, mindlessly soaking the cuffed hems of your pants. And when you closed your eyes against the incoming wind, a grateful smile graced your face and Arthur looked away.
Later that night by his lantern’s light, a rigid hand recollected the image of you in the mirror of the water. He tried to capture the bliss on your face and the harmony of the Earth beside and above you, but his sketch was uncharacteristically restrained, as if reluctant to focus, lest he awaken the softer, slumbering animal of his body. Regardless of his ingrained abnegation, a dim flame flickered within thereafter.
Something began to change in him. Something ineffable that ignored the hard lessons he learned and tempered his reluctance to let it lay forgotten as he drew you presently. Light scratching sounds fill the quiet space of your tent as he devotes his focus absolutely, practicing the diligence he savors the occasion for.
The coffee beside him grows colder as the silver pocket watch on your side table ticks by; the only reminders of the passage of time.
Memories and the fondness they collected guide his hand as he begins to add shading to strengthen the realism. The image of you massaging your feet in the water that day lays in the back of his mind as he darkens the arch of your foot and suggests the subtlety of your ankles amidst the sheets.
With a delicate stroke, he follows the smooth curve of your calf before it disappears beneath your skirt.
It was an acquired skill to apply varying pressure to create a shadowed effect, especially in the folds of your clothing as he pronounces the edges of your knees through the material. He thinks on how your knees are a place often caked with dirt, and also a place you tapped nervously when crouched beside him with your rifle. In a brief exchange, your jittery fingers would brush over his whenever he passed his binoculars to you. The passage was smooth and brief, like the feather fletching of an arrow before it releases.
Your hands are relaxed, one against the cotton of your pillow and the other draped lazily over your waist. While he cannot capture their delicate warmth or the assurance they lent, he depicts their gentleness, the nimble curl of your fingers and the poetic spacing between them, and he faintly pencils the crescent tips of your nails. He uses the sides of the graphite instead of the tip to create a lighter, more discrete effect. The folds and creases of your underdress congregate around the curves of your hips and bring an unbidden tightness to his throat. Still, he pursues the soft shapes of you and the curvature of your form honestly.
Although, it is the lines of your arm, the bend of your elbow, the gentle swoop of your collarbone and the following curve of your shoulder that tarries his hand and awakens a deep wellspring of feeling within him. These parts of you stir a more intimate significance within him as he remembers that night.
One where the world’s existence and his responsibilities faded as you slept beside him, and the one in which he first began to lie to himself.
………….
“Hold still.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“It’s a bite. At least let me look at it.”
With a relenting sigh, he settled back against a driftwood log and you had knelt beside him in the firelight. Aside from the incense of burning wood, the less fond but equally familiar tang of blood filled his nose and sharpened the twilight air.
The blood was his.
The tattered blue fabric of his sleeve came away wet and scarlet as he rolled it up for you, and the sight it unveiled firmed your mouth into a worried line.
Several rings of angry bite marks had scored his arm, and your curious, gentle hands held his wrist in a light hold as you examined the wounds while you sat beside him on the lakeside. Your fire-warmed fingertips traced over his skin, drifting over where his pulse thrummed and lulling his eyes to a close at the residual warmth that followed their dance.
“They don’t look too deep, but they should still be disinfected.” You had concluded after a few moments of study, your tone quieted by concentration. Arthur began to protest, but his words caught in his throat at how the color of your eyes softened with concern before they trailed away with your voice. It became clear to him that you needed something to do in order to get your mind off of what happened. So, he swallowed what he was about to say and agreed to let you get started on dinner and dress his injury.
The cry of coyotes bid the night to fall as they howled in the far off mountains, the pale pink of the sky deepening into rose and further on into a lasting crimson. As the sun slowly sank behind the snow-capped peaks, the teal glass of the lake was painted with the colors of a sanguine sunset, rippling and bleeding with the warmth left by the rays of fading sunlight.
Laps of water soothed the pebble shore and the summer wind had sang through the susurrus of cattails whispering along its edge. While he often drank in nature's tranquil reward for a long day, Arthur's eyes shifted to you, to your clothes—spattered grimly with wolf's blood and torn by claws and teeth, to the blank expression on your face as you basted the meat roasting on the spit over the fire.
You absently added salt to a pot of water set on the iron grill to boil.
It worried him; the slight tremble in your hands before you tucked them under your arms, the sightless look in your eyes as you stared out at nothing, thinking.
You were far, far away from him and this place.
The water pot began to bubble and your gaze cleared. Arthur stayed quiet, lost for the consoling words you needed to hear. He let the crackle of wood devour the absence of conversation.
You returned to him with the pot of cooling water, setting down a roll of gauze on the log behind him while keeping a bundle of clean cloths in your lap. Wordlessly, he held his arm out for you again and you angled it diagonally towards the ground. A tin cup scratched against the bottom of the pan as you dipped it inside.
While he had been in this position as your patient before, you had never been so quiet. You liked to talk while you worked. He tried to think of what he should say, what would take your mind off of everything, but he came up empty and frustrated with himself.
A strange, plaintive call echoed across the water, and another answered it. His curiosity spoke for him.
“You know,” he looked out to the edge of the lake, where the willow trees practiced their art of weeping and the night shadows crept out unseen like the ghosts of the land. “I always wondered what kind of bird makes those sounds.”
At the curve of your lips, he realized with no small amount of relief that he said the right thing, for your slight smile was one of fond remembrance.
“Those are loons. There’s a pair out there.”
Bloody water soaked the rocks as you began to irrigate his wounds, the water stinging about as pleasantly as soap in the eye as you poured the cup. He tensed and flexed his hand as you went on.
“There was a lake near where I grew up. It was one of my favorite places to go, actually.” With your head bowed and your eyes narrowed in concentration, you sensed his discomfort and asked if he was alright or if he needed anything.
“No, I’m fine. Go on.” He mumbled softly beneath your careful touch.
Shaking your head, you laughed through your nose. “More whiskey for me then.”
He pointedly stared into the sapphire heart of the fire as your breath fanned over his skin and you shifted imperceptibly closer, your knees brushing his thigh.
“Anyways.” You cleared your throat and bowed your head once more. “In the summertime, when the day was at its end and the lake water went absolutely still, you would hear them. I used to sit out on the porch and listen while I watched the sun go down and the bats come out. No other time was more peaceful to me.”
When the water began to run clear, you gingerly dabbed the violent edges of the teeth marks with a cloth. Katydids and crickets chattered in the lulls between your pauses and the sky began to darken in earnest.
He eagerly listened, drawn to the happiness recalling a simpler past brought you. More than that, he cherished you sharing this story with him. This was the facet of you that drew him in intractably and seized his heart the most.
The part of you that had so much to say, and no one to say it to.
“One day, I was at the general store and I picked up a field guide. The shopkeeper told me it was his mother’s, a gift from her father after they spent a summer camping together in the Adirondacks. I thought that explained why the pages smelled so wonderful, like oak trees and memories. But from it, I learned that a pair of loons mate for life, and every day before they can return to their nest, they have to find each other again. That’s what that sound is. A beacon to one another. I began to think of it as a call to a lost love,” You mused as you wrapped his forearm in gauze. “And I realized that the reason why it resonated with me so deeply was because it echoes with a fear we all share.”
His surroundings dissipated until all that was left were your words. Each syllable ensnared him, hooked him on their reminiscent edges precariously, and left his complete attention clinging to you. They carried him away from his great reluctance, left him helpless with longing, for he profoundly understood the nostalgia that laced your dulcet voice—regardless if it was for a foreign place to him.
“And what’s that?” He genuinely wondered aloud as he watched the firelight flicker over your face. Thoughtlessly, he leaned into the lovely shadows they cast. Your eyes lifted at his intimate tone, and the golden moment in which they met his open gaze and considered the diminishing distance between, something changed. Irrevocably.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The same way as when he was caught in a thunderstorm and sensed the imminent crackle of lightning in the air.
Once more, that poignant, lonesome wail rung throughout a land that grew cold and dark beneath the mountains’ shadows, revealing the answer before you did.
“The fear of being alone.”
The tangent of that thought led you back to reality, interrupting your hands as they tied off the gauze for your fingers to curl over his wrist instead. The absence of words spoke more.
It was a strange, heady sensation, to be filled with the sight of each other and watch as eyes fall to lips, a tacit desire blooming to have them touch, each to each.
He realized that you were lost in thought, not him, as your eyes glistened with tears.
“Arthur, if you hadn’t—if you had—“
You closed your eyes against the unthinkable end to that sentence. In the dark of your thoughts of loneliness and death, one of your teardrops fell, gently and silently—as snow did, and Arthur went wordless at the sight.
An urgent wave swept over him, lifting his large, calloused hands to tip your face back into the luminance of the fire. Unimaginable, how soft-hearted his inured hands became as they cupped your cheeks to swipe away your needless tears. His thumbs passed over the pores of your skin to efface your uncharacteristic sadness raptly, concerned with the sad brightness of your downcast gaze.
“Hey,” he shushed you gently, his voice softened by a tone he seldom used. “It weren’t a big deal.”
“I was irrational and you got hurt because of it. I put both our lives in danger.” You argued. “All of this is my fault.” Bitter resentment and shame dipped your chin low and Arthur raised it once more.
“None of that was your fault.”
I’d do it again and again. In a heartbeat. Don’t you know that? Those were the words he meant to say, though he dared not to. They were too soft for his gruff voice, too foolish in their candor. But also, being the kind of man who kept hidden what mattered most to him, a steadfast principle held him back. Their unuttered echoes rippled within him all the same, holding the clear beginnings of a confession, and he lost track of himself as a new fear dawned upon him in their wake.
He was stricken by the cold terror of losing something he would never have.
The truth confined itself, yet his eyes implored you, the roughness of his thumbs caressing over the softness of your tearful skin.
Nothing to be heard and everything to be seen, all that lay unspoken between you was said in another way—with his hands cradling your face lovingly, and yours still curled over his wrists, clinging to him.
As you swayed in his grasp and in your despair, he ached for you. He sought to soothe the pain in your brow; the tips of his fingers trailing over your temple and the back of his knuckles following the curve of your cheekbones thoughtfully. You leaned into his reverent touch completely, and when the apples of your cheeks no longer gleamed with fresh tears, he was left with you and him and the open. Alone. Two forlorn souls holding one another while the stars flowered above.
The watery smile you gave him was true, and the feeling that fluttered within him was the same. It was not the first smile you graced him with, but it was the nearest.
In his careful hands he dispelled your previous sorrows as he had hoped, and an overwhelming gratitude took its place. One he shared. As much as the encounter rattled you, it frightened him far more. How fast it all happened. The distant gunfire. Your screams. Coming across your startled horse on the road and racing through the thicket to find you.
His relief came after you were safe. After he had finished the last of the pack off with a clean shot to the head, he pulled you up from the ground and you splayed a bloody hand over his heart in disbelief. He covered it with his own to keep its place. While you were profusely grateful to him for coming after you, he shushed your frantic apologies and set off to find a place to camp before nightfall.
You had been quiet while following him the rest of the way, troublingly so while you gathered the driftwood along the pebbled shore for the fire.
Your smile began to wane in the bronze glow of the firelight, your expression fading as neither of you intended to let go of one another, this closeness. The endearingly soft expectancy in your eyes drooped somberly as you awaited his decision to pull away. He realized with dismay that you knew he would.
A threshold stood before him.
A lifetime of his mistakes, misfortunes, bad decisions and bad luck blurred past him in an instant like the pages of his journal. Deep down, he knew the ending and where his fate would ultimately lead him. And yet, those hardships shaped him into the man who knelt before you.
An unfathomable sense of unworthiness washed over him at the fact that despite the route his life had taken…it lead him to you. In spite of everything he had done, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps his last chance of finding someplace safe with somebody good had yet to be squandered. The prospect of you sharing this dream loomed before him, and the more he looked, the more he wanted. Senselessly and without abandon.
One final revelation begged its divulgence before this became a pleasant memory to add to the few. He had to find a way to disclose what you meant to him, and not with his meager words.
His thumbs trailed down, paused on your lips—
Your life matters more to me than my own.
—and a man he would never be held his breath.
With a slow, dawning wonder, the seam of your mouth parted and beckoned him, the fan of your lashes lifting slow. All he wanted for you, of you, awakened a thirst for a goodness he would never possess, unfurling in his heart with the same forbiddance of a rose blooming in moonlight.
You blinked once and looked at him anew.
And this.
This was the reason why. This was the moment in time when he knew.
Arthur needed to pull away. He needed to end this before it began.
He was a fool when he bitterly convinced himself that Mary Linton was the type of woman he would never fall out of love with. He never prepared himself for the possibility that one day he would be less wishful of the past and more hopeful for a future that would never come to be. The consequences would cripple him if he was careless. It was better if this secret of himself was kept buried. In his dreams, his drawings, his journal, in all of the places where the unsung desires of his soul echoed.
Although, these truths….he found that they may hide in all except two places. In silence and in reflections.
The silence of fading twilight held it when he drew closer, his eyes unclosing, and the mirror of you held it as your graceful shadow moved to join his upon the Earth.
The tip of his nose brushed along yours.
And all was still.
Beneath the night blue, within the whispers of a breeze, his dreams called to him. The ones forgotten, too impractical to keep—however far in the dark of his sleep. A murmuring slinked through his thoughts, pleaded him to reach forth, aching for nothing be between. He listened, wavering as the leaves in the trees surrounding him did, and he leaned his brow against yours as a final restraint. Over and over again, the wish desperately returned to him each time he shunned it away.
He clung to the last of his hesitations; his sensibilities begging him to turn away and never learn if your mouth was as sunshine warm and honeysuckle sweet as he imagined it to be.
The fleeting space between lessened, filled with the wild leaping of his heart thudding in his ear and the blurred sight of you until his eyes no longer wished to see. He soaked in the moment long enough to realize what he was about to do, what he was about to ruin.
Your name, it burned as he whispered it breathlessly. It was the cold wind that threw open a door long shut in his mind. Thought dead, what lay within the shadows merely slumbered; a heap of ash gray embers protecting a glowing heart, one that the merest breath may stir awake and fan aflame.
At the plea in his voice, your hands fell to his collarbone, seeking the fact of his pulse as they curved along his neck, shyly slipping beneath the buttons undone on his collar.
Soft and divine, the glide of your fingertips found his chin and stilled, a helpless shudder leaving his lungs. You were lingering on his scar, acknowledging with an inquisitive stroke that he had earned it on his unimaginably harsh journey through life. A life lived beneath a merciless sky, yet had taken him down paths that strayed far from sunlight.
The delicate skip of your touch wandered warmly. You coaxed his bottom lip apart, and for an elusive instant, all of his doubts vanished, crumbling like shale and slipping away like sand when you looked at him in a way no one ever had. The caring tenderness you returned lifted the shadows of his doubts, eclipsed them with the luminous glow of your gaze. He believed, in that sliver of absolute peacefulness, that none of this unfolding intimacy had anything to do with worth. Only this once, he told himself. And at last, he relented.
Sharing your quiet sigh of elation, his brows softened, rose with his hopes, and the devotion swelling in his heart became a flood that rises. To be so near the thread of your pulse and the splendor of your eyes, to share your breath and breathe in the faint perfume of lavender enchanting your skin, it was all the closest to heaven he would ever be. Never before had he known such a nearness to another soul.
Lips began to press—
No—
At the last second before delirium claimed him, he rested his forehead against yours like a man seeking respite. He took your hands, each in his own, and tucked them back into your lap as if to deny the truth before him. You had a wide look to your eyes—as if you had done something wrong—as he made the shattering choice to pull away from your warmth.
It was the last thing Arthur wanted to do.
Offering you this hope and to kiss you with all of the promises he wished to make was cruel and unfair of him. He knew better than to indulge this fantasy. For it was the same as gnawing on an old bone with only a trace of meat left; it would only leave him hungrier than before, like all illusions. Especially ones involving you. Dwelling on it gave him the same tender ache as pressing on a bruise.
It was best if the sensation of kissing you would remain known only to a dream. After all, what choice did he have? It was too late for him. But for you…
His voice returned to him in a whisper. “Just don’t go running off by yourself like that again, okay?”
I don’t want to lose you more than I already will.
When all was said and done, you would find your way out from this life. Away from all of the robbing and killing and running. Away from him.
You nodded, tugging your earlobe self-consciously as you fixed your gaze to the ground.
“That scratch might scar, but it should be fine. Just keep it clean.” You mumbled before turning away in a rush.
The intimacy that transpired was lost as you quickly rose to your feet and walked back to the campfire.
After a hard swallow to muster his composure and subdue his guilt, he rolled his sleeves past the neat knots of the gauze you nimbly tied. “Now, didn’t you say something about whiskey?”
The corner of your mouth quirked up at his attempt to lighten the mood, followed by a renewed sparkle in your eye from across the fire. After dinner and with a grin around the lip of the bottle, the rest of the evening passed by in a blur.
Arthur rarely spoke much of himself. That changed when he was alone with you.
With you, he told stories he never shared with anyone. Not from a sense of shame or secrecy, but because you asked curious questions that required a deeper part of himself to answer; a part of himself left in the past. You unwittingly unearthed his stories from a time before he knew how to write the happenings of his life plainly for the sake of recollection in his journal. Events that were unimportant to him in the past, yet mattered the moment you smiled and laughed when he recalled them.
He had darker stories, too, and you listened well, letting him find the right words, your expression full of empathy as he talked about his father and the conditions he grew up in. A lump formed in his throat when he reminisced about his mother, and he welcomed the touch you spared to his shoulder when he told you about his son.
As the night continued on, his chest grew warm with something other than liquor as your arm aligned with his and your head rolled onto his shoulder contentedly.
You both looked to the sky, as dreamers often do, and together you admired the galaxy of stars above. Before those jeweled heavens of light, the embers of the fire danced through the eddy of smoke and moths to join the night. Arthur leaned back on the log with you curled up beside him, his jacket tucked underneath your chin.
Your arm reached forth to point out familiar constellations, and you explained to him how the Greeks believed their gods cast images in the stars so that the memory of their people and their mythos would persist for time immemorial. Hercules and Pegasus, Andromeda, the Chained Woman, and Perseus, the Gorgon Slayer. You told him all of their stories, ending with Orion, the Hunter, with his belt of three stars that served as a guide to many heroes on their journey home.
He followed your hand as it connected the imaginary lines between them all and he squinted at their obscurity. A natural wonderment quieted your voice as you observed the boundless magnificence of the sky. For a time, silence stretched. The wood from the fire crackled and you stayed at his side, gazing up above.
Before long, you began to maunder aimless thoughts aloud, signaling your descent into sleep. “I wonder if the stars know how fondly they are looked upon…” you yawned and Arthur watched the path the moonbeams made through the high branches. His inherent cynicism lay forgotten at your innocent rambling, for those words resonated within him the deepest.
He wondered the same as he looked back down to you.
“I’m sorry,” you laughed. “That was…” the fan of your lashes lowered with a smile. He was losing you and your unfinished conversation to exhaustion. “My train of thought seems to have hit a cow.” He withheld his laugh and smiled instead.
With your hand against his ribs and the soft of your cheek pressed over the beat of his heart, you dozed off and he began to follow. As his arms found their place around you, he looked up to a sky still blue despite the loss of light. Through a night so dark, fell a star. He made one wish upon it. To stay. His final, drifting thoughts were of how the moon found her place in the stars, watching over all, oblivious to the light she lent, and how the wolves in the distance still yearned for her brightness.
He rested his head against your crown, filled his lungs with the memory of how you smelled of petals in the night breeze.
Arthur fell into the first untroubled sleep he had known in years.
His dreams were moonlit and of you, as always. In the dawn, he woke with the robins and found your fingers threaded through his. He loosened them. You hummed in your sleep as he tugged off your boots and tucked you into your frayed bedroll, unbuckling your gun belt before he did.
As the sun first came and all was bathed in pink light, he sat before the dying whispers of the fire, his journal in his lap as the mountain wind whistled through the pages.
The calm of the water soothed him with their cold, golden ripples between the pond lily leaves, but the image that caught his eye that morning and guided his pencil was not one from nature.
He drew your hand in his.
………….
The sun has moved higher in the sky.
A ray of brightness warms your face as it slips between the cracks of your tent, interrupted briefly by the swoop of a bird’s wings, and you stir in the light.
Along the journey of his drawing, smudges of gray color Arthur’s hands as they have traveled over the page. A few details still remain. His eyes wander over his work, searching for the aspects he needs to add before he considers his portrayal of you thoroughly complete.
Through deep talks on a dark night, Arthur knows how perfectly the curve of your shoulder fits to his side, and he lightly scratches his pencil backwards and forwards to form a rounded effect. Inside a bed, inside a dream, he would trace the bare lines of your shoulders with his knuckles instead.
In the present, his pencil flicks replicate the ridges of the fabric of your nightshift down your arm, and he uses slight gaps to suggest the highlights of the translucent folds of the material. His shading carefully fades to nothing as he continues along.
The memory of your arms pressed against his, and the bend of your elbow as you leaned back to stargaze rests in the back of his mind and guides his hand, his attention deeply focused.
The bare skin of your collarbone glistens in the humidity, perspiration beading in the wells of your clavicle. He darkens the shallows that lead to the elegance of your neck, and he shadows the fragrant hollow of your throat where he knows the scent of lavender lays. The shell of your ear comes last before he reaches your face. The platonic press of it against his chest as you drifted to sleep is an idle thought he always holds on to.
That night by the lakeside, he memorized every detail of your face. How the moonlight left your softer. How the firelight left you warmer in the cup of his hands.
At the feather light brush of your lashes along his face, his heart stilled. He traced the slope of your nose with his after, and you closed your eyes.
No words captured the profoundness of that intimacy to him. He draws it instead—that softness of your eyelashes against your cheeks as you rest. The dreamlike way the light falls upon you. He draws, and draws, until one aspect of your visage remains. The one of most importance to Arthur, and the one he imagines to be the gentlest part of you.
The vulnerable, soft space between your lips where your breath ebbs and flows with sleep.
His familiarity comes not from the ghostly touch of your mouth against his—so soft, and so hesitant, he may have imagined it after he pulled away from you that night. But rather, he knows your smile. One often rare in genuine nature, given the current predicament of the lifestyle you adopted.
The memory that prompts him to finish the drawing is of the first time you smiled at him.
It was the time of spring when the lilacs were sweet and full of rain—the good kind that washed the bricks anew. As the gang settled in to the new camp, the warm showers the clouds spilled overhead were a welcome change from enduring the cold snow of the mountains for weeks on end.
Church bells rang as Arthur’s steps creaked off of the gunsmith’s porch and into the muddy main street of Valentine. He ran his thumb over the new snake carving on the pearl handle of his pistol, taking a moment to admire the craftsmanship before he tucked it away and looked up to wonder where you were.
You had offered to help him that morning on a supply run in town. The corner of his eyes had crinkled at your eagerness and Arthur agreed to bring Jack along to get him away from his parents’ arguing. Overall, it was an uneventful trip. He helped you load up the wagon with bales of hay and sacks of grain before you headed off to the store with a list Pearson gave you, insisting you would be able to handle everything yourself.
A peal of laughter drew his eyes to the churchyard, and he found you stooping down to meet little Jack Marston’s height in the damp grass. The boy presented you with a handful of flowers, giggling as he tucked a flimsy violet behind your ear. You accepted it graciously as Arthur approached.
At the clink of his spurs, you looked up, the light of thankfulness shining in your eyes as you gingerly touched the bloom. Dandelion seeds floated through the air on a wish-bound journey, and the crescent moon of your smile as it faded demurely plucked his heartstrings.
You were—
Something he was not ready to admit to himself, not yet.
That bundle of violets Jack picked for you lays dry and withered in an embroidered handkerchief on your side table. He stares at them, the pencil in his hand stilled with the shock of completion.
Arthur came to a realization long ago when it came to you; admiring you from afar was like observing art in a museum.
Meant for the eyes, unspoken and at a distance, not the hands. Not to touch, or hold, or keep.
He closes the cover of his journal. Drawing you was a mistake. The leather strap ties and binds everything back inside and he returns to his stoic self, rolling his sleeves back down over the bite mark scars. He leaves all of his thoughts of you behind in your tent as he steps out and searches out Charles to accompany him for the day rather than face this. The thought of spending time with you no longer eases his uncertainties.
He does what he can to survive, always has, and he has to do what is best for you, as well.
And so, Arthur buries his feelings for you with the same metaphorical dirt he used for his mother, hoping it would make everything easier if he stayed far away.
Inside, in that hidden heart of his, he knew the feelings he buried for you were only seeds.
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From the kiss prompts may I request a #15 with Arthur/Fem!Reader? 💗💛
Absolutely♥ Hopefully you find this to your satisfaction, I wrote it rather quickly…
15. — a kiss on the back;
pairing: arthur morgan x female reader
word count: 864
warnings: lime (under cut)
With the gentlest of night breezes, the candles on the mantle shudder, their flames aflutter and astir. If silence could be a symphony, the music of midnight floods into the room, and the gossamer curtains hanging in the window sway peacefully in its song. They dance lightly in the silver stream, although elsewhere, the timid press of lips against your knuckles is softer than the moonlight that remains.
Far above, the stars beyond the open glass panes twinkle bright, and their wondrous gleam matches that of Arthur’s eyes as your dress puddles to the floor at last in a rustle of satin. You dart a glance up to him. No doubts, no reluctance or somberness. All you find in his eyes in that brief moment is you. In earnest, you crash forwards together again.
The buttons of his shirt are undone to his belt, and that jingles to the floorboards next with a heart-racing clink. You shuffle with him blindly, lost in a burning kiss only broken by a question and a breathless yes as clothes and shoes heap to the floor.
The cream sheets of the bed crease beneath Arthur as he reclines, a smile of disbelief transfixing his face. His lashes dust his cheeks as he blinks one last time, mouth forming around words he cannot decide upon uttering. He wordlessly determines that words were not for this moment as his hand cups your cheek.
He tugs you forwards with absolute certainty, proving his promise of reciprocating a love he no longer wished to deny you. The unspoken assurance sends a swarm of butterflies within you, overwhelming and flooding your heart with affection.
You waver before him in your palest of silks, gaze shy and low before the strength of his arms surrounds you. He turns you in his orbit effortlessly and pulls you back against his chest, your favorite place to lean.
Your heart beats in your throat as his mouth falls upon it, and you shiver despite the heat in the squares of moonlight. Arthur’s kisses are as warm and rough as his hands below as they trail after your pulse and press into the places that elicit the sweetest of your sighs. You wither and whine as he finds the soft behind your ear, whispering to you how beautiful you are.
His awed murmur floats in the dust-speckled air as you both dwell in the light. Your mind spins at the reality of this all. Lacing your fingers in his hair assures you that this is real, that he is this near to you and not slipping away. The loveliest of aches unfurls in your heart as the feather light drift of his fingertips draws down your arms, touching your skin and learning the simpler ways to make you tremble. Your lashes fall. Your lip tucks behind your teeth. He lingers.
His tireless hands move in the direction of want as his fingers pull to unravel the intricate weave of laces along the front of your chemise. The strong, comforting and familiar scents of leather and spruce trees and gun oil seeps into your senses, and you sink further into his embrace while he envelops you in his touch completely. You never imagined it could be like this, and you surrender to it, soaking as much of him as you can, never wanting to pull away.
At the base of your neck, he delicately slides your sleeves down to bathe your shoulders in the moon glow, kissing you more, kissing you senselessly downwards. Once again, his palms hold fast to your waist, crisping the fabric around your navel until the lace frill along your thighs lifts. You sigh his name heavenly, and his soft spoken words of praise down your spine bring a fever to your bones.
Before, being in this place with him was a dream to you. A wistful sanctuary. Like a hidden summer garden where no one would find you, where no darkness loomed or serpents lie.
Only recently had events led you to discover that this dream was shared between you. But deeper than that shared dream, Arthur’s languid kiss to your bare shoulder on this bed speaks of an unimaginable wish. One of the utmost sacredness, given the depth of his reverence. The divot of his nose follows closely behind, and goosebumps pebble your skin as silk pools in your lap. Only the soft sounds of his mouth against your skin mingling with your slow, stuttering breaths dissolves the quiet. But furthermore, they voice more than affection.
They utter a hope that this would last long after he cradled you in his grasp.
A ceremonious touch smooths along the angles of your hips. His broad shoulder cushions your head as it falls back with abandon and he leaves you boneless. The warmth of calloused fingertips parts your thighs patiently, slipping beneath white lace with an exquisite ardor, and in your penultimate anticipation, he presses a final kiss to your back. One longer than all of the others before it. Its tenderness rolls your eyes heavenward, and the first of many moans escapes you before all is lost to the stars his love brings you.
