✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader
✦ Summary: This is the answer for a request from some time ago of an anon asking for Arthur being so in love with his girl that he forgets to pull out and finishes inside of her 🫣 For the life of me, I can't find said ask in my inbox!! Sorry for that little anon, and for how long it took.
✦ Warnings/tags: MDNI!! 18+ p in v, super fluffy, idiots in love, Arthur is so so smitten, coming inside, St Denis.
✦ Words: 2k
Arthur's pic belongs to @/delliebre on Pinterest!
Past events are written in italics.
St Denis. The windows of one of these rich hotels overflow with lewd noises, threatening to collapse under the weight of obsenity. The night outside doesn't absorb them and let them fade, all the contrary. And inside, those silk sheets and fluffy pillows are probably the only good thing this damn town has to offer, Arthur thinks to himself. Especially when he can have you all to himself, lying under him, his large hips spreading your thighs so widely, your back sinking into the mattress at every thrust of his.
"A-Arthur!"
"Jesus, y'feel so good."
Hearing you call his name like that. It's too much, an unthinkable oasis he would never dare imagine for a second, considering the arid desert that is his life. The sound of your voice, so soft and feminine, murmuring his name, crying out with pleasure, whispering to him during intimate nights when only the two of you existed in the world. It was the greatest gift of all.
He remembers the very first time your eyes fell on him. A look he would never have deserved even if he had repented for centuries. A look that not even the most pious of saints would deserve. The second your pupils caught his, he knew it was too late. He'd never see the sky the same way again, because no stars would ever shine as bright as you.
"Oh please, like that!" You pleaded, the pace and angle he had found spreading waves of pure pleasure through you with every move of his.
He groaned deeply in reply, strong arms encircling you on either side as his hips pounded relentlessly, a slow but steady rhythm. His cock plunges deep, all the way in, striking that spot inside of you that makes life worth living.
He stares down at you for a few seconds, your breasts bouncing thanks to his thrusts, making his muscles tighten and that itch in his balls burning.
The first time he had caught a glimpse of them, the blouse you were wearing that day was soaked after a banter with Sean that ended up in the fresh waters of the lake. Walking out of it on the shore, he had confirmation that mermaids did indeed exist. The droplets of water running down your chest, like pearls of diamonds. The swell of them, barely hidden by the damp fabric sticking to your curves, teasing his sanity. You were a test made for mortal men about the sin of Lust.
He had been quick to steal glances from you. From across the campfire. When you were both feeding your horses. When he was cleaning his gun. And you had been looking back. At first, he couldn't believe it; his thick, stubborn skull convinced him it was a trick of the light. But you were. And he loved it. He could feel his neck turning red, his cock getting hot against his will when you would stare at him for too long. Especially when he was chopping wood, he had noticed.
"Arthur don't stop!!"
"I -Oh, God damn it,- I ain't stopping sweetheart, I ain't." Balancing his weight on only one arm, he swiftly grabbed your right leg and brought it to his shoulder, making you cry out, the new angle even better than before. "Ah- Not until you had it all."
And you would get it too fast for your liking. His abdomen rocking back and forth, bending his belly in this hypnotizing movement every time he sinks into you. The veins on his shoulders and neck as all his muscles are used to fuck you good and proper. His big, rough hand holding your thigh up against him. His eyes fixed on your face. It's all too much for you.
"I'm… I'm going to-"
"Yeah, give it t'me, girl." He orders between gritted teeth, his fingers digging into the flesh of your leg.
The first time you had made love together. Oh, how he wanted to please you. To show you the love he had been hiding for so long, his journal the only witness to his secret. Because behind the baser instincts and forbidden desires already laid a stronger, much more powerful feeling. Oh, he should have known from the start. He should have known himself after all these years. Sexual attraction was just the tip of the iceberg and always hid something else. The affection he felt for you and still feels for you today has never stopped growing. His need to protect you, to make you happy, to have you all to himself bordered on obsession. The way he had held you that night, touched you. Like it was a privilege. Like you were an angel who'd spread its wings and disappear, far, far away from him in the morning. Slow, and tender, and so different from what you had expected. The roughness had come later, once he was sure he wouldn't hurt you. Once he was persuaded you wanted it. Then, and only then, he had started really letting all out, both of you eager and rough and wild.
You cry out in pleasure, and he fucks you through it, whispering tender praises at you, cock filling you just like you need it, steadily pumping in and out until the very last drop of your orgasm.
Oh that clench around his cock —that sweet, warm and tight pressure all around him. He had almost forgotten all about it. He wanted to feel it every goddamn day of his miserable life, but most of all, he wanted to make you feel this good every holy day of yours. He loved you, so goddamn much. So much it was almost frightening him. So much he could move mountains for you, dive the deepest Ocean, kill anyone you'd tell him to. Damn it he felt like a goddamn dog you'd keep in leash. But so, so proud he was the one able to push you to that edge.
"Yeah, that's right, that's my girl." He sighs, voice getting desperate as he looks at your pleasured and disheveled face, hair a mess and mouth open, high-pitched moans of pleasure escaping softly from your throat again. Now that he has accomplished his mission, he isn't going to last long.
The way you mended his clothes just like you patched up his heart. The softness of your caresses. The way you were taking care of him more than anyone had before. That night you had kept him completely against your heart so that he could fall asleep. The way you were always standing up for others. That look you gave him when he was being sarcastic. Your words covering his when he said shit about his look in front of the mirror. Your laugh shattering through all the other ones in camp. The way your lips felt. Your perfume still filling his nose when he fell asleep alone. Oh, how he loved you.
He's so close it's becoming almost painful. He can't take it anymore —the feeling of your naked skin everywhere against his once again, the warmth of your pussy welcoming him in this unholy embrace he shouldn't be granted with. All those memories filling his enamored brain as he keeps on rutting you, unable to stop himself, wanting to do one with you. The pleasure you're giving him is just too much for his poor sanity, and he let go of your leg to snake both of his arms around your middle section, pressing you all against him as his ass contracts and swells to keep on thrusting inside.
He's almost there, but he keeps his cock inside, the hard line of his so firm he's almost impaling you now.
And as he is losing himself in you, one of your hands gently runs through his hair from the base of his neck all the way up to his messy hazelnut strands, touch so gentle, so loving, so perfect, your statisfied blissed state contrasted with his phrenetic one, and you whisper all against his ear,
"I love you."
He moans so deeply it turns into a growl, his head buried in the loop of your shoulder and neck, his cock letting everything go as if you just had ordered him to come. You can feel it, deep inside, his thick and hot cum filling you up for the first time, and you could have been thrown over the edge once again too if it wasn't so soon. His embrace is almost suffocating as he's holding you stronger than ever.
A few seconds pass, and his pace finally slows, his softening shaft moving slightly and sloppily inside your pussy with wet and filthy noises, like a spoon twirling into honey —wanting to put off the moment he'll have to pull out. And that feeling, God. Every last move from him is answering your words. "Me too. Me too. Me too." He's a mumbling mess, words just grunts of pleasure and bliss and desperation against your skin.
Both of you spend and euphoric, you moan and sigh for a few more seconds suspended in time. He then rolls to one of his sides and is about to snuggle against you with that pleased smile he has after sex, when he suddenly goes straight up in a quick and clumsy move. He looks straight at you, eyes wide, mouth opening in an almost panicked expression, not the hint of a smirk on his lips.
"Oh, shit! Shit, sweetheart, I'm sorry I-" His hands fly over your body without daring to touch you, as if he were going to make things worse.
"It's okay, Arthur."
"God, you should have yelled to me, you should have pushed me back!" His throat feels like someone is strangling it. How could he have been so stupid?! He couldn't even stop himself; he had completely forgotten. Not better than a fucking animal in heat. "Damn it Morgan, goddamn bastard y'a are!"
"Push you back, with your full weight on me?" You chuckle, but he doesn't. You sigh softly with a small grin of your own. "Arthur, look at me." You add, one of your hands reaching for the side of his face, stubble slightly prickling you.
He does as you ask, his eyebrow up in a deep expression of regret. His chest rises and falls quickly. The guilt and shame of what he just did are twisting his guts. The fear of what it implies and what he did to both of you even worse. Goddamn dog he is.
"It's okay. I don't mind."
There are a few seconds of pure silence, and you can almost see the gears turning behind his forehead as he processes your words.
"You… Ya don't?"
"No. I just told you, I love you." You hold his gaze, deeply. Having been with him for some time now, you know that the words that follow will be important, decisive even. "And I wouldn't mind starting a family with you, if that happens."
Arthur burst out in joy, which, of course, only shows by the way he smirks from one ear to the other and looks down, sighing through his nose. He then turns his head to put a quick kiss on your forehead. He doesn't answer right away, but you need him to. The way all of his worries seem to have vanished forever is more than enough. He gets up from the luxurious bed, searching for a towel or anything else to clean you up. You lazily stay there, not bothering to look at his naked body walking in the room as if he was the master of the place, his cock, still big and heavy even softened, swaying as he moved.
"That's the first time." He says when he comes back with a white, fresh, and perfumed towel. God, being rich was really something else.
"What do you mean?"
"First time you say it t'me." He explains as he sits beside you, carefully cleaning your cunt he had just filled up. There's a wild and savage side in him, hidden between the shame and the guilt that feels so pleased to see his cum dripping out of it like that. What a sight.
"You never said it either, as far as I know."
"'s better when you say it," He chuckles lowly.
"Better for you, dummy."
"Hush now, or I'll crush you under my 'massive weight' again."
You both laugh together. You stay naked for the rest of the night, cuddling, talking, dreaming. It's only when you're on the verge of falling asleep, the comforting warmth of his body against yours shielding you from the freshness of the night, that Arthur answers,
"I love you, too."
a/n: as always, english isn't my first langage, please reach out to me if you spot any spellings! Thank you so much for reading all this to the end, please consider reblogging or commenting if you liked, it would mean the world to me!
He’s got your legs pinned back against your chest, fucking you nice and steady. Arthur — ever the lover boy — is panting above you like a damn mutt in heat. You’re spread open to him, pussy soaked and dripping, your walls sucking him in.
You’re moaning his name in a sweet voice. “Arthur.. oh Arthur… Arthur..” soft sighs escaping your kiss bruised lips. He could hardly register anything, could hardly form a thought. All he heard was the soft calling of your voice and feeling the flutters and squeezing on his cock from your velvet walls that had him ready to burst a hundred times over.
He was really in his own world. Arthur’s large hands kept your legs pinned back as he towered over you, cock sliding in and out of your hole at his own pleasurable pace. His eyes were shut and his head was tipped back as groans and grunts fell from his lips. Arthur was damn near a babbling mess, hardly forming a coherent thought before useless words slipped from his mouth.
A breathy tone he would sometimes murmur ‘fuck’ ‘oh Jesus’ ‘yes…yess..yes…’ or ‘sh-itttt’ before letting out a long groan that went straight to your pussy. You didn’t even care that he was using you for his own pleasure — too lost in the moment to remember your own. Seeing him a mess above you was your own type of heaven. It made your walls more slick and dripping.
And when he’d get close to coming, his eyes would finally open back up and snap down to where he was disappearing inside you. He’d make you take your own legs and hold them back so he could grip onto the sheets while he picked up the pace of this thrusts, his hips snapping quicker. Arthur would really be panting like a dog then as he fucked into you. His groans turned into moans that softly escaped his throat, eyes half lidded while watching his own cock and your boobs bounce.
With his cock twitching uncontrollably inside you, Arthur would fall forward into you as he came deep inside. His thrusts would slow, delivering slow but heavy thrusts to ride out his high. Moaning and grunting into your neck as your pussy squeezed and constricted around him.
You’d run your hands down his back, threading your fingers through his hair as he eased your legs back down to his hips. When he’d finally come up from the crook of your neck, hair a mess and a fucked out look on his face you’d smile up at him, kissing his cheek and jaw.
Arthur would grin right back at you, closing his eyes as you kissed his face. “Sorry..” he’d murmur while turning his head to capture your lips. You’d mumble back about it being okay, that you knew he’d make up for it in a gentle teasing tone.
And boy did he.
With his cock hardened again, Arthur would fuck you until you were the babbling mess. Hips drilling into your own, down right filth spilling from his mouth, guttural groans right in your ear. He’d make sure that you came twice or more before even thinking about himself coming again.
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.
“C’mon girl, stay quiet f’me can’t’cha?” Arthur muttered into your ear. The two of you were hidden under the covers in his tent, trying to get some much needed alone time as a party raged on at Clemens Point right outside. Arthur propped himself up on one elbow as the other arm rubbed slow yet precise circles over your swollen clit.
“I’m tryin’ but y’keep teasin’ me!” you whispered back, your breath hitching mid-sentence. Each slow drag of his throbbing cock against your walls resulted in whines spilling from your lips, muffled by your hand.
“Is that right?” Arthur pushed into you at a slightly rougher pace then before, earning him a glare from you—which proved to be futile due to your eyes soon rolling back into your head.
“Arthur!” you mewled, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He chuckled lowly at your attempts to stay quiet, knowing he wasn’t exactly doing anything to help with the way his thumb pressed harshly down on your clit.
“You’re okay, girl. Doing so good f’me,” Arthur groaned, pressing soft kisses on the corner of your jaw. Arthur wanted nothing more than to pick up the pace, wanting to pound into you with no worries of other people hearing them.
“I—I need more, Arthur,” you pleaded. Your moans had grown the slightest bit louder which had caused Arthur to slow his hips down, not wanting others to realize what was hapoening in his tent. With someone else, he wouldn’t’ve cared—but with you, the mere thought of allowing anyone else to hear you sing the way you did for Arthur when you were under him made him nauseous.
“I know, sweetheart, I know. But I gotta give it to ya slow, alright? Don’t need none o’those—shit—idiots hearin’ my girl.” Arthur peppered kisses down your neck, over your chest, before stopping at your nipples to take one into his mouth.
You whined at his words, not liking his answer. Truth be told, you couldn’t care less if the world heard what you and Arthur were up to, all you wanted was for him to fuck you properly just like you’d asked him to.
“Mmh’m close,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to speak louder.
Arthur let go of your nipple with a pop before speaking, “Yeah? Then cum for me, love. And since my girl did so good, maybe next time we’re in Rhodes I’ll get us a room at the hotel and worship her properly, hm?”
i acc don’t remember if theres a hotel in rhodes...mb if theres any spelling errors i didn’t catch! </3
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.
Imagine sitting on Arthur's face, grinding down on him, with his nose brushing over your clit and his tongue occassionally flicking over it as well. His deep and gravelly groans hit the skin on the inside of your thighs like a warm gust of wind on a hot summer's day. Strong, big hands are holding onto your hips, his fingers digging into you like you're about to be swept away any second.
His cock is hard, has been for an agonizingly long time and now it's straining against his trousers. It hurts, stings, aches in a way so sweet and delicious that he doesn't want it to end. If anything, then he craves more.
More?
"More...", he blurts out, barely able to utter the word with your cunt pressing against his lips.
Arthur wants to drown in you and everything that makes you. Deeper and deeper, so deep that he forgets where he starts or ends, his name, his face, his voice.
It's you, you, you, breathing life into his lungs, setting fire to his body and all he can think about is how much more of this he needs.
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.
