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astrobie · 12 days ago

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I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision (but only for you)

word count: 18.9k || tags: smut (at the end), hurt/comfort, fluff

summary: "Stay." He whispers. Like a prayer. He hopes you do.

When Arthur first opens his eyes, he notices that he's in a cabin.

It's a disorienting feeling. There's something put in his nose, and he tries to move, finding that his body's too exhausted to do anything. It's an uncomfortable feeling. There's something tightly wrapped around the injuries from the fight before his death, and a figure in the corner of the room. His arm moves a little, only to find a needle pushed into his arm, and he panics, groaning when his body tenses suddenly.

"I wouldn't do that if I were ya." The figure speaks up, clicking their tongue as Arthur blinks at them.

"an' who're you?" He swallows uncomfortably, and the figure adjusts the bag attached to the needle.

First, it's a look at your face.

You look young. Definitely younger than him, but not distinct in what age. You look phenomenally young for someone who supposedly hauled him from where he had been bruised and battered from his fight with Micah. Young, young, soul. Not a wrinkle on your face, and you are yet to show any signs of maturity. Strange, strange being.

Arthur squints at your face, observing the lines and lack of lines. He takes in what you're dressed as — just any other lady, really. He squints at your face and looks for the familiar glint of a hidden agenda, but you seem to present yourself as is to him. Only then does he relax his shoulders a little, staring at you. You seem harmless enough, though he's still not sure what's in his arm, but you don't seem to be trying to kill him.

Then, he takes a look inside the cabin.

Outside of the bed he's rested on, the needle in his system and the tube stuck in his nose, there's nothing else out of the ordinary. You have a fireplace, a stack of wood on the side, and you almost seem to be living in the forest. Quite nice, honestly. The cabin feels nice and homey, but you have the unfortunate situation of him in what he assumes is the only bed from what he can see. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, watching your every expression. Just in case you're hiding something.

"Call me sunshine f'r now." You hum, lips curled upwards sweetly. "Yer still not well, so I'd lie back and rest for the time being. Let me take care of the injuries."

"How'd y'know— ugh.. huh?" The grogginess overtakes him again, and it reminds him of when he was younger and used to get sick all over again.

"Oh, look. It's kicking in." You beam, waving at him as he feels his consciousness slip from his mind. "No worries. It's just…"

Arthur Morgan falls asleep, eyes closed, body lax as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he hears you talk to yourself, muttering quiet words, assumed to be narrating your own life, talking out loud. Perhaps you're used to staying alone. It seems like there's only you in the cabin, since there's never any other voice. The door creaks sometimes, and when he's conscious for the few seconds in between his sleep, he catches you around the home doing something.

He thinks he caught you doing something with the food once.

He's still mildly disoriented from waking up. The grogginess never fully escapes him. He stays awake for longer periods in between sometimes and eats what you have for him, but quite frankly, the needle in his arm terrifies him, and he's not too good at using his left hand for eating all that much. You help as much as you can, feeding him before eating yourself, and he's forced to rely on you. He thanks you after you do, and you give him a gentle wipe of his lips like he's some baby.

He sleeps again shortly after those periods, drifting off sometimes to a melody you hum, sometimes to the sound of the wind rustling the trees outside.

When he's awake at night, he stares out the window, watching the leaves and the flicker of the fireplace, wondering what came of everyone else after his tussle with Micah. He'd ask you, but he doesn't know how much you know. For all he knows, you could have just been some poor lady who found him bruised and battered on the ground. He doesn't know much about you, still, but he has no choice. His gun isn't with him, and quite frankly, you seem to be taking care of him rather than trying to kill him. He'd be dead if you wanted him dead. He'd be dead if you just left him there to rot.

He usually sleeps a while after that.

But he starts staying awake for longer periods of time in between his rest, sometimes getting to watch you toss out the fireplace ash, sometimes watching you sit on the day bed by the fireplace on a journal of your own. When he asks for water, you lift the glass to his lips, and when it's dinner, he lets you feed him whatever you can. He tries using his left hand to eat, getting better by the day, but some days he coughs too hard, and you have to feed him again.

"Thank you." He mumbles.

"Always." You nod.

Eventually he falls back onto a proper sleep schedule, waking when the sun does in the morning, sleeping when the moon rises at night.

You look older now.

You don't feed him as often now. You offer him a bowl, and he'll be able to scoop it up with his spoon, and he doesn't need to rely on you to feed him.

"Dinner." You hand him a bowl.

Arthur takes it, eating slowly, making sure not to move the arm with the needle in it.

He learns to trust what you have to offer him. You seem harmless enough, smile on your face, no bad intentions behind it. He's lived a long life, he thinks. He did plenty of good in his final moments. He can tell the good from the bad, and he thinks you're a good person. Much better than he is, after all. He has no reason to be so on edge around you.

"Alright." You hum. "How's the throat feelin'?"

"Alright." He mumbles. "Why?"

"Y'er gonna start treatment for the tb."

Arthur raises a brow.

"The doctor said there's no cure."

"Well, I say we ought to try new methods anyway." You point a finger at him, and you shrug. "My ma survived it just fine with what I'll give ya, so I figured it might be worth a try, mister…"

"Morgan." He nods. "Arthur Morgan."

"Mister Morgan." You hum, lips curled upwards sweetly. "Don't worry. I won't hurt ya. Found y' near dead by a cliff, and by god, how scary."

"Yer a good person, sun…shine." He hums. "Sunshine? Yer parents name y' that?"

"Called me that while growin' up."

Arthur doesn't doubt it. You look like you'd grown up with enough love in the world. There's a smile on your face that isn't quite as deep as he ought to believe it to be. It's alright to be fine and peaceful. You seem like a respectable person, after all. Much more respectable than him.

"How y' feeling?"

"Sick." He hums. "Does the… treatment really work?"

"Worth a try." You hum. "Just gotta promise me to listen and trust me."

"It ain't that hard to trust you."

"It will be when you start it."

Arthur spends his days resting and listening to you. It's quite easy to listen to you, after all. You give him instructions, give him little pellets to swallow with water, but the pills make him feel sick. You have a bucket by the side of his bed for him to vomit into when the nausea gets bad, but there's not much else you can make for him. His food is soft compared to yours, and you make sure he's able to digest everything. He still gets meat in the stew — softened, but still edible.

He also has his own set of utensils. It's because you tell him he's contagious. He makes note of that to himself.

It feels uncomfortable being taken care of like this. He's not quite sure what to make of the fact that you're fixing him up. The nausea hurts, but you're there every step of the way. It's strange to think that he's never heard of you despite being so well known in the East. Maybe you moved from the West over. He heard some of them natives have cures for illnesses unlike western medicine.

It's still disorienting, though. He's still not too sure what's quite going on some days. It makes him confused. The mild paranoia still sits in his skin. He watches everything you do when you're around him and he's conscious, and though he takes the pills and trusts you to some extent, some days it's hard. Some days he feels so nauseous before eating that he doesn't have the stomach to even eat. He's curled over the side of the bed or hugs the bucket. His head spins and his lungs heave, struggling to breathe like he remembers before his death. Oh, the cough was not kind to his lungs.

"Oh, okay, Come on. It's fine." You hold the bucket as Arthur coughs, lungs hurting and chest burning, blood spilling past his lips.

"'s that supposed t' happen?" Arthur blinks, and you shrug.

"Happened to my ma." You hum. "At least the blood's comin' up. Won't kill y'a no more."

"Doesn't feel good."

"Feels better than collapsin' a lung, I can tell y' that." You grimace.

"Collapsin' a what?"

You blink at him twice, tilting your head with an innocent smile as you pretend to not remember.

"Hm?"

"Yer gonna be the death of me, sunshine."

"Well, it's the pellets or the tuberculosis, so have y' pick." You shrug. "Maybe next time I ought to ask first before bringing y' back from the dead. How as it anyway?"

"The dead? I was dead?"

"F'r a bit. Did y' know it's new? The machine I used to save ya. Founded in Switzerland or sum." You tap your chin. "Brings the dead back t' life for long enough to save em. Had to figure out how to work the one my pa was given as a gift."

"Say, y' some kind of rich kid?"

"Nope." You smile at him.

You look only a little younger than him now. He doesn't doubt that you'd be around his age if he hadn't grown up as an outlaw. You have that look to you. Someone who's lived their life moving around. Feels strange for you to be around his age and so knowledgeable. Maybe you went to university like the fancy folk up north do. You seem to be well presented. He doesn't see people like you often. They don't usually come down to the south. Most of the Northeners prefer sticking to their own kind. The civilized kind.

He wonders why him. Why now.

He complies with treatment, swallowing pills and eyes closed when he feels the sickness crawling up his throat. You tell him it's called phlegm, and he curses whatever god there is out there during the initial stages of treatment, but the food becomes easier to eat, and his body learns quickly how to adapt. It overcomes as it does. When the bruises heal, his body focuses on the tuberculosis. The medication proves to be useful. He stops throwing up after a week or so.

You have a little calendar on the wall to mark the passage of time. You have a clock on the wall and the calendar underneath, Arthur keeping his eyes trained on you when you do things around the house. He itches to help, but you keep him stuck on the bed with the needle in his arm. He can't bear to look at it longer than a few seconds. The sensation is long gone, but on occasion when he shifts, he can still feel the needle in his arm, and it irks him.

He longs for the day you'll be able to detach it from his poor arm.

"You know, Arthur. Tuberculosis can be cured. Just takes time." You laugh. "Some people live by nothing. Seems your lungs were in humidity for too long. Always better to stay in dry land when sick."

"I didn't know." He mumbles, watching as you peel an apple next to his bed. "Thought it was just a cold."

"I don't blame you." You cut a piece of the apple off, holding it to Arthur's mouth.

"What's this?"

"Just eat the damn apple."

He opens his mouth to bite down on it, chewing slowly as you continue cutting up the fruit to place it on a plate.

Old habits die hard.

"You'll be fine. Seems t' be much better." You hum. "You're throwin' up less these days."

"Yes, I s'ppose."

Arthur watches as you clean off your hands at the sink, watching as you mumble to yourself, quiet mumbles. You did that a lot. You tended to mumble to yourself to remind yourself of something, and Arthur wonders if it's because of him. It bothers him to no end, he supposes. He went to collect the debt from the sick man, only for it to come back and kill him. Almost, kill him. There's much to be lost in thought of in his own mind. In a way he believes perhaps he deserved the death. He was no good man, Arthur Morgan. He had made right what was dong wrong by him before his death, so he thought perhaps he would die with some more semblance of peace, but even in his final moments, his breath labored and he yearned to see the sun rise one last time. What a foolish man, he is.

"… wish I got to stop you before you caught it."

Your words break him from his thought, lifting from his head as he looks at you.

"What's that?"

You fluctuate between ages. Like some witch, perhaps. You look younger on some days than others, and sometimes when he wakes, you look younger than some of those girls working at the saloons, but you also look older some days. He wonders what kind of nonsense it's got to be for you to be looking so young some days and older on others, but he doesn't pry. He tries not to. You're allowed to keep your own secrets, after all.

"Don't worry about it." You smile, lips curling upwards sweetly as he nods.

"Sunshine."

"Yeah?"

"You ever gonna pull the needle out'a me?"

You tap your chin, wiping your hand off from the water as you think about it.

"Ever thought about going to a sanitarium?" You reach for something in a box — gloves. Arthur finds them to be strangely colored, but they are gloves nonetheless.

"No. Needed by the gang back then. 'm a wanted man."

"Mm. I see." You hum, moving over. "I'll take the needle out if that's what you want, Arthur. You'd have to start getting up and moving, though… Namely a bath."

Arthur looks away when you instruct him to keep his arm still, and he winces as you slide the needle out of his arm, clinkering of the needle in the box catching his attention.

"Did you just…"

"Yeah." You hum, wrapping a bandage over the hole left by the needle. "Tossed it into the bin. Can't touch the rest of the trash. It'd be horrible if an animal got their grubby little fingers onto it. It's a biohazard."

"A bio what?"

"Danger." You pause to wonder when the word had first been coined. 1973? God, that's a whole century later. Whoops.

Arthur squints at you, and he watches as you tilt your head at him, raising a brow.

"Yer full of surprises, sunshine."

"I take pride in that." You hum, pulling off the gloves to dispose them in the same bin.

Arthur moves his arms around. He's not completely muscle-less despite it all. He moves both his arms, staring at his softening hands. Strange to him, despite it all. It seems foreign that his hands would ever soften. He's unused to not having to do labor. His hands have gotten softer.

"Come on. You need to wash up." You grimace. "Yer stinking up the whole place."

"Oh, sunshine." He raises a brow at you. "Don't be so brash."

"Can't." You scrunch your nose. "Nose keeps clogging because you stink."

Arthur knows that feigned annoyance on your face is just a facade. You had been wiping him down when he was asleep. He'd wake up to it sometimes. Never anywhere inappropriate, no. Just his arms and legs. On occasion, he'd feel you wiping his neck and face, quiet melody hummed on your lips, too foreign to his ears. But he understands. He's unused to being taken care of, after all. He's gotten used to lifting his weight around the camp and helping when he could. It only worked him further to the bone when he found out he was to die. He had gotten so used to taking care of others he forgot what it was like to be taken care of. He almost likes it.

"Say, Mister Morgan, how'd you like to get up and walk a little? You up f'r it?" You tilt your head. "I can support ya."

"Y' seem smaller than me, sunshine." He hums. "Also, Arthur, please."

"Won't know til y' try." You step next to the bed, holding an arm out for Arthur as he shifts down. He wasn't quite convinced that you could support someone of his build, but you seemed insistent enough..

"Mister Morgan."

"Arthur." He insists.

"Arthur." You fold your arms, tapping your arm. "Won't you take a bath? We even have warm water."

"Warm water, y' say?"

"Mhm." You grin at him, tilting your head coyly as he laughs.

"Alright. I'll go wash up. Where's the bath?"

"Come on down and I'll help you get over there." You offer a hand as he turns from the bed with his arms, supporting himself as he gets down.

"It's been a couple weeks since you've walked." You catch him as he stumbles, and he groans.

"'m a grown man an' I can't even walk on my own."

"You're a patient, Arthur." You hum. "A sick man before a grown one."

"Don't like dependin' on you like this." He mumbles, almost embarrassed.

"I know." You hum. "But it's alright. You'll get your chance to pay me back."

"Then I might as well rack up more debt to you. Would you help me wash up?"

"My, Arthur, I didn't know you were a man like that." You laugh, helping him walk as he laughs, rumble in his chest traveling to your arm around him. "But I s'ppose it goes with what I've been hearin' 'bout you around town."

"They speak of me?"

"When I ask who Arthur Morgan is, they tell me all about'cha." You help him into the bath, ditching the jacket to free your arms. "Y' still wan' me to help?"

"If y' don't mind."

You help him clean, sleeves rolled terribly far up your arms so you can get further down into the tub. He notices that you try not to look him in the eye, making sure to avoid areas too close to where you shouldn't touch, and hands hesitant the closer you get to his pelvis.

He understands. You're not a bath girl after all.

But it's so strange that he's still alive. He was so certain that the sun would be his final sight, look at the buck staring him in the eye as he died after saving John. It would have been a good way to pass even if he didn't want to. The sun brought comfort to his lungs. That was plenty more than he'd needed. His last breath filled his lungs with more air than he had breathed in the past months.

Yet he breathes normal now. Lungs restored, presumably. He can't quite see into his own chest, so he doesn't know how they look. They feel healthier now. All that matters is he's not coughing as much and isn't as sick. It's a blessing, he supposes. He worked himself to the bone to try to do better, be better, send everyone that matters off to where they belong. The sickness should have taken him. It would have been a good ending.

It would've fit a man like him.

But it's also not enough. It's part of the human body to want to fight until their last breath. He's alive but isn't quite sure what he's going to do after this. It's part of why he watches you. He has until you inevitably get tired and abandon him like the gang did. Like Dutch did. Soon, you will start expecting he pays you back. He has no money. He left all of that for John.

Maybe he can pay you back with labor. With his body.

"Y'know, Arthur."

"Hm?"

"I really do think that it's incredible that you wanted to live so bad." You squeeze off the rag you were using to clean him and take a step back. "You were still sorta breathin' when I found ya."

"I wasn't dead?"

"Short, shallow breaths." You hum. "'s why I had something plugged to yer nose when you first woke up."

"An' what was it for?"

"Air, Arthur. It was to send your body some more air since y' lungs weren't workin'."

Arthur blinks at you, mind turning slowly, but ultimately deciding that he didn't understand it anyway, so there was no point. Medicine really did seem to improve, huh? The state of the world was moving quickly, and everything was moving too fast. Too quickly. He's unused to it all. He's unused to how you are. It's just a mess of jumbled science that he isn't smart enough to know. That's not his world. It's never been his world. Perhaps it would be if he hadn't joined the gang, but there's no point in mulling over that anymore.

It's not like he can redeem himself anymore.

"Oh, right. Might be best for you to avoid goin' out for a while." You wipe your hands with a separate towel.

"Hm?"

"Finished settin' up yer grave." You hum. "A dead wanted man is much better than a missing one."

"A grave?"

"Where y' almost died." You hum, wiping your hands down on your dress. "Where I found you."

"I see."

"We'll see if any of your old friends come visit the grave." You hum. "I'll bring in anything they place as offering. Who knows. Maybe a couple of your friends might leave new things. You had a handful of things on you when y' passed too. Was the letter from someone?"

Arthur freezes at the mention of the letter.

"Was from a woman. We used t' be engaged."

"Huh."

Arthur doesn't know why his heart clenches at the mention, but he supposes it's not much to think of. Gentle, soft. Soft for her, still. He's spent his whole life taking care of her when he could. It'd be hard to let go of affections so easily. He must look solemn to you, 'cause you clap your hands to snap him out of his thoughts.

"Water's gettin' cold. Better chop chop, cowboy."

"Cowboy?"

"Mhm." You hand him a towel as he gets up, getting used to walking again. His skin's all wrinkly from the water. "Y'had a cowboy hat by you when I found y'. It's on the table with the rest of y' stuff."

"Alright." He mumbles.

"No use mopin' over people you can't— well, can't see yet. You can save the mournin' for when yer all good. Who knows, maybe you'll be able to get her back."

"And when will that be?"

"Mm… couple months?" You tap your chin. "The TB takes a long time t' get better with pills. Not much else you can do to treat it."

He sighs.

"Y' sure I'll get better?"

"Yer a strong man, Arthur Morgan. 'm sure it will."

"And if i don't deserve it?"

You tap your chin, pondering over it.

"What is there to deserve and not deserve? The universe doesn't balance on what good and bad we do. There are far more important people than you 'n I."

You don't speak for the rest of the night, Arthur eventually drifting off and you retiring to your room. He gets a better look at the inside of the cabin. A bathroom to the right, and your room on the left. He rests in what he assumes is the drawing room. He has his own bed. A big bed. He can't help but wonder if you'd ever catch the illness from him. You might find out too late like him. It would be horrible if he got you sick. He'd never let himself live if he did get you sick.

He finds his stuff in the cabinet next to his bed, reaching for a pencil and his untouched journal.

He starts writing. Sketching, perhaps. A picture of you he remembers from the bath. Alongside notes about late.

Woke up in an unfamiliar cabin. Felt strange. The TB felt horrible at first, then the pills the woman fed me started making me throw up. Thought I was going to die. But lived. I don't cough as much, but she insists I have to take another five months of the medicine. What a woman.

Asked me about the letter I had with me. Told her it was from someone I used to be engaged to. Mary. I miss her. I wonder how she's doing. I'm glad I handed John the ring.

A sketch of you sits on the other side of the paper. Far more detailed than he was expecting it to be. You must be asleep in the next room over, yet here he was, trying to remember what you look like from his memory. Last he had drawn a woman so detailed was when he saw Mary. It makes his heart clench, perhaps. He loves Mary. He'd love her for as long as he could breathe, maybe. But there is affection that hurts painfully in his chest, fighting the giant to love you too. His heart is not that big. He does not know how to love someone unfamiliar to him.

But he knows the feeling — the bubbling nonsense that he remembers from when he first fell for Mary. The awful feeling of hope in his chest that he had tried suppressing for so long. He can only do so much to stop himself. He can't control his heart, after all. He wonders if this is just a cruel twist of fate or if this is just god being horrible to him. He's never been a religious man, but those moments of darkness were strange to him. Felt too foreign to be good.

He wakes in the morning, greeted by you making breakfast. You cook around the house, hunt, take care of the home. You do everything by yourself and it confuses him to no end. He's seen capable women, but it just seems you just keep on impressing him more and more.

Even when he insists on helping out in the house, you wave him off and tell him to focus on recovering. He can sketch things he finds around the house if he really needs something to do.

So that's what he does. He sketches the couch until he's got the fabric memorized, sketch the sight of you from the back in the kitchen until his fingers are tinted from the lead — until he has the sight of you memorized and fluttering in his mind over and over again. It's horrible, horrible, horrible of him, but he cannot help it. There is the illusion of domesticity before his eyes, something he never knew he could crave this hard, and you are his savior, so it only seems fitting that he would fall for you the way that he has.

But he also believes he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve the domesticity that comes off in waves from you — the care, the heart, the comfort. None of it is something he believes he deserves after his past as an outlaw. He's a dead man, given the chance to start over, yet he's chained by the actions of his past. He can't right every wrong like he wants to. He's died once, which should have relieved him of his sins, but the memory haunts him.

He doesn't believe that he deserves the life that you're giving him, so he settles with helping out with what he can get away with.

"Arthur, you— stop! Not now!" You stop him from fixing up the fireplace, pushing him off as you sigh. "The smoke isn't good for your lungs. You have to let me clear out the ash from the fireplace."

"j's wanted to help."

"I know." You hum, reaching for your handkerchief to wipe his face of the soot. "But y' can't do much right now. Just focus on recovering. If you're bored I can find you something to do."

"Which would be?" He leans into your touch.

"I'm not sure. Painting? You sketch a lot." You tilt your head. "Surely you can find your way around the colors."

"If that's better."

"Got a preference? Watercolor, oil, gouache… acrylic?"

Arthur doesn't recognize the last one.

"I'm not offering you pastels or charcoal. They include some dust, and I'd rather die than let you breathe in something foreign into the lungs and undo all of the progress we've made concerning your lungs."

Arthur blinks again.

"Regular pencil?"

"You sure you don't want anything else?" You frown.

Arthur shakes his head.

"Just a pencil's fine, sunshine."

"Alright. I'll find you a sketchbook somewhere. Surely it's in one of my boxes."

You find it by the end of the day. You hand him a box of different pencils and the biggest sketchbook he's ever seen and tell him to "go ham". He does not know what that means. If anything, he assumes it means to go… he doesn't know. He won't bother trying to figure it out either. He spends his days curled up on the concerningly comfortable day bed you have, sketching down whatever stands out for the day. You let him go out with a bandana around his nose and mouth and sketch the plants if he wants to.

Arthur's not quite sure how to thank you.

"Focus on recovering." You tell him. "You can pay me back that way."

So Arthur sketches. He carries the heavy things when he notices you struggling — not that you ever do — and he tries his best with helping around the house. He picks up washing the dishes when you finish, grateful that he gets to eat what you do now. Roasted chicken, freshly baked bread, and beans with enough flavor to stand on their own. Bowls of rice alongside grilled pork, baked pies with berries fresh from your garden. He eats horrendously well, food flavored the way he could only assume was brought from somewhere that wasn't America. He doubts he'd ever had anything so good while camping.

"God." He mumbles. "Feels good t'be havin' proper food again."

"Oh, I bet." You hum. "Sure that porridge was driving you insane."

"Half the stuff y'feed me is new to me."

"Just trust that I won't poison you. I'm tryna speed up your recovery." You point a butter knife at him, and he hums.

"Can I have a slice of pie?"

"Thought you were gonna open your mouth and ask for a second slice."

"What berry's it today?"

"Boysen— raspberry."

"Boysen what now?"

"Boysenberry." You pause.

"'s that from where y'r from too?"

"Something like that." You huff. "Want a slice or not?"

"I'd like y'to shoot me if I ever say no."

"Well, can't be shooting a patient of mine." You hand him his plate, and he sighs.

"Heaven."

Arthur cleans the plates afterwards. He tries, at least. You tell him it's much easier if he just drops a couple of dollops of the liquid soap you have into the big pot you used to stew dinner and let the dishes sit inside with hot water for a couple minutes, but he insists on being the one to rinse them off after, even if it means he's still doing less work than you. He really wishes you'd let him cut up the animals for you so you don't need to be using that big cleaver of yours all the time, but you refuse to let him touch it.

He settles with letting his stomach rumble while he sketches on the cushions instead.

Some days he chooses to abandon the eraser and go in with his hands the way he used to smear the lead with his fingers to shade, but other days he feels bad for leaving silver imprints on the cushions, so he settles with the pencils, switching between them and using so much without sharpening the tips that everything looks softer on paper.

He frowns at it sometimes, but you always tell him you like the way they turn out, so he sticks with what he does.

Sometimes he shows you his sketches like a child showing their mother — apprehensively, asking if you like it. (He doesn't know why he does it) But you always do, a quick nod and grin enough for him to sit back into the cushion. He writes about it the same way he used to write about himself making a fool of himself in front of Mary.

Can't stop making a fool of myself in front of her. Really concerning. Don't think I've liked someone and acted this stupid in a while. But she makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I know this feeling, I just don't believe it.

But he tries. He really does try. He takes his medication you hand him an hour before dinner and sketches until he's certain he's drawn everything that he's allowed to look at in the house enough times to memorize. He wonders if he should ask if he's allowed in the rooms, but he'll save that for when you air out the house in a week or so. You air out the rooms when the wind isn't as strong and the autumn air brings only breeze, not heat.

You make him wear the bandana around his nose when you do. Tell him it's so none of the dust gets into his lungs during early treatment.

Some days he wonders if you're doing too much.

But other days, most days, the uncomfortable voice in his head curls around his throat and tells him that he enjoys it. That he deserves to be treated like this after trying to redeem himself. Isn't it just a showing of redemption? Isn't it the universe paying him back for the good deeds he did before he died? Isn't that just how it is? It's not true, he tells himself that. There is no paying back from the universe.

He suppresses the thoughts with each scratch of the pencil on paper, opting to watch you crack your neck before the stove instead. There's this churning affection for you that brews in his heart, rumbles in his soul. Like a pot threatening to spill over. It's hard to remember to keep everything in check. He doesn't deserve to love you, he doesn't think. There is no such thing as deserving or undeserving.

Still, he thinks over his time with Mary. They loved each other. He just didn't have the heart to settle down and roll over. Too young. Too brash. Too headstrong. He enjoyed the life of being an outlaw. Relished in the fear that some people would show whenever he towered over them. It's a life he was proud of in his youth, but now ashamed of. He would have done it different now that he's getting to the age.

"Say, Arthur." You support a basket of laundry on your hip, raising a brow at him. "You got any other clothes to change into?"

"Haven't had the time, I suppose." He glances at the clothes. "Why? They seem dirty to you?"

"Thought you might like changing clothes every now and then." You tilt your head. "What're your measurements? I can get you something when I'm in town."

"'m not sure, sunshine. I used t' just go in and try stuff on."

"Mm." You huff. "I could measure you?"

Arthur doesn't like the way that his blood runs south when you say that so casually.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You nod. "Well, not today. I'd have to measure you a little after a meal so your clothes aren't too tight. I could also just sew you some clothes myself and get that old sewing machine in my room running, but I don't know how good my clothes would be in comparison to an actual tailor."

"'m sure it'll be all fine." He hums. "Why not now?"

You point at the basket on your hip. "Taking this to the river to wash."

"Why t' the river?"

You frown at him. "Didn't wanna wash it over here. There's a river nearby… don't y' wash yer clothes in the river?"

He gives you an unimpressed look, and you frown.

"Can you take m' shirt while you're at it?"

"Yeah." You hold your hand out for it, and he unbuttons the shirt to hand to you.

He doesn't know what possesses him to do that.

The embarrassment comes immediately when you leave the house, and he hides his face in the cushion to breathe for a moment. Damn idiot making a fool of himself. He's nearing his forties and here he is, losing his damn mind over a caretaker. He really ought to get himself together once the TB's gone.

So he settles with writing in his journal. Sketches of you folded out of the sketchbook and into his journal. Tucked into the fraying leather.

Fool. A damn fool he is.

But the truth bleeds from deeper than his heart.

It's around four months into taking medication that he starts noticing that you stare into nothing a lot more often. You lose yourself in your mind, staring out the window when he washes dishes into the abyss. Some nights if he sleeps late enough he'll catch you on the porch, rocking slowly, staring out into the trees, over the horizon. It makes him wonder what's wrong.

You don't seem to want to stay.

Sometimes he catches you holed up in your room for so long that you forget about dinner.

He knocks on those nights, and you come out, telling him sorry, eyes puffy from crying, something simple made. You don't bother hiding the way the furniture changes slightly and the fireplace where you cook food isn't actually a fireplace. Arthur learns not to question it. There was a word he heard for it a long time ago. Melancholy.

It's in the tired eyes and exhausted soul.

You throw food into the oven and light it with a match, letting the food sit and lay on the day bed across from the one he sketches on, staring at the ceiling.

Some days you fall asleep and he takes out the food from the oven. He saves a slice of dinner for you, always.

Some days you eat it, some days you don't.

He learns to navigate the days when you're so deep in melancholy that you forget to eat. Some days you take a bite or two before you slip it into a cabinet that blows cool air on the food. Before you settle on the couch to watch Arthur sketch in his sketchbook.

Some days he wonders if home being far away means death.

How terrifying for his savior to yearn for something he wanted to flee.

But you never forget to portion his medication. You tell him what time of day to take the medication. Always on an empty stomach. You try staying conscious enough to make sure he's taken his medication, but other days you sit on the couch and stare into nothing. Then, you'll return to your old self, asking if he needs anything from town when you head down, asking if there's anything he wants to eat before you start preparing food.

He learns the cycle.

It doesn't have anything to do with when you bleed, he finds. Some days you're just more melancholic than others. On days that you are, he does the cutting and preparing of food, keeping an eye on the clock for when food would finish stewing. He learns to live with stews or pies on those days — no complaints. He makes use of the cabinet you have full of different spices. Doesn't taste as good as when you make it, but it still tastes better than the camp food he'd grown used to having.

Eventually you work out a spice measurement for him to use when you don't feel good enough to cook.

But you always make sure he has something to eat.

He asks you about it once.

"Y'wanna tell me what's goin' on with the melancholia?"

"Just melancholy." You hum. "Don't do well with it."

"Y'need sun or air? I can—"

"No, no, Mister Morgan. Don't you go out doin' nothin' necessary now." You sit up, thanking him as you take your plate. "It'll grow out once the weather passes."

It's almost always sunny when you're melancholic beyond saving.

Yet, you push on. You have to nurse him back to health, after all, you tell him.

He recognizes the look in your eye. He's seen it in people he knows. In people who are filled with so much melancholy that they can't breathe. That smoke themselves to their funeral. In the eyes of an artist who paints and paints until the melancholy takes their life. He wonders what's caused it in you, but he doesn't pry. He learns to fill in the parts that you need help with. He learns to watch you cook so he can make something that would have the same effect on you. If he cannot cure it, then he will try to help it.

Sometimes, in the gaps of the darkness, you talk to him.

"Arthur."

"Hm?"

"Y'ever loved someone?"

He pauses.

"Have."

"Will you tell me about her?"

"We were engaged." He thinks over his next words very carefully, but to no avail. "I loved her."

"'m sure you did. You wouldn't have gotten engaged otherwise." You stare out the window. "What was she like?"

Arthur joins you in staring out into the darkness this time.

"She… was everything."

You hum, going back to staring out into the abyss again.

The gloom does eventually leave bit by bit as the season comes to an end. You pick up cooking again and shoo Arthur out, replacing his pencils with a pack of optional charcoal, an easel brought in with huge canvases of paper. You tell him you're sorry that he had to see and take care of you during the melancholy when it should've been him being taken care of, so you pay him back with a small gift.

Your definition of small surprises Arthur.

But he still learns to read your moves. Sometimes, you still for a little longer than you ought to, and he takes over the cutting in the kitchen. You bring him the clothes you talked about a season ago, cheering when they all fit him perfectly. You never got his measurements. He supposes you just ended up guessing and got it all right. Yet, he still finds himself doing what he can to lighten the load off of you. He feels like you ought to have someone help you out as much as you can. The home only has the two of you, after all.

You call him pretty once.

He thinks you lied.

But he understands that feeling of helplessness. His death made it perfectly clear to him that it'd be impossible for him to ever redeem himself. That he was a helpless man, but oh, did seeing you struggle with even wanting to be alive strike him different. So similar yet so different from him. So, so similar yet different. You craved what he feared, and he feared what you craved.

Sometimes you let loose and bring back booze for the two of you to share.

You hold yourself well, but then the night gets too quiet and you hic and laugh.

Arthur thinks you sound like wind chimes when you laugh.

"Mister Morgan, you sure are a pretty old man." You hum, cheek pressed to your palm across the dinner table.

"Is that so?"

"Mhm."

"I never quite believe you, sunshine, but I thank y' anyway."

"Y' should learn to take a compliment. Won't hurt y' to." You hum, eyes closing and dozing off.

He carries you to the day bed, scared of entering your room, sliding off your shoes before he pulls a blanket over you.

Some nights he sits at the end to look at you a little longer — observe the way your hair falls over your face and the way you breathe. Like he has to remind himself that you're still alive. LIke he has to remind himself that you're still here. That the melancholy hasn't taken your life alongside your soul.

Taking care of you takes up so much of his mind that he stops wondering about himself. Always a good thing not to think too much about himself. He's getting to the age where he should be sure of things — not questioning them. Yet, he still questions himself. He's fond of you, besotted, even (read that somewhere in one of your books when he got bored), but he doesn't think he's the best for you. Maybe better to hurt both of you in the present rather than somewhere down the line. It would do him much better to do that than give you both false hope.

You deserve someone better than him, and he deserves… he deserves to suffer for the weight of his actions.

But it doesn't stop him from taking care of you. He presses calm hands to your shoulders to have you sit when you look visibly tired, and he eventually learns to settle you in bed because you sleep bad. It's visible in the bags under your eyes. Some nights you stay up staring out the window until you inevitably fall asleep again, head slamming into the wood, Arthur's hand meeting your skull halfway to stop your head from slamming into the table.

Some nights, you chat. Some nights, you don't.

He learns to understand it. Understand you.

You don't owe him anything, after all. His lungs feel much better with each passing day. You're a blessing even if you have your moments.

Arthur finds you standing out on the porch late in the night one evening. It's two past twelve, which means you probably couldn't sleep. You always struggle to sleep on some nights more than others. Maybe you're brooding again. You always have something to think about late at night. Strange, strange woman. Yet, he loves you— oh. He likes you. He loves you. How expected of an answer for him. He thinks he was trying to run from the answer too. Dishonest man. Horrible, horrible man, yet he loves you so.

You deserve better, though. So he opts for pretending he doesn't.

"Thinkin'?"

"You really ought t' stop filling in the gaps in my soul, Mister Morgan." You don't turn to look at him, staring out at the forest as Arthur steps next to you in the darkness.

"'m only tryin' to take care of y' the way you do me." He dips his hat gently, and you turn to look at him.

"'s easy for poor ol' weak-hearted me to think that you're only doing it out of love." You hum. "And that's not good for me."

"And why not?"

"'cause I'm falling for you."

There's a silence that Arthur isn't quite too sure how to fill in. His soul is too murky for him to tell you the truth. He likes you. Loves you, maybe. But he can't and shouldn't. There's nothing good that would come out of him telling you anything about his feelings. He shouldn't pay back the care you've given him with the truth that he had loved you probably longer than you've ever been falling for him. But you deserve someone better than him. You deserve a man who's good. A good, honest man. A man that Arthur isn't.

"Arthur. I know you love Mary, still." You seem to choose your words carefully, pinching your fingertips as Arthur frowns. "But I need you to understand that I cannot control my affections."

"Sunshine, I—"

"You don't need to feel bad for me." You hum. "I never expected reciprocation. I just wanted to tell you so you'd stop being so kind. I can take care of myself plenty fine, Mister Morgan. Just focus on taking the pills and getting better, hm? I'll send you off with enough money to purchase land in California or more North where no one can find you. You don't need to worry about me."

Arthur doesn't like how your words hurt him.

"Y'keep talkin' like y' don't plan on staying."

"Oh, well. I wasn't meant to stay this long, after all. I only stayed 'cause of you, Arthur. I ought to make sure my patients recover before I leave anyway."

The admittance of the truth seems to hurt him more.

"Sunshine."

"Don't go feelin' bad now, Mister Morgan. You're still plenty of a good man to me."

"And where you goin' back to?"

"…home, maybe."

"And where's home?'

"Somewhere no one else can go."

He doesn't like the distant look on your face.

He always thought you weren't from around. Frankly, he thought you were escaping from a life somewhere he didn't know. Always thought you were someone like him. Maybe he ought to get better at reading people again. You were never escaping anything. You had just settled down for a change of pace, maybe. Who knows. It could be a dead husband or wife. But it becomes apparent that you were never supposed to stay for as long as you are now. Sometimes he wonders if home is in the darkness you look into so often. He wonders if you mean darkness as home or someplace he really can't go as home.

"If that's… what you want."

"You ought to go find Mary once you recover. I'm sure she'll accept you with open arms, even if it takes a little warming up." You hum, dusting off your skirt. "Well, Mister Morgan. Quite the productive conversation we had there. I ought to rest for the night before the melancholy gets any louder."

You turn around, ready to retreat to bed, and Arthur moves before he can think of what to say to get you to stay.

"Look, sunshine. I ain't no good man, but somethin's tellin' me I shouldn't let y' walk away like this."

You look at him, tilting your head.

"If you feel bad, Mister, you really ought not to." You try to pry his hand from your wrist, frowning slightly when it stays. "You aren't obliged to love me back nor pay me. I'm the one who chose to save a dead man, after all."

"You've just done so much f'r me. I can't let you just leave without it. Listen to me talk, sunshine, won't you?"

"Was there somethin' you didn't tell me, Mister Morgan?"

"Just Arthur, please." He mumbles. "I will work through—"

"Oh, heavens. No, Arthur. I don't expect you to love me back one bit." You hum. "Might be easier for you to never develop affections for me at all."

He raises a brow at your words.

"Wh—"

"I'll send you off to where you'd like, get a nice plot of land for y' and then I can be off on my way home."

"Sun—"

"No need to fret, Arthur. 'm not a girl, y'know? I'm plenty older than I look." You laugh the same laugh you always do. "Who knows. Maybe you'll see Mary agai—"

Arthur can't help his next moves.

He has a hand holding your jaw, the frustration evident as he huffs.

"F'rgive me for what's next, sunshine."

And he kisses you.

Bastard move if he's one to be familiar with. He's surprised you don't bother pushing him off. If anything, you stay perfectly still, almost as though you were waiting for him to finish. Frustrates him to no end. Playing him like a fiddle. You woman. What a horrible, horrible man's hands you've fallen into.

His lips rest against the skin of your neck, careful to remember that he can't kiss you on the lips until he's all better. He'd do anything to make sure you don't get sick. Surely the saliva would be better than the blood, but he's still weary to make sure you are fine.

His stubble brushes against your skin when he rests his face in the crook of your neck, and he's scared to look at you. What kind of a face you are making, he wonders. He's so in love with you he could burst at the seams yet you never quite seem to believe that he's moved on. Oh, what does it take to convince you that he's not the same man he was when he died?

He does eventually pull away, eyes more sad than he cares to admit. You seem tired, now that he looks at you.

How stupid of him to think that he could ever deserve a second chance at love.

"I would've preferred y' just slapped me than looked at me like that."

"I just don't believe you love me, Arthur." You hum. "You clearly haven't moved on from Mary."

His heart hurts.

"I really have."

"But your heart wants something else." You turn from him, and Arthur stares as you disappear into your room.

He had a heart, because it was broken — but he still has his heart, because he just heard it crack with the thud of your door closing.

He doesn't know how to love properly. Too haunted by the people of his past. Too haunted by someone he knows has tried to move on from him. Even in his last moments, he hoped that Mary would be happy. Just plain happy. He wonders if he's happy now. He sure doesn't feel happy from the way his heart cracks in his chest. A broken heart twice. What a fool he is.

But he tries. He takes his meds like you instruct him to and he cleans the dishes even though it takes a while for him to learn how to get them all the way clean with the liquid soap. He tries and tries, filling his pages with things you did during the day and reminding himself of when you look most happy. There are enough sketches of you to fill a library, he thinks.

He hunts half past dawn and brings home the food, skinning and cleaning the animals, watching you cook them afterwards, heavy clang of your knife against the bones of his spoils. He learns to understand when you want something. Shift of weight from one foot to the other, pinch of fingers when you're scared to say something. Look on your face when you're alright with him showing any affection to you.

But you're also never scared.

You keep a gun on you when you go to town, haul back the supplies like they weigh nothing, and scold Arthur like he isn't taller than you and a bulk of muscle that would a send a man twice your size running off. It's awfully homey of you. Makes him remember his earlier entries about how he caught himself dreaming of retiring someplace nice with a wife. He's sure he wouldn't have believed himself a year ago if he had known it. Oh, he doesn't deserve you one bit.

He takes over the heavy labor bit by bit, fixing anything you needed fixed, hands returning to the rough state he was so used to. But you peel open. his hands at the end of the day, soak them in warm water, spread lotion on them like he's made of glass. Gentle, gentle touches for a man who hasn't known it since childhood. Tears and pulls out memories he didn't realize he had. It makes him soft on the inside — tears his heart out whilst healing it all the same.

But you grow warm towards him. You start kicking your legs over his in the comfort of a couch while the two of you watch the fireplace to wind down. He starts noticing the ax sharpened for use and his portions up to himself for deciding. You still feed him his medicine and make him rest in the living room, but you're softer around the edges. You're less tense around him. You look at him more fondly. He feels undeserving of it.

But he listens to what he wants. Learns the way you like things.

"Made y' tea." He sits down next to you on the couch, placing your mug on the table in the center as you scribble in your journal.

He unwinds with you after dinner with both of your journals, never asking the other what they're writing unless they bring it up.

Some nights he sketches you. Some nights he writes about how he feels and what he did.

Chopped up more firewood today. Takes quite a bit to heat the cabin, and Sunshine doesn't seem very concerned about us running out, but it's the least I could do. I've been getting softer these days. She feeds me too well, but also my heart. She makes me want a live I have no business trying to live, but I also cannot go back to my old life. This is a second chance, I am just scare to take it. Maybe I make myself a fool all the time. Can't remember the last time I did that over a woman that wasn't Mary.

There's a sketch of the fireplace next to his entry. Brick upon brick, sketched out gently with the pencil he uses and sharpens with his blade. You had gone ahead and fixed up his things when he got them back — specifically his knife.

It's been over half a year. By technicality, he shouldn't need to take anymore meds, but he's only a few days away from the end of his cycle, apparently. You had told him he needs to take more since the TB hadn't gone away completely, and some days he really ought to ask you how you'd be able to see it, but he learns not to ask. Better not to know sometimes. Probably better that he doesn't know.

"The new meds are working." You hum. "Checked last night when you fell asleep. They're mostly fixed. They don't seem to be fighting the meds either."

"And how long until I can stop taking them?"

"Gonna be a while." You hum. "Another three months?"

He grimaces.

"The disease needs to be completely eradicated before you can stop taking the meds. You're just lucky it isn't antibiotic resistant." You hand him two pills.

"Anti what resistant?" He takes them, taking the water that follows to swallow them.

Arthur watches you purse your lips to think over how exactly to explain it to him, trying to ignore the nasty taste of the pills left in his mouth.

"The pills fight the TB. The pills are called antibiotics." You pause. "New medical research. Kind of risky, but a lot let risky than when my ma had to take them."

"Kills the TB?"

"Kills. Well, kind of. You've been taking two different kinds of pills to kill the TB." You pause to think. "The TB is strong, so it actually takes the two different medication to kill it off cleanly. It's a little weird since it actually has this layer over the disease itself, so in order to kill the disease you have to chip off the outer later."

"Sunshine yer talkin' a lot of big words right now."

"You need to continue treatment because it's not dead." You conclude. "None of those were big words."

"I know." He grins, lips curling upwards on one end coyly as you sigh.

"Look at you learnin' jokes now."

Arthur laughs when you turn around, and you huff.

"I really ought to give you a lil more space for all the art, huh?" You glance at his little corner — stained sheets and wood. You probably hadn't expected Arthur to pick up charcoal as fast as he did.

Well, he didn't have much else to do. You let him out to wander but not do too much strenuous activity, and you only let him do the heavy labor if you're watching. He wonders if he ought to do it shirtless so he'd elicit a reaction out of you. You seem to be a little more cautious around him since confessing that you weren't very fond of him treating you so kindly. He didn't think he had been doing anything different, but maybe you just operated on a different level of expectation from people you don't know.

Not that he hadn't had any strange intentions towards you, but he keeps them to himself for the most part because of the TB. Can't go infecting you with the disease. He wouldn't know how to fix you. At least you know how to fix him.

Still undeserving of it, but he has no choice. There isn't anything else he can do. He has to learn to accept it, he supposes. You've done so much for him anyway. He feels like he really ought to pay you back somehow. He's been painting scenes that he can still recall from the sketches of his journal, and he's been hiding a painting of you behind the other two paintings out of embarrassment. Sometimes the lead gets a little stuck between his fingerprints, so he wipes them off on one of the cloths you'd given him.

There is a lot of darkness in his paintings. The forest outside your home is shaded with plenty of black thanks to the winter. Most of the trees have lost their leaves, which leaves him with an immense need for more charcoal. He wonders if you ever tire of bringing him materials back from the store. He can't quite pay you like he ought to, but he doesn't want to take your generosity for granted either.

He wonders if he should find a library to learn how to find lead naturally. Surely the rocks outside could create some sort of pigment. Maybe even the clay. It bothers him a little, but he doesn't ask you for more lead when he finishes. He just mixes some dirt on some days to create pigment.

As a result, his drawings don't exactly color match when he tries, but he makes do with what he can.

You frame some of the sketches around the house. Some go into the study you have — books that Arthur won't touch unless you say he can. But he also dusts the house when you're not home. You trust that he'll listen well enough, the coughing much better now, though you insist on him finishing the final round of medicine. He wonders if you'll leave after the three months. You're always talking about moving. He wonders if he'd be able to go with you, but from the way you talk about it, he feels like he has no space in it.

He doesn't quite want you to leave.

He doesn't think he does, at least. He knows he doesn't want you to leave. If anything, he's certain that he'd like you to stay. You've given him a slight glimpse of a life he used to crave the older he got, only to consider moving away. He's not allowed nice things, but he can dream.

And you're just so patient with him he feels unworthy.

"You're a good man, Arthur Morgan." You hum, kicking your legs from the dinner table as he washes the dishes.

"I can hardly believe that, sunshine."

"Then you don't have to. Let me do all the believing for you."

"Hard to believe you when I don't even know y'r name." He looks over at you again, and you hum, laughing.

"Alright."

Your name tastes sweet against his tongue, clinging to his heart and seeping into his soul even when you go to bed and he lays awake in his. Oh, your name. He knows your name now. It fills his heart with warmth and rushes his cheeks with red, embarrassment horrible for his poor heart. He's acting such a fool over you that you could probably ask him for his life and he'd offer it to you.

Old good for nothing man and here he is, fighting for his life because of you.

But his heart warms and he calls you by name when he remembers too. Feels too intimate some days. It's like you're doing it on purpose to bait him into intimacy. The illusion of a good life eludes him. He doesn't deserve it with so much blood on his hands. He knows he never would've changed if he hadn't been diagnosed with TB. The acknowledgement is enough to kill him.

He's not a good man, despite it all.

He takes his medication when you tell him to, when the clock tells him to, and when he naps, he wakes up and you tell him how his lungs are recovering. His lungs are better, you tell him. It's almost gone. The medication is just killing the final bits of his illness. You show him photos sometimes. Black and white, of the way his lungs look. Holes in his lungs, but they're regenerating, you tell him. You show him older photos you had taken.

On those days, he wonders if you're a witch of some kind.

But no point in wondering you are. He's grateful for you. He hunts and brings back food now that you let him and skins the animals, learning from you how to dry age them so that they last longer.

The deer he hunts lasts the two of you two weeks.

"God I'm sick of chewing on that meat, bro." You grumble, stabbing at the deer on your plate. "I need chili oil."

Arthur isn't quite sure what that is, but when you come back with enough spices to fry the whole room into hot tears, he thinks he kind of understands. You abandon the oven in the house to start a fire outside, bricks set up and a giant fire set under a large… pot? It resembles a bowl more, but he doesn't ask when you ask him to hand you a bunch of the ingredients.

The steam it emits causes a raised brow from him, but you push on, coming out with a jar of red oil.

"This is chili oil." You point at Arthur. "Wait, can you even handle spice?"

Arthur tries, pursing his lips and deciding that he wouldn't risk his system losing it over the oil.

"Y'can have it with y'r meat. I'll lay off on it f'r the time being."

The snicker you try to hide doesn't escape him, and you mumble something under your breath about cowboys and no spice tolerance.

He doesn't get that luxury when he's constantly on the run. He's gotten so used to bland food that eating what you were serving him started feeling like a luxury. He's getting used to it, which he isn't too fond of, but he enjoys it. He's just much more apprehensive about everything else. But it's easy with you. You make it easy for him. So, so kind. So sweet.

Sunshine made chili oil today. Too spicy for me. Tongue is still a little numb. She seemed to like it, though. Wonder if I should try it again.

But he learns to hunt slightly smaller animals after that. You tell him what days you're going to the butcher for a slab of beef so he doesn't go out, and on other days you tell him to hunt small. You're still mildly traumatized from having the same animal for two weeks straight, but you don't bring it up anymore. Arthur learns to avoid hunting deer after that. You're not fond of it very much. You think the meat is too tough to chew on. He sees it in the way you grimace when the meat makes way past your throat.

Arthur's still a guest at the end of the day, really. So you clear out the study and make space for his bed, letting him rest in the room now that he's better and his tuberculosis isn't threatening to kill him at every cough. It's been a while since then, but he gets to read all of the literature you have hiding in the room. There's lots and lots to uncover, and he finds himself very quickly entertained and mildly concerned for the books that sit in your library. Most of them are hand bound — seen in the way they don't sit perfect, but he reads them nonetheless. Fishes out one of your dictionaries when he finds words that don't exist.

He wonders if that's what you're into, but it helps him pass time alongside the sketching with charcoal. He starts sketching some of the characters in your books, finding ones that share his name, staring at the quickly filling book of charcoal and imagination. Your portrait remains half finished, though, tucked behind his other portraits. He shades old friends into existence sometimes. The one of John haunts him the most. He wonders if he ever did right with the ring he gave him.

Three weeks after he starts reading, he finds books with dates in them.

Dates from the future — couple hundred years into the future. He wonders if they're any different, but he reads them. He had suspected it already, and it seems that you've stopped bothering to hide it. Maybe you feel safe enough to no longer need to hide it. Or, maybe you don't care if he finds it anymore. Maybe you trust him enough to learn it and not tell anyone. Maybe no one would believe him if you really do leave anyway. Maybe you just don't care anymore.

But he reads through your books, learning new words, finding his own way with words. The education that escaped him comes back at his old age. Yet, he finds maybe it isn't too late anyway. There's no harm in wanting to read the books you read and the literature you've saved. There's no harm in learning now that he has the time to sit down and really read.

He learns to ask the question "when" instead of "where" when you bring up home after reading some of your books.

"When? Oh, heavens. God knows when." You huff. "I don't like what the answer's supposed to be, but I sure do like the traveling."

Arthur nods, going back to his book on the day bed, kicking his feet over the other.

"What year, then?"

You tap your chin. "Whatever year the machine takes me."

He wonders if the home is an extension of the building he's staying in. Maybe that's why you're so desperate to chase him off the lawn of your home. Maybe you want to go home... wherever that is.

Two months after that, you show him a photo of healthy lungs. He doesn't understand it, but he keeps the photo to sketch into his canvas. A large pair of lungs with slight scars, but healed all the way. Healed like the bullet in his shoulder and scars from his youth. You tell him he's healthy now. He exhales and thanks you for your effort. You tell him it's all thanks to his listening.

"You did good." You beam at him. "You're all free to go out and wander at night now."

He's just glad he doesn't need to take medication anymore.

Arthur steps out for the night air. He's all better now. The air is crisp in his lungs. Packs a nice chill to it, and he glances around the cabin he'd been getting taken care of in. It's just a cabin. Something else is happening in it, in your room, but he wasn't the type of guest to try and pry something you didn't want to share out of you. So simple. So easy. You're so simple and easy. One hell of a woman when it came to it, but you stood by your word and kept on it.

He felt like he was pushing on you half the time that you'd lie across him in the drawing room, but you never spoke up. You seemed to speak up when you minded. You'd never backed down from putting him in his place when he'd step out of line. Sometimes he likes the feeling of your weight on top of him in the daybed by the fireplace. Sometimes he enjoys the company. He's grown a little more honest with himself. It's easier to be honest in the dark at night.

He wanders through the forest. It's quite silent, but it doesn't scare him. You'd handed him his gun in case he wanted to take a wander. He could always play off the fact that he was a ghost if he were dead. Just wander around and take a look around town. He doubts anyone should remember his face too hard unless they knew him. His wanted posters always featured a little beard or stubble. He's completely growing a beard these days — much to your woe. You seemed to like him when he has a little texture and not a full beard.

Besides, some of the wrinkles on his face have lightened up because you keep smearing all sorts of oils and lotions on him. He does admit, he looks less roughed up than when you first found him. He ought to thank you for it.

So he sets out to take a look. The nearest town wasn't too far of a walk, and he's sure to stop at his grave before he passes. The number of flowers on it surprises him. He never thought himself to be a particularly good man, yet so many people seem to think him that way. It warms the soul. It reminds him that he had tried when he found out he was sick. In a way it was punishment — to beat a sick man to death. Retribution — if it ever did exist. But he's alive. Saved, and alive. Makes him wonder what he ought to do next.

Maybe if he begs you hard enough, you'll stay and not leave.

He stops at the edge of town, looking through the trees as he watches the people run up and about. It feels strange to see everything when he's supposed to be dead. He was supposed to die on that cliff. He wasn't supposed to be saved by the likes of you. Mary's words ring in his head often. There's a good man inside of him, but he's wrestling with a giant. The giant wins too much. He tries to take care of you. He wonders if he's only hurting you some days.

Some days you have this distant look in your eyes again like you're gonna slip through his fingers and he won't be able to save you.

Like you're not really anchored in the sea, just drifting here and there.

An unanchored soul that drives him insane.

He gets ready to leave when he spots her.

Head of dark hair, orbs of black for eyes.

Mary.

His heart stumbles in his chest when she turns around and spots him, and time stills. He stops. As beautiful as the day he lost her, he thinks. He never showed up, so he has no right to be staring at her like this, and his heart cries. His heart begs and begs, a reminder that there is someone who he loves and loves him back up at the top of the mountain, but he cannot help himself. He stares at her, eyes tired, and she looks at him, eyes wide with tears of fright or joy, he cannot tell. He knows that his heart races out of habit, not affection. That much, he is sure of. He wants to reach out and comfort her out of habit, not love. He's moved on.

But he cannot cut her off cleanly. Oh, he knows. Even now, he wants to help her carry her luggage and tell her he's sorry for abandoning her where he promised he'd show up. There is a good man in him, but the giant is no longer there, so he has no more need to fight. It is so heartbreaking, he thinks. But it is alright. This would be more than enough for him to move on. Just to see that she was alright. He wonders what she's in town for.

"Arthur? Oh, Arthur!"

And Arthur turns around, walks off and then runs off, boots sinking into soft dirt, his name lost in the forest when he finally makes his way back to the cabin. She wouldn't chase him, no. He would have chased her, but she's no longer his. He's no longer hers either. He hasn't been for a long time. Maybe he's clean.

For the first time in a while, Arthur's chest feels lighter.

"Oh, you're back." You look up from dinner, and he glances at the plate you grabbed but didn't fill. "I was expecting you to stay longer."

"No, no." He hums. "Just went to get a glimpse of town."

"Well, how was it?"

"Feels weird bein' dead." He hums, portioning his own plate. "But was the same. Feels strange not bein' on edge anymore."

"See anyone you know? The flowers at your grave have been replaced as of late."

He thinks of Mary, but he doesn't talk of her. He doesn't want to hurt you. Besides, he didn't do anything.

"No. Just ordinary folk livin' an ordinary life."

"That's good." You hum, lips curling into a small smile. "I ought to go down sometime. We need some supplies."

"Y'need me to go with?'

"Oh, no. I'm plenty fine on my own." You hum. "Better if you keep guard. What if we get robbed?"

"I don't think anyone's robbin' you all the way up at the peak of the mountain, sunshine."

"Yeah, yeah. Stay back. I'll handle going to town. I don't know how many people still remember you. It's a problem." You hum. "Oh, and stay home during the day. Don't want your visitors to know you're still alive."

"Yes, Miss." He nods.

"Gotten real polite now, huh?"

"Maybe." He hums, smug like a cat, even.

You laugh, smile unable to be fought off of your face. There's an acceptance on your face, like you've accepted that this is how you ought to live for the next few months of your life, even if he's all better and you seem to be spending more time in your room than you typically do. Well, he won't be one to pry. You're up to whatever you're up to, after all. As long as you'll stay. As long as he has you.

But he's grown fonder of you. Always has been. He's sure it isn't just the gratefulness of being saved anymore. Everything about you has become habit to him. His soul aches for yours when you're out for too long in the day and when you're holed up in your room and only come out to cook for the two of you. Oh, he's beyond redemption, he fears. This is beyond redemption.

You head down to town the next day, instructing him on where the guns are and what to do in case there's an intruder.

"No pulling the trigger unless they pull first." You pause to tap your chin. "And, well. Let's try to avoid killing a man in the house. At least I don't have to see blood if it's on the porch."

"Any other instructions?"

"I take the shotgun with me to town." You hum. "So I sure hope you have good aim, Mister Morgan."

He nods.

"Best in town."

"Best in the East, even?"

"No one's better." He tips his hat.

You set down to town by foot. He wonders if he should find a horse for the two of you to head down to town with, but that would come once you're back. He might have to teach you how to ride a horse. For the time being, he sits with the canvases and charcoal, thumb smeared with black as he keeps the gun close. He isn't paranoid about intruders, no. He's had his fair share of gunfights before his death. No, he's more concerned that either of you would actually have to scrub out blood if he really does shoot off an intruder's head.

You've probably got things that could sell a fortune around in the home.

Reminds him of Marko Dragic.

Oh, right. The man's dead.

It's half past dawn, past noon, when he hears the sound of three horses outside the door. The sun's starting to set, and it's a good time to try to grasp the chance to rob someone. He knows that. It's better in the saloons at night, but it's better at sunset for the homes. It's usually when people are the least armed. Though, he's got more experience than them, so he rises from his seat, portrait of you half-finished as he stalks to the door with the revolver in his hand.

The men fire two bullets into the air, and Arthur doesn't move from his spot, instead, staying at the door.

Arthur holds the gun in his hand, hand on the door as he watches for the shadows through the cracks.

It'd be much easier to subdue the men if they were off the porch. You hate cleaning that rotten thing, and more blood would kill him. He's not against cleaning off the blood. He's used to it, but he'd also rather not blow someone's head off and leave you with a dead body at the door to greet you instead of him. You might scream. You haven't ever said anything about dead people, so he'd rather not take the risk. You said no blood in the house. He'll just clean the blood if he has to.

The sound of a shotgun has him pulling open the door, and he finds you and two dead men, the third falling to his ass while backing up into the door, falling onto Arthur's legs instead.

"Oh, there you are!" You pipe up. "I was worried you'd gotten yourself shot another time. You alright, dear?"

Arthur doesn't quite think he's gotten shot during the time that the two of you have been living together, but he doesn't say anything.

"Yes." He hums, glancing down at the man.

"I'm sure gonna have a swell time cleaning the porch." You huff, pointing the gun at the third. "I'm wondering if I should let this one run away to warn everyone else. A maniac lives in the woods with a ghost."

The man looks up at Arthur and near shits himself.

"A-Arthur M-M—"

"Hm, I get that a lot." He scratches his chin. "But that man's dead, y'know? A dead man can't be all the way up 'ere catchin' y' stumble."

The man scrambles the second you lower your shotgun, fleeing down the hills as you whistle.

"Man's got less balls than I thought he would."

Arthur can kind of guess what that means.

"Y'alright?" He raises a brow at you, and you tilt your head at him.

"Ah, yeah." You hum. "Not my first roadkill."

Arthur furrows his brows at the word. No clue.

"I can clean the porch."

"Oh, don't worry about it." You push him back inside, shotgun slung on your back again. "I'll get it cleaned right now. I have the supplies. Can you chop up dinner for us? I bought you a razor blade, by the way. As nice as a beard would look on you, I think I'd shit myself if I saw you in the dark with a full beard and a hat on one more time."

He takes the paper bag from your hand and settles with listening to you.

He doesn't hear much rustling outside, but the sound a whirl, and then the sound of metal, and when you're back in the room and he's finished cutting everything up, you look like you barely broke a sweat. Probably one of those strange moments of yours. He's never quite sure why you don't look tired after cleaning or anything else.

He tries not to think too hard about what you do. He's more focused on trying to convince you that he's not leaving.

"You know. I heard from one of the folks down in town that someone's selling land in California." You hum, starting the fire for the oven.

"'s that so?"

"Could get you that land, help y' settle in, and then I'll be off on my way."

"Sunshine."

He's starting to believe that you're ignoring his pleads on purpose.

"Unless y'want land in the new plot the country stole from Mexico." You hum. "Nah, too much law enforcement. California's nice this time of year."

"Sunshine." He tries again.

"We can ride on west? Oh, well we'd need horses, but we could just—"

"Sunshine." He grabs your shoulders to turn you around, frustration evident in his voice. "Listen t'me."

"Hm?"

"As long as y'r here, I am not going anywhere." He deadpans. "'m yours."

"Oh, that's mighty flattering, Arthur, but—"

"No, no." He cuts you off. "'m a wanted and dead man. My bounty's more than anythin' else in the area. I have nowhere else. I'm not escapin' to California if y' don't go with me."

"Arthur, I'm hardly necessary."

"No. Non-negotiable. If y'r gonna throw me som'where new, y'r comin' with me." He squeezes your hand. "None of that "off on my way" if I can help it."

You blink at him, looking away.

"That'd be funny." You glance at the fire. "You should shave after dinner. The beard is really botherin' me."

"Y'need me to get water?"

"No, no. The bath is full." You hum. "Got one of those fancy heaters they sell in Pennsylvania too, so take all your time."

You're still not entirely sure how they somehow invented hot water heaters before running water, but you don't ask. You are in the land of cowboys and outlaws, after all. The period will fall soon. That much you know. Soon, the lifestyle will fade and towns will start popping up more as people settle down. Well, not that you'll witness it.

Arthur helps you lift dinner to the table, portioning both of your plates as the two of you sit down.

He wonders if you've made up your heart.

"Why're you so set on goin' home anyway?"

"Well, Mister Morgan. Some of us crave the predictability of the same life over and over again." You hum, stabbing into the chicken. "Some of us crave instability that is predictable."

Arthur frowns.

But he understands. He understands what you mean. The outlaw life was glittering to him at first because it was never the same. Never the same trick. Never the same heist. The unpredictability meant everything to his young outlaw mind. So, so much. Everything meant so much to him until it killed him.

"Don't wan' t' settle down?" He raises a brow.

"Mm, it'd be nice, but I don't know how. I don't know who either, haha." You scoop at the rice. "Who'd I even settle down with?"

Arthur wants to say him. He craves it, bones rumbling gently in his skin, soul heavy with an exhaustion only settling down could fix. Wants you real bad. Wants you horribly bad. The same kind of ache that he felt when he received the letter from Mary before he died. Oh, Mary. Oh, Arthur. Long gone are the days of marrying her. Now he dreams of living the rest of his days with you like this — small cabin, comfortable days. This is all his soul yearns for now.

He's still not quite sure where you're getting the money to sustain everything, but he learns not to ask.

Arthur shaves in the bath, glancing at himself in the mirror as he feels at his skin, staring quietly. He looks younger.

He writes in his journal that night.

Miss keeps talking about going home these days. Like she wants me to settle down and then she can be on her merry way off to God knows where. Don't know where she wants to go. Still don't know where her home is, but I've started calling the cabin home. This is home to me. It's a real shame she doesn't quite want to stay as much as I do. I wonder if I'll be less of a burden and take her up on the offer to move to California. She mentioned Marston might be there.

But it's real scary. I don't want her to leave. Like her too much. Acting like too much of a fool around her. She's just wonderful. I think. I like her more than I should. Love her, even. But she doesn't want to stay, and I'm just a rotten old man beyond saving, so it's not like I can keep her.

Saw Mary in town two nights ago. She called my name. I didn't look back. Maybe I did love her, but not anymore. Sunshine takes up all of my mind. Too much of my mind. Oh, what a man I am.

He resists the urge to write your initial next to his in a heart, but ultimately gives in. He whispers your name like it's forbidden. Like there's so much yet so little. He falls asleep to the thought of your name next to his, to the thought of his last name clicked to yours like an extension of his love. Not as an extension of him this time. If anything, he'd want to be an extension of you.

The first of the month comes, and you tell Arthur you're going to check out his grave and see if the flowers need any watering since it was dry season. You take a basket with you, stepping through the dirt and mud as Arthur lets you know he might wander in the woods to hunt for the day.

"Just don't get any blood on my porch." You hum. "I put the shotgun back. I doubt I'll need a gun when visiting a grave."

He sends you off with the revolver anyway.

The animals in the woods are scarcely hunted, now that he thinks about it. You seem to always come back with a cut of pork or beef when there weren't many ranches in the area. He wonders if it has to do with the butcher down in town, but you don't go to town as much anyway. Either way, he decides to hunt. You don't like deer meat, and there aren't many bears to hunt in the time being, so he wonders if he should go and find some rabbits to trap.

You might wince and make him skin the rabbit, though.

He wonders if you'll find anything at his grave. You mentioned that you found ruined letters when you first set up the grave, but the rain from the night had ruined the paper. He wonders who they were from. Well, not that it matters. He's dead, and he ought to stay that way. The ghost of his past shouldn't be let to haunt him since, well, anyway. A dead man is a dead man. What is there to let haunt him when the dead man is living?

He brings home three rabbits. He eats more than you, but it's enough to feed both of you til you both are full. He skins it so you don't need to. He wonders if you're uncomfortable with skinning a rabbit like you are with any other younger animal. It's like you can tell or know. It's always like you know.

When it strikes noon, he decides that he'll just roast the dinner over the fire today.

There's a glow coming from behind your door, but he ignores it. You'll probably take care of it when you return.

But you're missing for a while today. You return four past noon, basket full of flowers, berries, and a couple letters, setting them on the table in the drawing room, humming to yourself gently as you glance at the lunch Arthur cooked, nodding.

"Let me wash up first." You smile. "I'll heat up the food in the oven when I come out."

Arthur nods, settling on the chaise longue and opening his journal to write, humming to himself as he tries to sketch the rabbit he saw from memory. The sun is half down and starting to set, now that he notices. He wonders if you were cleaning his grave, even. Maybe you were. Or maybe you bumped into someone you knew on your way down. Some of the villagers would hike up to hunt every now and then. He had to avoid a few when out today.

"Hey." You scrunch your hair with the towel, sun half set as you hum. "Oh, you didn't touch the basket."

He looks up from his journal. "Wasn't sure if that was from my grave or not."

"Well, the basket is used for the stuff around your grave, so." You rummage through it, fishing out a letter. "See anything fun in the woods today?"

"No."

"I saw quite a couple of visitors. Everyone seems to visit you on the first." You head over to wash the bowl of berries you picked, rinsing them with the water from the bucket. "You sure you didn't see anyone?"

"Well, avoided some villagers, but nothin' else."

"There was a woman with a letter." You hum quietly, towel sitting around your neck. "Left where your grave was set up."

"From who?"

You feed him a berry and hand the letter to him, lips curled into a tight smile, nodding as he looks at its sender.

"You still have the chance to chase after her, you know? Your lungs are all healed now an' stuff. If she's still writing to you after all this time she must really be struggling with letting go." You pinch at your fingers again. "She's staying nearby in the town for a month or so. Asked her where she was staying. I told her I may visit her with a friend, but not to get her hopes up. I don't think she ever moved on."

Arthur notes the worried look in your eye. Your door glows too. Like a reminder. It glows like the campfire in the old camp, slow shimmering around the metal when he stares too hard. But he knows it's not something that you could explain without showing him. It's something part of your world — something that he wasn't a part of.

You make the indication of moving, and his hand finds your wrist instinctively.

But by god does he want to be part of that too.

"I won't." He croaks, reading through her letter to him, thumb brushing over your wrist as he does, squeezing once he finishes, putting the letter down. "It's been over for a long time. She wrote to me so she would feel better. She is mourning a dead man. I've been dead, sweet'eart."

You look tired against the glow of the fireplace.

"I'm yours." He squeezes your wrist as he says it, heart shaking in his chest. "As long as you'll have me. I ain't touchin' anyone from my past as long as you'll have me."

"I don't know if I should."

"Oh, darlin'." He mumbles, staring up at you. "There's never any pressure. 'm yours even if y' leave me. But just know that 'm only ever gon' be yours."

"I don't think that's a healthy way to love, Mister Morgan." You hum. "Heavens knows if you're over Mary."

"I am." He whispers, pressing your hand to his forehead. "Oh, believe me, sweet'eart, I am. I'd be a dead man if I wasn't. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

"She told me she saw you in town a few days back when she first arrived. She needed to check to see if your grave was still here." You hum. "Asked who I was. Told her I'm the one who found you. It wasn't really a lie. I am the one who found you, after all."

"I saw her in town when I went out couple nights ago." He whispers. "Was looking in the woods and saw her. She saw me too. Called my name, and I had to pretend I didn't know it."

"You should've run to her." You whisper. "You're not sick anymore."

"Oh, sunshine. I couldn't." His voice shakes. He can feel his heart rattle in his chest. He knows the painful tug of his heart when you came back with a letter in your hand and a pained look on your face was not over whatever he thought it was. He just didn't like seeing that pained look on your face. He never wants to see it again. Oh, his poor neglected heart. "This poor bastard of a man couldn't leave you. 'm so in love with you I don't recognize myself."

"That's not good."

Arthur watches the upset smile on your face spread.

"It would've done you good. I may return home soon."

"'s that what's of the glowin' from your room? And the books fr'm a year I don't know?"

You hesitate, furrowing your brows and closing your eyes, shaking lightly.

"I s'ppose it's got to do with how y' don't talk like the folks around here." His voice is softer now. He doesn't want to scare you too much. He can't force you to stay, but you have to go knowing that he loves you. Not loved.

"Ah. You…"

"'s hard not to." He hums. "Y' stopped after the first han'ful of weeks."

"It's hard to remember to need to do that." You sit down next to Arthur, resting your head on his shoulder as he puts the letter to the side.

"So y' gonna tell me?"

"Will you be mad if I don't?"

"No." Arthur hums. "You're entitled to your secrets."

"It won't matter anymore in the future anyway. I'm considering what to do with it." You squeeze his hand. "It's to help me get home, but considering I have a liability now, I can't quite return like this."

"Home where?"

"Home somewhere you can't go."

Arthur knows there's more that you won't tell him, but he doesn't pry.

He spreads his legs a little so you can kick both of yours over one of his thighs, and he lets you make yourself comfy against him as he gives you his hand to play with.

"'m not from this time." You mumble quietly. "But 's alright. I don't know if I wanna go back anyway. But I just think you'll go—"

"No, no, sweetheart." He rasps, squeezing your hand. "God, 'm a no good for nothin' but by god do I want you to stay."

"I just. Don't know." You whisper. "I'm scared."

"I'll be here always. Won't die on you again. Even if I do, you'd find a way to fix me right up." He lowers his head to meet your eye, and he whispers the last part. "Love you. I love you. I've been loving you."

It feels like a confession of sin, the way it breaks past his lips, but oh, he doesn't care anymore.

"You really do?"

"I do." He presses his forehead to yours. "And if people come lookin' for you from that universe f'r you, I'll shoot them all dead. 'm an old man with bloody hands. A little more red on stained hands means nothin' to me."

You crack a smile at his words, humming. "They can't find me here."

"Yeah?"

"Not in my universe. They lose people when they leave their universe." You squeeze his hand, eyes tired as he tilts his head to get a better look at you. "So technically I'm not retrievable. I get to stay if I want."

"Then please stay. Please, please stay." He begs you like a prayer, and he thinks this is the closest he'll ever get to understanding why religious men beg to god. He's never needed you to stay so bad. "Keep this old bastard of a man. Please."

"We're similar ages, Arthur." You laugh. "I only look younger because of the technology we have. You'd look like me if you were using half of the stuff I was."

"'s have to do with all the fancy liquids in the bath?"

"Yeah." You rest your head on his chest, closing your eyes as you hum. "I'll see. I always knew I would. I didn't get why everyone else wanted to, but I suppose it kind of makes sense."

"So you'll stay?"

"Of course." You whisper, eyes closed. "Always. Always and always."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

And Arthur stares. Stares real hard at the way your lashes flutter and you stare at the fireplace. So, so much. Maps out the way your nose sits on your face and the color of your eyes. Stares hard and tries to remember. No doubt he'd been sketching pages upon pages of just you, but you look wonderful all the same. He's had plenty of time to take in how you look and how you act. A wonderful bundle of sun placed in a cabin he couldn't ever dream of calling home. Makes him want to settle down with you. A long died out fire rekindling because he loves someone again. You look the same as he knows you do. You stopped fluctuating between youth and maturity forever ago, but he loves you regardless of how you look.

The question comes out before he can rationalize or think it through.

"Shall I get you a ring? Or are we t'be companions 'stead of lovers?"

You gasp, horrified. "Arthur Morgan, is that any way t' propose to a woman?"

"Suppose not." He laughs when you puff your cheeks and feign annoyance. "'m yours whether or not you'll have me. This big, ol' bad man."

"Well, I do believe that I ought to accept your proposal, Mister Morgan. You seemed to have redeemed yourself in my eyes at the very least. It'll take a while to convince me you really do love me, but I suppose I shouldn't hold it over your head. However, that really isn't any way to propose to a lady."

"'f course. Though, I ought to do the theatrics of it all."

He lifts your legs off of his, and he presses a knee to the ground.

"I'll bring you a ring once the sun rises. This poor ol' bastard of a man is all yours, sunshine. 'm yours to use until 'm no longer useful." He mumbles, taking your hand and rubbing circles into your ring finger. "'ll spend the rest of my life convincin' you that I love you, even if y' never believe me."

"Oh, you awful old man." You huff, resting your forehead against his. "I don't need to use you, Arthur. My body works just fine."

"I'll do it so y'don't have to." He mumbles. "Let me. Need to show you I love you."

"Then please let me take care of you too." You push his head up and tilt your head, body relaxing as he meets you halfway for a kiss.

"Of course." He mumbles back, lips finding yours again to press his hands down on your waist, skin soft against his hand as he sighs into the kiss, melting into you. It's safe in your arms, and your skin is soft against his hands. He's safe now. Long gone are the days of living to help someone else. He has you to help just as much as he'll help you.

When he parts from your lips, he can't help the laugh that tumbles from his lips, rumbling in his chest as you huff.

"What?"

"Don't know how I got so damn lucky."

"Well don't you go thinkin' that now." You huff. "You ought to spoil me rotten after all the heartbreak you put me through."

"Mm, whatever the missus wants." He hums. "Whatev'r y'want."

"Just want you." You mumble. "'s all."

"Oh, silly woman. You already have me."

"Then that's enough."

"y'sure you don't want anythin' else?"

"'m happy with just you."

"So simple."

"'s why you should spoil me more." He watches you fight the coy smile that makes way on your face, and he shakes his head.

"Anythin' for m' girl." He mumbles, brushing his nose along your jaw. "m' pretty, pretty girl."

"Oh, Arthur, you flirt." You huff, warm to the tips of your ears.

"If it helps me get what I wan'"

"Which would be?"

"The missus all happy." He hums, resting his face on your chest as he looks up at you. "All pretty no matter what. Even in such a scandalous chemise fresh out the bath."

He laughs when you close your eyes in embarrassment.

"Yer a grown ass man nearin' his forties and you're here playin' coy like you're 17." You pinch the bridge of your nose, and Arthur laughs.

"'s long as it keeps you entertained."

You give in, looking down at Arthur as you brush your thumb against the stubble on his chin.

"You're an awful, awful man, Mister Morgan."

"Your awful, awful husband, Missus Morgan."

"Oh, you sly bastard—"

but you don't complain when Arthur slides up to kiss you again, body pressed to yours as he angles your face to fit his perfectly.

Arthur's perfectly content where he is now.

Maybe the universe abandoned him so he could find you.

He doesn't know.

He finds your hand to slide his fingers through yours, and he opens his mouth to look at your ring finger.

"What are you doing?"

He slides the finger past his teeth, biting down hard, earning a jolt from you, but he keeps your finger between his teeth, only letting go when he's sure the marks will stay.

"Oh, you horrible, horrible—"

Arthur's never been a religious man.

He doesn't speak, biting down on his own ring finger instead, letting go once the mark will stay.

But by god, is he a lucky man to have you after so long.

"But I'm your horrible, horrible husband now, darlin'." He shows you the teeth marks on his finger, and you huff, pulling him in for a kiss.

He fights himself through the kisses with you, tongue licking a stripe up your neck, nipping gently at your jaw and listening to the way your breath catches in your chest. His, all his now. All better so he can show you just how much his soul bleeds for yours, all better so he can press pretty kisses to your lips and leave them puffy and wet with both your spit.

He trails down eventually, knees hitting the rug beneath the couches as he looks up at you, lovesick with an emotion he didn't think his head could spin with.

"What a goddamn fool I am." He grunts, holding you close as you shake in his arms, one hand sprawled on your stomach while the other holds your thigh up. "Runnin' in my mind when I could've been here lovin' you. Oh, you angel."

And he bites, nips, marks, teeth pressing into the plush of your thigh as he gets higher and higher, eventually finding his breath painfully close to where his mouth is practically watering to be.

"Seems awfully modern." He hooks a finger under the fabric of your panties to pull.

"Ah, the 80s? 90s? 's not from—" You're not quite sure anymore.

Arthur pulls them off of one leg, letting the other dangle off of as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, low hum of content rattling through his throat.

Your legs struggle around him, but he forces them open with his hands, nose brushing against your clit as he eats you out, spit and slick smearing over his chin as he relishes in the way you squirm. Sends his head spinning. He can't remember the last time he had gone down on a woman with a heart so full. Oh, the gentle glow of your skin from the fireplace. He could stop to immortalize you forever in pencil, but he'd be much more content in the present.

"Ah, Arthur. 'm so— so—" You gasp, curling forward and digging your fingers into his hair. The sting only serves to drive him further, if anything.

So he continues, freeing a hand to thumb at your clit, letting your heel dig into the back of his shoulder as you finally cum, head thrown back and voice breaking mid-moan. He doesn't stop, continuing to work at you with his tongue, thumb still circling your clit as you cry, leg going straight and then giving out over his shoulder, dangling as he wipes at the cum on his chin with his fingers, licking his fingers clean afterwards.

"Y're so, lovely, sweet'eart." He groans, removing himself from between your thighs to press a gentle kiss to your ankle as he cages over you. "Y'want the bed?"

"Oh, Mister Morgan, if you don't fuck me proper in the next minute—"

He presses a thumb to your clit once more, earning a break in your voice and a smug smile on his lips, and you gasp.

"You awful man."

"Your awful husband, Missus Morgan." He calls with all too much affection, sliding himself along you to help with lubrication, equal mirth and affection in his eyes as he pushes himself in gently.

"Ugh, awful, awful—" You throw your head back, gasping as Arthur nudges a particular spot inside of you.

"What was that?"

You whimper as he pushes further into you, exhaling when he finally bottoms out.

"I s'ppose you're not a big man for nothing." You heave.

"You always this vocal during intercourse?" He raises a brow as he pants, holding your hips down as you squirm.

"Only when the man won't stop being an ass—"

Arthur moves, slowly, like he's relishing in the way you squirm and whimper under him, head thrown back and hands reaching for his forearms, nails digging in as the sting of it goes to his head. Oh, you wonderful, wonderful woman. How awfully lucky of a man he's got to be to get to hold you like this. He whispers your name into the night air like it's a prayer — chanting, singing, begging. You've got him wrapped around your finger without ever trying.

You pant under him, arms reaching to hide your face as he pries them from your face, one hand holding your wrists in place as the other presses down on where he is inside, and your body tenses as you gush around him, no previous warning, your breathing labored as you close your eyes, mouth open to try and catch your breath. He guides you through the orgasm, thumb circling on your clit and body stilling as you clench around him.

"Ah, Arthur. Can't— can't no— no more." You heave.

"Oh, darlin'… let me do all the work." He whispers, pulling your arms over his shoulder.

Arthur drinks up every sound that you let escape, quiet gasps and pants filling the empty air whenever he thrusts particularly hard. It's music to his ears if he's ever heard anything. The sound of the squelch from thrusting drives him insane — goes straight down, and he presses open mouthed kisses to the plush of your skin, sucking and nipping until he can feel himself growing out of breath. You clench around him like a vice, hot and tight around him. He's so lost in you he fears he's never going to quite love like this ever again.

When you cum, you gush around him with a broken moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he curses, spilling his load into you without a second thought. God. He presses his forehead to yours as he rides out both of your highs, lips pressed to yours gently, sweat and saliva tasted all at once, flavor of the berries from earlier tangy on his tongue. Oh, how he loves you so. It makes him stupid with something. Dumb until he can't think no more.

A foolish, foolish man, is Arthur.

And the way you shake fills his chest with something unfamiliar to his heart.

"Stay." He whispers.

For what? He does not know.

But he hopes you do.

He's sure you do.

"For you? Always." You press a kiss to the crinkle in the corner of his eye, and his heart is full.

"Always." He whispers it back like a promise.

and this promise, he keeps.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #oh yeah this is the good stuff right here

137 notes · View notes

astrobie · 13 days ago

Text

Better to Leave it Unsaid

Summary: You were a certified yapper, always chatting with anyone and everyone around the Smoffice. Everyone except for one person. Inspired by the song Talk Too Much by COIN.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x GN!Reader

Tags: Fluff, mutual pining, extremely light angst if you squint

Word count: 6.1k

Note: This is a huge one! I didn't mean to make this so long, but I just kept going lol… I decided to post the whole thing rather than separate it and make y’all wait for a part 2, hehe. I take a lot of inspiration from music, if you couldn’t tell. Please enjoy~!

☆

You had always been talkative, a chatterbox, and a yapper. Your mother used to tell people that when you were a baby, you learned how to speak in full sentences before you learned how to stand on your own two feet. You couldn’t help it, you just loved to talk. It took you years to learn how to think before you speak.

You enjoyed talking to people, it genuinely made you happy to learn about others and share your thoughts. It was a form of connection, whether it was a late night heart-to-heart with your best friend or joking around with a stranger in line at the supermarket. If you could list ‘conversations’ as an interest on your resume, you absolutely would.

This trait worked to your advantage when you joined Smosh as a cast member.

“You’re so good at talking”, Ian joked with you after your first month, “you always seem to know what to say.”

“Practice makes perfect”, you grinned back as he laughed again.

You had quickly become a fan favourite, especially on Reddit Stories and as a guest on Smosh Mouth, being praised for the chemistry you had with the cast members and how you played off each other in discussions. You struggled a bit more on the games channel, you had very little video games experience and you found it difficult to remember board game rules when you played them for the first time. But the subscribers seemed to love making video compilations of everytime you forgot a rule or had to quietly ask for help mid-game.

Working at Smosh was so much fun, not just because you loved your work, but because there was such a diverse and interesting group of people you had long and frequent talks with. You had gotten to know everyone so well throughout the past few months, both cast and crew.

Well.

Everyone except for Spencer.

When you joined Smosh and met all the people working there, you had taken to Spencer in a different way than the others.

The crush you developed on him was quick and severe. You had no idea what to do with it. You were never good with romantic attraction, the few times you made the first move with a potential partner, it always ended disastrously. When it came to someone you really liked, you clammed up. Every time you were around Spencer, you panicked, and your heart sped up when he spoke to you. All the words that normally flowed out of your mouth got all tangled up in your head and stuck in your throat. Even when you two were doing your jobs and he was directing you on a game video, you responded to his directions with a silent, tight-lipped smile without making eye contact.

You did not handle cute guys well. And Spencer was cute. With his big green eyes, cheeky smile, and quick-witted humour, he was exactly your type to a T. It infuriated you, the person you wanted to have a connection with the most was so distant from you, and it was your own fault. You wanted to be close with him like everyone else, having lunch together, hanging out after work, you wanted it all. He definitely noticed how weird you were about him, because he drew back, hardly ever reaching out to you and only speaking to you when absolutely necessary. You couldn’t blame him.

The invisible wall between you guys that you had accidentally built seemed to get taller by the day, and you wished there was some way to knock it down.

☆

“Cut!”

That was a wrap on the most recent Board AF video and it was finally lunchtime. You and the other cast members hopped up from your seats as the room was filled with post-recording chatters.

“Good job, guys!” Spencer clapped his hands, “Amanda and Chanse, that was amazing teamwork. Shayne, super funny, as per usual.” He was wearing his green Smosh merch cap and a white T-shirt today. God, he looked so good.

You pretended not to notice he praised everyone else in the video besides you.

“And great banter, Y/N”, he added before turning to Alex to debrief.

Nevermind. You almost skipped out of the room from the high you got from him complimenting you.

You could really enjoy your lunch break after that. Sitting down between Angela and Amanda, you dug right in, conversing with the others at the table as you did everyday.

“I was watching the shoot just then, you know?” Angela nudged you, speaking between bites, “what’s up with you and Spence?”

You almost bit down on your tongue in surprise.

“What?” You laughed to cover the worried feeling that rose inside you, “what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean”, she spoke quietly, this was between you two. The rest of the table were not paying attention, holding their own conversation about the schedule for the rest of the week. “You, like, don’t look directly at him and you just silently do what he says. No reply, nothing.”

“I didn’t think I had to reply to every direction given”, you shot back, eyes on your food. You were dreading where this situation was heading.

“Okay, okay, no offence”, Angela lay a hand on your leg, eyebrows raised so high it made you laugh, “I have never seen you skip an opportunity to say something.” When she saw your jaw drop, she quickly added, “I’m saying this as a fellow yapper, okay? It takes one to know one. You seem to talk non-stop to anyone until it’s with Spencer, then you shut right up. Are you mad at him? Did he do something to piss you off?”

You sighed and put your fork down.

“No, Angela”, you both leaned back in your chairs, facing each other, “I’m not mad at him, he did nothing wrong.”

“Then?”

“I-”, you quickly glanced around you, checking nobody was paying attention to you two, “I don’t know. Like, I just can’t talk to him.”

“But why?” Angela had her hands out inquisitively, like this was a great mystery she had been thinking about for a long time. “How are you not able to talk to somebody? You start chattering when you hear someone enter the stall next to you in the bathroom. It’s disturbing. Nothing stops you.”

“I don’t know”, you were a lying liar. You knew damn well why you struggled to speak to him. “I just can’t!”

She eyed you suspiciously. She was squinting at you so hard, you resisted the urge to ask if she needed her glasses. This was one of the rare times you actually wanted a conversation to end as soon as possible.

“Right”, she finally conceded, a strange expression on her face, “totally. Yeah. You just don’t know.”

You nodded, smiling like nothing was bothering you. You could tell she wasn’t satisfied with your response but you were just glad she wasn’t pushing it anymore. She was very empathetic, so she could probably feel you were getting uncomfortable.

“Anyway”, she shook her head, poking you gently as she changed the topic, “what are you scheduled for tomorrow morning?”

☆

“And then I told him that I didn’t know where his wallet was and that I was sorry”, you explained, hands gesturing wildly.

“I mean, yeah”, Tommy responded while nodding, “you literally met him five minutes before, how were you meant to know?”

You were telling him a story about some guy you befriended at a bar a while ago when you heard someone clear their throat behind you. You spun around to see Spencer standing there, holding his laptop. You didn’t even hear him approaching while you were talking, how long had he been there?

“Hello”, he waved, you silently waved back and Tommy replied with his own ‘hello’. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but I need to speak to Y/N about an upcoming video. Sorry, Tommy.”

“No problem, don’t worry about it”, Tommy replied before heading back to his desk, “see you guys later.”

You wanted to yell for him to come back so you wouldn’t be alone with Spencer, but you were left with no choice but to quietly follow Spencer to the games set. He was going to quickly go through how to play a new board game you were set to play with a few of your cast mates because your schedules didn’t line up and you couldn’t be there when he taught the others.

“Okay”, he sighed, plopping down on the large grey couch. “Please sit down”, he nodded his head at the space next to him.

You carefully sat a respectable distance away from him, close enough to properly listen to him but far enough to not get you flustered. As he began to teach you the rules and show you the different cards, you tried your hardest to focus. He made it so difficult, he just looked so gorgeous. His curls were sitting just right today, one stray strand dangling down his forehead, and he was wearing that Creed shirt he always looked good in. His glasses slowly slipped down his nose when he leaned down and you bit your tongue as he adjusted them. You were trying to remember what each card did in the game, but your thoughts kept going back to how nice his voice sounded. He didn’t speak too fast and he kept the volume low since it was just you two sitting on the set, it tickled something in your brain.

“Y/N? Y/N!” His voice calling your name drew you out of your own thoughts.

A single ‘huh?’ was your clever response.

He sighed, seemingly a little frustrated.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Yes”, you responded defensively, vaguely repeating some of the main points you managed to retain from when he was talking.

“Okay”, he nodded, “you did remember a few things. Sorta.”

He picked up the deck of cards and slid them back into their box as you silently watched his fingers work.

“Any questions?”

You looked up at his face to see him looking back at you with his eyebrows raised in question.

“Uh… no”, you flatly replied. You could feel your face and neck gradually get warmer the longer he looked at you.

“No? Any comments? Anything at all?”

You shook your head. Hopefully, this interaction would be ending soon before something devastating happened, like him noticing how red your face was or how clammy your hands were. You looked away and your eyes darted around the set. You didn’t like being speechless, it was an uncomfortable feeling for you.

“Y/N”, he gently pressed. You froze in place, eyes glued to the small table in front of you. “Why…”, he trailed off, not finishing his question before he stood up, “uh, nevermind. We’re done here, I guess. See you around.”

And then he was gone.

You felt relief and anxiety mix together at the bottom of your stomach. You wanted to talk to him so bad but you were so in your own head about him, about your feelings for him. In another world, where you could get over your feelings for him, you could be best friends. You could be talking all day long, asking about each other's days, how your families were going, what your weekend plans were.

Instead, right now, you were the only person in the room, left sitting alone on an empty set.

☆

“What is their problem?” Spencer grumbled, partly to himself, partly to Alex and Shayne, interrupting the conversation they were having right next to Spencer’s desk. They both turned to look down at him, borderline sulking in his chair.

“Y/N?” Shayne hit the nail on the head immediately. Spencer didn’t often talk about his strained relationship with you, but the few times he did have been with these two in particular.

“Yeah”, he lifted his glasses to rub his eyes, “I just met with them to explain the new game we’re playing tomorrow.”

“Awkward?” Alex grinned.

“So awkward”, Spencer threw his hands up, “I really don’t get it! They just refuse to say anything to be besides ‘yes’, ‘no’, and ‘huh?’”

They could tell Spencer was getting frustrated, not quite angry, moreso confused and unsure on what to do.

“It’s been months since they started”, Shayne crossed his arms, tone neutral, “have they not had a proper conversation with you even once?”

“Never”, Spencer replied, “what about you guys?”

“All the time”, Shayne replied sheepishly.

“Yeah, all the time”, Alex nodded, almost apologetically. “I talked to them this morning about Fortnite for like half an hour. They asked me to explain it to them.”

“You’re kidding me”, Spencer whined, he just could not wrap his head around why you guys just didn’t click. “I would have killed to explain Fortnite to someone for the first time.”

The other two seemed bemused by his turmoil. Spencer feared they may not be taking this seriously. It was serious. Over the past months, he had watched you grow close with other people at Smosh, chatting and bonding so naturally it was as if you had worked there for years. Whenever he saw you, you were always in the middle of a lengthy conversation with someone; you had gained a reputation around the office as an amazing listener who would be easy to talk to for hours. Spencer thought you two could get along great, he was not the most talkative, but he loved to chat and loved to listen. However, Spencer seemed to be the one person in the company that you refused to talk to.

It didn’t help that he thought you were very attractive. It drove him insane, he felt this inexplicable draw to you and yet you avoided even making eye contact with him. Did you find out about his crush on you? Were you grossed out? Was that why you avoided speaking to him? There was no way though, he hadn’t told a single person about how attracted he was to you.

“Look, man”, Shayne gained his attention again, “if it really bothers you, you have to talk to them. They can’t read your mind, they might not even realise they’re doing it.”

That made Spencer laugh, you definitely knew you were doing it.

“Yeah, what Shayne said”, Alex chimed in, “talking to them is going to be a way better approach than sitting on your ass, ripping out your hair trying to solve it.”

“Maybe”, he groaned, turning back to his computer to continue his work, “I’ll think about it.”

Alex and Shayne shared a knowing look before leaving him alone.

☆

The next time you spoke to Spencer alone, he accosted you in the break room.

You were stirring the tea you had just made when you heard footsteps behind you slowly coming to a stop.

Before you could turn around and greet whoever it was, you heard Spencer’s apprehensive voice, “Alex mentioned you were showing an interest in Fortnite.”

You almost dropped your mug, but you managed to keep a firm grip on it as you turned around to face him. You tried to say something but faltered before closing your mouth and nodding. You already knew this was going to be another failed attempt at a conversation. You might as well have run for it then and there.

“Okay, well”, he put his hands in his pockets as he continued, “we could play together sometime? Or I could arrange for us to play on the channel in the future or something.”

You blinked a few times. He was asking to play Fortnite together. You felt so excited, you wanted to chug your tea down like a beer and give him a huge kiss but you controlled your impulses. You were curious about the game because of Spencer talking about it all the time and showing Angela how to play, so you enquired about the game from Alex a few days ago. You saw a chance to get through the invisible wall, conquer your feelings, and really get to know Spencer. You were determined to get over this stupid crush of yours for the sake of befriending him, you were tired of being the only person that didn’t get to enjoy his company.

“That sounds fun”, you managed to blurt out, both you and Spencer seemed shocked that you were actually speaking to him. “I mean, I’m not very experienced with video games, but it looks like a lot of fun”, your voice was quivering from nerves and you just prayed he didn’t notice, “I think all the cosmetics are really cool too.”

“Yes!” Spencer seemed to almost jump at the opportunity to talk to you, “they released a Sabrina Carpenter skin. You like her, don’t you?”

Your heart was going a mile a minute, were you actually managing to talk to him? And how did he know you were a fan of Sabrina Carpenter?

“Yeah, I love her!” You found yourself actually smiling, even though you were resisting the urge to find the nearest escape route like some kind of prey animal, “I didn’t know she had a collaboration with them. I actually just ordered the Short n’ Sweet Deluxe vinyl record I’ve been wanting for ages, it took me, like, an hour to decide which colour to get.”

“And which colour was that?” He asked.

“The blue one”, you quickly replied, “the white pearl one was pretty but I wanted the brighter colour. I thought it would look cuter on my record player.”

You were so excited that Spencer seemed interested in talking to you, it almost outweighed the incredible amount of nerves you were experiencing in that moment. You were trying your absolute hardest to form normal words and sentences in his presence. Having his whole attention on you as you spoke was so foreign and just as scary as it normally was, but it was also sort of thrilling. You felt like a teenager again, trying something new and rebellious that you figured you might regret later. There was a paradox of wanting to talk to him like this more to aid in your mission to get over your feelings for him, but the more he looked at you and spoke to you, the more you felt yourself falling.

You were making crazy progress on holding a conversation with him, though. You were definitely being more reserved than when you chatted with other people in the office, but this was breaking the record for longest talk you’ve ever had with him. It made your heart beat so fast you were scared you would pass out.

You had moved onto the topic of music and your record collection, the one you had been working on ever since you moved into your own apartment.

“I have about 30 now”, you had a small, proud smile on your face, “it’s growing slowly, I try not to blow all my money on them.”

“No, I get it”, he said back, grinning, “that is so cool, frankly.”

You felt your entire upper body flush with heat when he said that, your face feeling red and tingly. Part of you wanted to squeal at his compliment and the other part wanted to disappear, dig a hole into the floor and hide in it. Yapping came so naturally to you, but it was still proving difficult to speak to him. Your brain was in overdrive, trying so hard to pick the right words to say and string them into coherent sentences, stuff that was as easy as breathing when you spoke to anybody else.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Spencer sounded worried all of a sudden. When you looked at him with a confused expression, he pointed at your mug, “your hands are shaking pretty bad right now, you might want to put that drink down.”

You hadn’t noticed, you were indeed shaking, little ripples running through your tea from the movement.

“I’m okay”, you tried to grin widely, but it felt like a grimace. You tightened your hold on your tea, willing yourself to stop trembling. You realised you had probably reached your limit on talking to Spencer for today. Any more and you may have a heart attack. “Just a bit of the shakes, I have weak arms”, you lied.

“Are you sure-“

“Yes!” Your reply was too hasty and too loud, “yes, of course! I really need to get back to work though.”

He nodded as you cautiously stepped past him and almost jogged towards the exit, careful not to spill your drink.

“Talk to you later, Y/N.”

You paused, looking at him over your shoulder. You could have sworn he looked worried, nervous even. You felt extra light on your feet knowing he wanted to talk to you again.

“Yeah”, you couldn’t help the smile that took over your face, cheeks red and hands damp with sweat, “yeah, talk to you later, Spencer.”

He smiled back in a way that made your chest hurt and you couldn’t figure out if there was actually a halo of glowing light around him or you were hallucinating. You had to turn away and keep walking or you would have burst into flames with how warm your entire body had become. The gentle way he spoke to you replayed in your head over and over and over.

How the hell were you going to get over him?

☆

Spencer couldn’t help smiling to himself as he typed. He was a little distracted from his work today.

“What’s gotten into you?” Alex asked, alarmed at his behaviour. “You’re acting weird and happy and giddy.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, it’s just… did something happen?” Alex abandoned their desk and came over to him. They could be such a gossip sometimes. “Did you finally ask Y/N what the problem was?”

“No”, Spencer stopped doing his work too, turning to look at them, “but we had, like, an actual conversation.”

Alex’s eyebrows shot up, “wow, really?”

“Yes, dude, we talked about Sabrina Carpenter in Fortnite and their record collection”, he was obviously excited, “and it wasn’t a long talk, but they spoke actual sentences to me.”

“Good for you, buddy”, Alex patted his back, trying not to laugh as Spencer turned back to his monitor with a huge smile on his face, “good for you.”

☆

It had been a week since you had that discussion with Spencer and you were still reeling from it. You both got very busy and you didn’t really find yourself alone with him after that. You were both excited and very scared about the next time you could potentially talk. You had been mentally hyping yourself up before work everyday, just in case. You were determined to push your feelings down as far as possible, so you could have a longer conversation next time.

It was a sunny Friday morning when you breezed through the door, mood high because the barista at the cafe remembered your order and gave you a dollar discount. You greeted every single person you walked past and gave Courtney a huge hug when you saw her.

“You’re in a good mood”, they laughed, “happy Friday, huh?”

“I just feel like today’s gonna be an amazing day”, you hummed, pulling away and grabbing her hand. You swung them around between you wildly as you spoke, “the weather’s gorgeous, my coffee tastes extra good this morning, you look beautiful. It’s been great so far.”

She leaned forward and laughed hard.

“Are you sure it’s not because you’re filming with Spence later?”

“What?” You stopped swinging your arm, looking at her with wide eyes, “that’s not why- no, I didn’t even know, no, well, I did know but, that’s not a reason to- like, I don’t even…”

“Okay, breathe”, Courtney was wheezing with laughter now, “I was just teasing, Y/N. You’re okay.”

You fanned your face lightly, why was it so hot in here all of a sudden? Did they know about your feelings for Spencer? You swore you were working on that. Hopefully, the mention of him won’t make you feel like this soon.

“I’ve never seen you stumble over words like that before”, they started swinging your arms again, “what was that about? I thought you didn’t like him.”

“It’s not that I don’t like him”, you explained, shaking your head, “I like him! I like him a lot!”

Another weakness of yours that came along with being a yapper was your bad habit of over-explaining. You couldn’t shut up if you tried, unfortunately.

“You… like him a lot?” Courtney raised a single eyebrow, “never heard you admit that before. That’s very interesting.”

“No!” You let go of her hand to wave yours in front of her in a panic, “no, not like that!”

“Yeah”, she replied, slowly stepping away from you and heading back in the direction she was originally going, “totally, yeah. You didn’t mean it like that.”

You rushed away to your desk, cheeks flared up and your head down to hide it. You didn’t see Courtney look back at you with a mischievous smirk.

☆

“Y/N is on one today”, Courtney gasped as everyone was trying to catch their breath. You had told an off-hand, low-brow joke that you did not expect to land, but apparently everyone at Smosh had the humour of a 12 year old boy. Your chest swelled with pride, not from making everyone at the table laugh, but for making specifically Spencer laugh so hard, he was covering his face with his hands.

You silently thanked the heavens that you got to film a Moose Master video with Spencer today without going through the emotional and physical torture of sitting directly next to him. In your opinion, he looked super hot today, he was wearing a hoodie and pushed the sleeves up instead of taking it off when the game really heated up. All you wanted was to stop looking at the cameras and just stare at his tattoos to commit them to memory. Making him laugh while he looked so good was like doing crack. Or what you imagined doing crack was like.

As the game continued, the volume in the room only increased, more rules making people screw up and yell at each other. It was getting intense.

“You said her first name!” You pointed at Noah accusingly, interrupting the tirade he was on, “you broke a rule! I got your ass!”

“Y/N”, clearly frustrated, Noah put his hand up in your face, “shut up for once!” He then continued with the argument he was having with Amanda.

The comment was played for laughs, clearly all in the lighthearted spirit of the game. You had to admit the way he worded it hurt a little bit. But at the end of the day, you knew he didn’t mean it, you had all said stuff you didn’t mean in the heat of the moment. It wasn’t a big deal, so you got over that twang of pain pretty fast.

Seeming to notice you had become uncharacteristically silent for a moment, Spencer locked eyes with you from across the table. He silently raised his eyebrows and gave you a miniscule nod, you knew this meant ‘are you okay?’ Your cheeks flushed at him paying attention to solely you amongst the chaos and you nodded back in assurance before returning to the game.

His consideration unleashed a thousand butterflies in your stomach, it was clearly not a big deal, but he still wanted to check on you. You almost wanted to be mad at him for being so cute and sweet. He really was not going to let this ‘getting over your crush’ thing easy.

☆

After an hour, filming wrapped and everyone slowly dispersed. You lingered back a little, discussing something random with Courtney. You two walked off the set a little slower than the others, and once you were back in the main section of the office, you bid Courtney adieu as they went off to take care of something else.

“Hey Y/N”, you jumped a little in surprise, you hadn’t realised Spencer was standing by the door, just out of sight. “Can we talk for a second?”

Oh my god, here we go. You had been gearing up for your next one-on-one conversation with Spencer, you wanted this one to go off without a hitch, leaving him thinking you were charismatic and clever. The problem lay in the fact that when you were finally alone with him, and his beautiful eyes were gazing into yours and only yours, your mind went completely blank.

“Yeah”, you replied, exhaling. You didn’t even realise you had been holding your breath. You were glad nobody else was around to see you embarrass yourself.

“Did…”, Spencer scratched the back of his neck, “did what Noah said during that video upset you? I mean, I know you nodded like you were okay, but I just wanted to check on you to make sure, because that was a pretty rude thing to say”, his eyes were avoiding yours this time, “even though I know you know he didn’t really mean it. That doesn’t make it okay, though. Okay, I’m rambling right now, I’m gonna stop…”

You stared at him speechlessly. He was being so unbelievably cute right now. The care he was showing for you and your feelings endeared him to you so much it hurt.

“Spencer, you’re making this so hard”, you groaned without thinking. When you realised what you said, you wanted to run again. Flight or fight activated.

He furrowed his brow in confusion, “making what hard?”

Now you’ve gone and done it. You were incredibly embarrassed, searching the floor for some sort of way out of this situation.

“No, Noah didn’t make me uncomfortable”, you said in a monotone voice.

“Y/N, what am I making hard?” He ignored you and took a step forward, you started to panic.

“That’s what she said”, you couldn’t even laugh at your joke. He didn’t laugh either, and that made you feel even worse.

“Y/N”, Spencer slowly reached for you, as if you were a skittish wild animal. You tried your hardest not to flinch when he gently put his hand on your upper arm. “What’s going on? You can tell me.”

You finally looked up at him. There was an entire galaxy in his eyes you wanted to explore. He had gotten so close to you, but you wanted him even closer.

“I know you don’t really like talking to me, but”, he swallowed, “I really want to change that. You just need to tell me what to do.”

“I do, though”, you mumbled, your face felt so hot, you could probably cook an egg on it. “I want to talk to you all the time, it’s just-”, you shut your mouth, not daring to say anything further.

“What am I making hard for you, Y/N?” He was whispering now.

There was a beat of silence. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds, but it felt like it stretched on for hours.

“Getting over you”, you whispered back meekly, hands balling into fists by your sides. “Getting over my big, fat crush on you”, you said a little louder, you were diving into the deep end, laying bare your soul for him.

“What?” Spencer’s eyes had widened to the size of saucers, entire body almost recoiling in surprise. “That doesn’t make sense. I thought you didn’t like me. You talk to every single person in the office like they’re your best friend except for me.”

“Y-you make me nervous”, you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, “I’ve never been any good at talking to cute guys I like.”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed a deep red. He seemed almost as flustered as you.

“But!” You were fighting to save the situation, the last thing you wanted was to completely fuck up the work environment for both of you because of your schoolyard crush. “I promise I’m trying my best to get over my feelings for you. And then it’ll be so much easier to chat, and we can yap all day long together! I just need some time to work on it, that’s all.”

“Stop”, he murmured, tone pleading. He had stepped even closer, you could feel the heat coming off his body. Or it was just the heat your own face was generating. You were pretty sure you were visibly sweating. “Stop that.”

“What-”

“I don’t want you to”, he gently took your hand and you felt like you couldn’t breathe, a shiver ran up your spine, “I don’t want you to get over me.” His green eyes bore into yours, your heart thudded against your ribcage as you willed yourself not to break eye contact. “I haven’t been able to get over you, you know”, he spoke to you in a quiet tone you had never heard from him before, “ever since we talked in the break room, I’ve been thinking about you all the time.”

You opened your mouth and closed it a few times, completely in shock and searching for words that were not coming to you. You were so accustomed to knowing what to say in reply to pretty much anything, the constant flow of conversation buzzing at the back of your head came to a screeching halt. There was nothing but a heavy silence in your head as the man you’ve been pining for was metaphorically grabbing your heart out of your chest and claiming it as his.

“Just… thinking about you and how funny and bright you are”, he kept going, you had never heard Spencer word-vomit like this and it made your heart soar, “you talk so loud, but I love it because I can still hear you even though you won’t talk to me”, that made you laugh, your free hand coming up to cover your red face. “Your jokes always get me, and I love how you laugh with your whole body. I’m just always thinking about your smile, and your humour, and how kind you are to everyone, you’ve been driving me crazy.”

You covered his mouth with your trembling hand. You were so flustered, you felt like you were going to melt into a puddle any second. He looked at you with expectant eyes, round and imploring, like he was asking a silent question.

“You’re talking more than me for once”, you inspected every part of his face, you rarely had the opportunity to do that, you had been avoiding being close to him all this time after all. He chuckled behind your hand, the way his eyes crinkled a little in the corners when he smiled made you want to scream. You worried that he might be able to feel your racing pulse. “I never thought you would like me back.”

He slowly pushed your hand away from his mouth, “and I never thought you would like me. You acted like you hated me.”

“Okay”, you started, cutting yourself off with an embarrassed chortle, “I was panicking every time I saw you, I’m sorry!”

You joked with each other like that for the next few minutes, your heartbeat slowing slightly as you calmed down. Your chest tightened with excitement as you realised he had inched even closer, almost touching you. He looked at you with so much affection in his eyes when you laughed at something he said. You felt like you were on cloud nine.

“So”, you looked down at your fingers still interlocked, “what does this mean for us then?”

“Well”, Spencer pretended to think really hard, “if you can actually stand talking to me for more than five minutes,” he ignored you as you smacked his chest in fake offence, “would you like to go on a date with me?”

You hummed, also pretending to think really hard. He grinned at you, eyes fond. You wondered if he had been looking at you like that all this time.

“Yes, I think I’d like that”, you answered softly.

Feeling bold, you leaned in slightly, wondering if you could get away with kissing him on the cheek. He had other plans, tilting his head so his lips were almost grazing yours. He stayed still, waiting on you, always waiting on you. Both of you had your eyes half closed, transfixed on each other’s lips. Your stomach flipped as you took the leap, moving forward and pressing your mouth against his. It was absolute bliss.

Just like that, the invisible wall between you came tumbling down. It was like it was never there in the first place as Spencer’s hand squeezed yours tight.

☆

Note: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think! Also, I am happy for people to send requests, I want to try writing shorter fics, so that would be perfect! If you have sent me an ask, please be patient with me as I work through them, thanks guys. <333

♡ masterlist

#OBSESSEDDDD #spencer agnew #smosh fanfiction #spencer agnew x reader #IM LITERALLY KICKING MY FEET AND SCREAMINGGG

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astrobie · 21 days ago

Text

Soft currents

summary : in the middle of a heatwave, you beg Arthur to take you out for a boat ride. pairing : arthur morgan x f!reader rating : mature word count : ~5.5k warning : none. It’s just a little fluff. With a lot of kissing. And maybe things gets a little handsy. But no smut, I promise. Reader isn't described, she just wears a dress.

a/n : a huge thank you to @thedilfdiaries for being the best friend ever and always having the kindest words to encourage me, I love you💖. And also thank you so much @dilf-luvr-4evr for making me these beautiful water lilies dividers 🪷 and for supporting this idea, i hope you will enjoy that one too honey 🫶🏼. Pics by me. English isn’t my first language sorry for any mistake.

The sun is burning high in the sky, plunging the whole gang in a pitiful state of lethargy. The day finished early for everyone. After Mary Beth almost passed out, Miss Grimmshaw was forced to surrender: no more working for today. No more outside activities either. Everybody retreated inside the house, trying to find a place where the sun wasn’t breaching through the cracks in the walls…They’re all probably dozing off or reading… trying to keep themselves occupied whilst the fifth consecutive day of heatwave starts to drive you all insane.

Abigail is sitting in the corner of the main room, little jack napping on her lap, a damp cloth on his forehead… It’s not just the heat that affects you all, it’s the lack of sleep that comes with it, the nights are not much colder than the days.

And you…you are bored to death.

Laying on the piano’s bench, wearing the thinnest dress you own, you let your fingers trail down the ivory keys, pressing on the last one, a single sound echoing in the empty room. You wince as soon as you realize your mistake, searching for Abigail’s face on the opposite side of the piano, mumbling an apology.

She just stares at you, shaking her head disapprovingly, little Jack’s arms hugging her tighter as he rolls on his side. With one quiet snap of her fingers, she points to the front door, urging you to get out or stay quiet.

You sigh, defeated, already heading to the door, the blinding sun hitting your face as you step outside. And despite the shade that this unfurnished house provides, you are suffocating. The air is thick and humid and you feel like you can’t breathe: your hair is sticking to your forehead, your skin is damp, the fabric of your dress clinging to your skin…

You thought Clemens point was too hot but it was nothing compared to the swamps and the putrid smell coming from the waters as the temperature rises is just… unbearable.

If only you could get a bit of wind, some clean water to bathe in… There is no way you’ll try to dip your feet into the swamp, it’s too disgusting, and swarming with toads and gators. The last thing you want is to get your legs eaten by these terrifying creatures…

In a couple hours, the temperature will probably drop. You have to stay hopeful, even though the past few nights have been hotter than ever. Impossible to find sleep, you tossed and turned for hours, passing out in the early hours of the morning, but never long enough to really rest. And Miss Grimmshaw barked that the chores couldn't wait as soon as you opened your eyes…

Impossible to find sleep for everyone except for mister Morgan, apparently. You spot him at the foot of a tree, his hat resting over his face, providing him some extra shade. An idea crosses your mind, and you quickly leave your spot on the doorstep walking to the napping outlaw.

A kick on his heel wakes Arthur up in a jolt, his hands flying to his gunbelt, ready to aim at whoever disturbed him, before even opening his eyes.

His hat falls from his face, and his features relax when he realizes that it is just you.

He lets go of his holster, grabbing a cigarette instead and bringing it to his chapped lips

“Really Arthur? Smoking while it’s burning hot outside? You’re trying to catch fire or something?” you joke, leaning against the tree.

“What do you want?” Arthur’s head tilts up to look at you, his mouth opening to blow the smoke in your direction.

“Me? Nothing” You sweep the cloud away as you reply, coughing dramatically once the smell reaches your nostrils.

“Liar” Arthur smirks, bringing the cigarette to his lips as he studies you, careful to exhale away from your face this time. He can’t see your face well, the sun shining right in front of your head hypnotizing him but he can hear in your voice that you are up to something.

“I ain’t got all day. Spill it”

You don’t say anything, just smile at him, and for a reason he doesn’t want to admit to himself yet, it makes his heart skip a beat.

“There is nothing to do besides waiting for this damn heat to go down…” you start, fidgeting with one of your rings.

“Tell me about it… haven’t been able to sleep at night since I got back” He complains, eyes falling on the shining blue stone in your hands.

“Hmm are you missing the snow, you mountain man?” you tease.

Arthur chuckles and offers you his hand to help you plop down beside him. You let out a satisfied sigh, enjoying the cooler air now that the foliage swallows you whole.

“I don’t mind the quiet of the snow… and it doesn’t smell like rotten meat everywhere we go”

You nod, picking up a clover from the grass, letting the small stem rolling between your fingers.

“Take me with you next time. It could be nice, I’ll keep you company” you say after a moment, searching for Arthur’s eyes under the brim of his hat. But you can see he is actively trying to avoid your stare.

“Nah. Travelling with you? I don’t think it’s a good idea” he replies in a fake annoyed tone, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest at your proposition.

You gasp loudly, pretending to be offended. “Why not?”

“Ain’t nothing fun about hearing you complain All the damn time… from the cold, from the food, the rain, the wind” He retorts, ignoring the main reason why he doesn’t want to take you with him.

“I won’t complain. I promise. Not anymore. I mean at least not from the cold. Not since I know what it is like to live in the furnace… for the rest though I won’t promise anything” you say, bringing your hand your heart in a desperate attempt to prove your honesty.

“We will see about that” Arthur laughs, not believing this little act one bit.

“I guess we will” You grin at him, and pluck the cigarette from his lips before he can stop you, getting a drag for yourself.

You exhale the smoke, the circles dissipating in front of you, your extended hand drawing invisible patterns in the air.

Ain’t no coughing this time, and Arthur shakes his head, ready to call you out for the way you overreact when he smokes around you. But the words die in his throat as you lean your head on his shoulder, your hand slowly bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. Arthur parts his lips, and inhales, almost choking when you let your thumb brush gently the scars on his chin, and finally moves away, linking your arms with his.

“I was thinking…” you start, and Arthur’s shaky sigh escaping from his lips is the only proof that he is still alive, his mind still focusing on the closeness of your body, the touch of your fingertips on his face... His eyes fall upon your face and he just stares at you, at the way your mouth is moving quickly, but no sound reaches his ears.

“Arthur?” you call out, pulling on his arm.

“What?” he blurts out, suddenly remembering his own name.

“You ain’t listening” you pout, crossing your arms on your chest. Arthur’s eyes follow the motion, before he can remember how inappropriate it is for him to look at you like that.

“Sorry I just…” He passes his hand on the back of his head, taking a long drag out of his cigarette, looking for something to say. Nothing comes… and he just can’t stop looking at you.

“We should go on a boat ride” you cut him, eyes shining with excitement.

He scoffs.

“You go ahead. Boat is right behind the cabin. I ain't sailing in a sea of gators”

“Not here silly! I want real water clear and shiny… not stinky swamps”

“You wanna go to the lake?” he realizes, and you nod, grinning like a devil.

“With what boat darling?” he simply replies, wondering where the hell this idea is coming from.

“Well… see you aren’t very creative mister Morgan…”

“I ain’t building you a boat” Arthur warns, getting rid of the ashes of his cigarette with a quick flick of his fingers.

You roll your eyes at him.

“If I wanted someone to build me a boat I wouldn’t ask you, I would ask Charles”

“Hey now, what does that even mean? Why wouldn’t you ask me to do it? And where do you want me to find you a boat?”

“We will do what we do best. We’re going to steal one” You offer proudly.

“We?” Arthur can’t believe his ears.

“Yes we… You and I. I thought you were a risk taker, Mister Morgan.” You flash him a roguish smile as you stand up, readjusting the skirt of your dress.

Arthur looks at you wide eyed. “Well I am an outlaw darling, but last time I checked you weren’t interested in scheming and robbing. And I ain’t risking your neck for some stupid boat trip” He explains, before getting up from the ground. He steps closer to you, hands resting on his gunbelt, his head tilting to your waist. You notice the lack of weapons, groaning as you realize he is trying to prove a point.

“Come on Arthur… Nobody will catch us…” you beg.

Arthur smashes his cigarette on the ground. “I don’t think this is a good idea…” he says, but you sense the lack of certainty in his voice. It is probably not a good idea. If things go south and you get caught stealing, this could end badly for the both of us, especially since Dutch asked everybody to keep it low profile. The last thing you need is to get unwanted attention… But the two of you could be really careful, and there shouldn’t be a lot of people around in such weather. And Arthur has to admit that some time out of the bayou could be good. He sighs, putting his hat back on his head, and you feel that he is close to giving up.

“Come on Arthur! I am bored. You are bored. We have nothing to do and I thought it could be fun…” you smile, stepping closer to grab his hand and lead him to the horses.

“Alright… Let’s head to the lake” Arthur agrees, and lets you hold his hand, guiding him to the hitching post, the warmth of your hand touching his the only thing he seems to focus on. But you let go as soon as you reach your horse, Arthur staying behind, fidgeting with his gunbelt as he doesn’t know quite what to do with his hands now.

“Why didn’t you ask your Charles to take you there in a week once he’ll have that boat ready for you hum?” Arthur asks sarcastically as he watches you tightening your saddle, part of him regretting it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Charles is a good man, and he would certainly be the perfect candidate for your silly adventures… But his heart is telling him that he wishes you would always think of him first… Whatever plans you are making up in your head, he wants to be the first you reach out to, to let him know, to ask him to tag along.

You stop what you’re doing, scanning Arthur’s face. You know he is joking but you could swear there is a hint of jealousy in his voice betraying him.

“Well I could have asked him…” you walk away from your horse, getting closer to him. “But the thing is… I want you to take me there.” You can feel his eyes glued to your swaying silhouette as you approach, making it harder to breathe for you.

You press both of your hands on his sturdy chest, taping your fingers one by one on his skin. Arthur stops breathing for a moment, wondering how the hell he is going to handle this afternoon out there with you… He can try to lie to himself all he wants, he can’t ignore the fact that he falls a little more for you when you act the way you do today, being all pretty and sweet, and sneaky to get him to agree to be with you.

He pretends to look at the horses neighing on your left as you slide your hands down his shoulder, and turn around, as if nothing happened. Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you take a deep breath before jumping on the back of your horse.

“Plus he ain’t as good as stealing as you are. And we will cross that lake faster with you” you throw at him with a wink, before riding away.

“You stupid bastard,” Arthur mutters to himself, one hand resting on the back of his neck, the other tilting the edge of his hat down his face, as he follows you out of Shady Belle’s inferno.

The ride to Flat Iron Lake is peaceful. The further away you get from the swamps, the more breathable the air gets, a little bit of wind caressing your face as your horse falls into steps with Arthur’s mare.

You ask him about his trip to the mountains, doubling down on your request to take you with him next time, no matter where he is sent to.

“It could be good… Being out of camp for a while. Away from the responsibilities, from the fear….” You started day dreaming about a life you will never be able to afford a while ago now, and you wonder if Arthur would share the same dream. In your deepest thoughts, you pretend he does, and when he is away, you spend hours thinking about what your life could be. Out of this mess, out of this gang. Just you and him, somewhere safe.

Arthur has thought about you being out there with him plenty the last few months. More than he should have, really. But it wouldn’t be reasonable, every bullet grazes on his skin a reminder that the danger you would face isn’t worth the hours spent in your sweet company. If anything would happen to you, he would never forgive himself. But he doesn’t have the courage to tell you that. He just nods instead, mumbling something about needing to make sure it won’t be another suicide mission.

“Why do you want me to take you there so bad anyway?” he asks as he slows down his horse, and you just laugh as you get past him, surprised that he is asking you this question. You thought that you were being obvious…

You pause for a moment, contemplating the way he looks at you, seated on top of his horse, face scrunched up as if he is trying to figure you all out.

“Maybe I should have thought harder before telling you that but…” You exhale slowly, the weight of the confession you’re about to make heavy on your chest. “You know Arthur… I miss you when you’re not around” You finally say with a confidence you didn’t know you were capable of, maintaining your head high, looking at him with a soft smile. You don’t wait for an answer, you just point out to a trail leading to the lake, and lead the way, your heart suddenly feeling much lighter.

Arthur stays immobile, forgetting he is supposed to follow you, your last words ringing in his ears. The scene is flashing before his eyes as you ride further away from him; and he waits for a moment longer, just to make sure he isn’t making up in his own mind the words he just heard. You miss him when he is not around… Well… He wasn't expecting you to say something like that, but maybe he should have expected it. Every little moment spent with you appears in his mind, and they’re all taking another meaning now. He is such a fool. The way you have been dancing around him recently is proof enough of what you’ve silently been feeling for him… And it’s also exactly why he agreed to do this little trip despite his worries. To be with you, to see you smile at him the way you always do, making his heart melt a little more. He just wishes he had the strength to say something, to make a move, instead of staying rooted to the ground and watching you go…

He pulls on the reins of his mare to catch up with you, the sudden speed exactly what he needs to get him out of his head.

The dark green and orange trees engulf the two of you as you progress on the path, the world slowly disappearing behind. The sun is still high and burning, but the fresh air coming from the lake is a blessing.

You sigh, content, caressing your horse as you watch Arthur slowing down and dismounting.

You tie the animals to a hitching post near the water, and bring your hand to your face, shielding you from the sun and the blinding reflection of the lake, scanning the thin strip of shore in search for a boat.

“Here” you point out to a couple of canoes and a bigger boat a few meters below, and run there excitedly. “I told you so! We are taking the bigger one” you start emptying the fishermen stuff in the canoe next to the boat you just chose.

“How lucky are we” Arthur says, biting his tongue not to sound too sarcastic as he follows you, making sure nobody is around to witness your theft.

“Don’t be so prudish Arthur. We will return this boat soon, and I will put these fishing rods and baskets back in their place. Happy?” You say as you jump in the boat, watching Arthur rolling up the sleeves of his blue shirt and pushing the boat further in the water without any difficulty.

“Delighted” he offers, trying hard to hold back his smile as you settle at the front of the boat gathering the skirt of your dress to get rid of your boots, a joy he rarely gets to witness shining on your face.

“You will thank me later Mister Morgan” you tease as he jumps on board, the boat shifting under his weight, making you giggle as you almost lose balance.

Arthur rowes the two of you away from the shore, the sun heating his back, illuminating your face. You enjoy the little breeze for a moment, eyes closed, before turning around, and leaning over the lake, your hand brushing the surface, collecting some water to pour on your face.

“It’s so cold, it feels nice” you tell him, passing your cold wet hands on your cleavage, the fabric of your dress dampening underneath your fingers.

You let your hand in the water as Arthur keeps paddling, the rhythmic sound of water splashing and the singing of the birds flying above your heads a peaceful melody that could definitely lull you to sleep.

You look absentmindedly at the little waves the boat creates as it floats, when you spot a bunch of water lilies set delicately above the water.

“Oooh They’re so pretty.” you exclaim, moving on your knees to Arthur and silently asking for his knife. He frowns as he hands it to you, wondering what you want to do with this.

“Can you get closer please I want to pick up one” you ask, and in a couple of strokes you get your hands on the silky flowers, the soft pink shade of the petals contrasting with the deep blue water of the lake.

Arthur paddles in silence, observing you admiring the flower in your hands. He figures you’re far away from the mainland, and decides to stop, leaving the boat at a perfect distance from the island you wanted to see. He wipes a thin layer of sweat off his forehead, and takes the opportunity to open a few more buttons of his blue shirt. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes leave your new prized possession and fly immediately to the revealed skin of his chest. He blushes when he sees the way you are looking at him. He clears his throat and leans over to collect some water just like you did.

“You’re right. It feels nice” he smiles, wetting the back of his neck.

“I told you so” you look at him fondly as you notice the way he relaxes, shoulders less tense than usual.

“I reckon I should listen to you more often” he admits.

“You probably should.” you say, and Arthur wishes he had the courage to lean over and kiss that proud look off your face. He leans back against the boat, focusing on the water instead, counting the fish gathering around the hull.

You do the same thing on your side, until you spot something.

“Arthur! There is something shiny here…” you point as Arthur joins you, unsteadily trying his best to avoid making the boat sway too much.

“I can’t see anything,” he mumbles.

“Can’t you see the reflection here? Do you think it could be some treasure?” you wonder, mind racing with the possibility of finding some gold.

“Ain’t no treasure around here darlin” Arthur scoffs.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve been here before. Only thing I found around these islands is an old chest full of rhum and sea weed” He can still feel the bitterness of the alcohol on his tongue as he naively thought he could try it out. He felt sick almost instantly.

“See! That’s a treasure Arthur! I am sure that chest worthed something. You don’t know since how long it’s been in the water, probably fell from a pirateship”

“Pirateship? More like moonshine thrown overboard by some raiders trying to escape the law”

“You’re no fun. I am going in to see what it is” you state while getting up, ready to jump in the lake.

Arthur calls out your name. “What do you mean you’re…” He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence, you disappear under the water in a loud splash.

He sighs, the drops hitting his skin a reminder of the coldness of the lake, wondering how you can handle swimming in this water. But when he doesn’t see you coming up to the surface after a moment, he curses, and leans over your side of the boat, eyes looking for your shadow underneath the water. The lake is too dark, and you are nowhere to be found. Panic claws at his heart, and Arthur stands up in an abrupt movement, the boat tumbling under his weight. He calls your name frantically, getting ready to jump. He doesn’t even know if you can swim. Fuck. He should have asked you before agreeing to take you out on a lake. He gets rid of his hat and gun belt, throwing them on the deck, and takes a deep breath before diving into the water, the temperature even colder than he expected.

His head is still under the surface when he hears your raucous laughter echoing through the water. He quickly swims back up, holding onto the side of the hull. Arthur’s eyes lock with yours across the boat. He is furious, clothes heavy with water, pants sticking to his body, and you just laugh at him, arms crossed on the edge of the hull, your legs half immersed in the lake, splattering water around you as you bat your feet up and down.

“Got you” you whisper cheekily.

Arthur spits and pushes his hair out his face, breathing heavily.

You notice how red he is, annoyed by your little prank, as he struggles to calm down from this scare.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he tries to get mad at you, but it’s very difficult to be convincing when he notices you have to keep your upper body from sinking by kicking your feet in all directions in the water.

“I am sorry Arthur” you offer in a laugh, swimming to him, your dress swelling as you move, making you look like some devilish sea creature.

“I can’t take you seriously” he replies, trying his best not to laugh as you approach, some sea weed tangled in your hair.

“Why?”

“Come here”

You stop next to him, one hand resting on the hull. Arthur turns to face you, his hand moving to the side of your head, pulling out the weed gently.

“Why are you so mad?” you ask, catching his hand in yours before he can retreat it further away.

“I thought I would have to drag your dead body out of this damn lake.” He replies, worry permeating his voice.

“Relax Arthur. I ain’t Marston, I know how to swim” you try to reassure him, feeling slightly guilty when you see the way he looks at you, brows furrowed, jaw tense. He got really scared.

“I ain’t laughing with you woman” he groans, and starts propelling himself to get out of the water. But you stop him, grabbing his arm.

“I am sorry Arthur. Really I didn’t mean to scare you. I should have told you I knew how to swim…” you apologize sincerely, hand curled around his bicep, your thumb brushing his shirt.

All his anger seems to dissipate as he feels your touch.

“Nah it’s alright… I ain’t that mad anyway” Arthur’s breath settles down as his eyes scans your pretty face, the way you bat your eyelashes at him… there is something else behind your eyes but he can’t quite decipher it yet…

Until you talk again, your words dying in a quiet laugh. “Or at least let you know that you can touch the bottom”

“What do you … mean…” The last word comes out of his mouth weakly, as he realizes that unlike you, he can stand in the water, at least enough to keep his head out of it. He lost his ability to think straight in the panic. And now that he is standing, it occurs to him just how close you are, clinging to his arms to keep your body from sinking.

He looks at you and you just nod, smiling, and he can feel your grip on his heart tightening.

“I am an idiot” He chuckles and without thinking any further, Arthur’s arms find your waist and he brings you closer to him.

“Don’t you ever go and scare me like that again” he whispers in your hair before freezing, the position the two of you are in suddenly hitting him.

He should be parting from you, taking a step back, hopping in the boat again and helping you up. Or maybe he should do the exact opposite. As he battles with his own mind, you take leverage on his shoulders, leveling your face with his, and trace the outline of his face with your hands, droplets of water sliding down his beard.

“What are you doin?” he asks, heart racing, as you circle his waist with your legs and press yourself even closer.

“Shhh” you whisper before pressing your lips on his.

You have no idea what is making you act so bold. Perhaps it’s all because of the way Arthur’s breath hitched in his throat as you deepened the kiss, your mouth moving in sync against his as your arms flew around his neck, your wet body glued to his. You kiss him until you almost drown the two of you, Arthur’s hand finding the edge of the boat again to keep you from sailing away.

“Darlin’ I’m…” Arthur murmurs as he pulls back. You know you don’t have to worry, the way his free hand moves along your side, tracing you up and down, is enough reassurance.

“What Arthur?” You whisper, brushing a strand of his golden hair away from his hypnotic eyes.

“Is this why you asked me to take you to the lake?” he asks sheepishly, noticing the flush crossing your face, swollen lips proving the eagerness you showed when you kissed him.

“Maybe” You smile before kissing him again, the coldness of your mouth contrasting with the way his face is heating right now.

“I should have been the one kissing you first” he confesses.

“Why didn’t you?” You ask, hand resting on his heart.

“Didn’t want to assume that you were interested darling… I thought you…”

“You thought I was just flirting with you for the fun of it?”

He just nods, eyes looking at your hand, the way your palm is pressed against him.

“Oh Arthur… you’re just…” you start laughing.

“What?”

“Nothing. I am just happy I was braver than you.”

“Braver than me hm? That's a bold claim but I guess you are.”

“Does that mean you'll take me with you for your next trip?”

“Woman… you are impossible… You think you can buy me with…” you cut him with another kiss, swallowing the words he was about to say.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He sighs when you part from him,

“Glad we found an agreement” You smile pompously, and Arthur shakes his head at your stubbornness, secretly happy to give in again.

“We should get out of the water…” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you carefully untangle your body from his.

Arthur props you up into the boat and you kneel down waiting for him. He follows you, grunting as he struggles to get in without turning that raft upside down. You take advantage of him losing his balance to pull him to you, his body landing on top of yours, and you stay here for a moment, both breathing heavily, his chest resting against yours, gazing at each other.

Your hands sneak between your bodies and you start unbuttoning the top of your dress, slowly. The sight of your hardened nipples peaking through the fabric is almost making Arthur feel bad about what he is going to do. He reaches for your wrists anyway, and stops you.

“Not here darlin’. Not on a damn boat” he says in a low chuckle.

“Okay” you agree, suddenly feeling shy under his lustful stare.

He leans down and crashes his mouth on yours, his tongue wasting no time to push past your lips. You moan as he tastes you, incapable to think about anything else but the feeling of him against you. You don’t want him to stop. You stay there for a while, lost in each other.

When unexpected clouds hide the sun away, the sudden shade raising goosebumps on your skin, you take it as a sign to go back to the mainland.

You part from Arthur’s lips reluctantly.

“You think the others will wonder where we are?” you breathe out, worrying about what they would say if you were out for the whole night.

“Don’t think they will even notice we are gone” Arthur replies, pressing a kiss to the side of your jaw as he sits up. You do the same, gathering your hair in a twist, and Arthur takes off his shirt, wringing it out. You stay silent, the weight of this afternoon’s event slowly falling upon you as the sun gets lower in the sky.

“Still feel like visiting that island?” Arthur asks after a bit, not shying away from your gaze as you look at him getting ready to sail you back to the mainland

You nod. “Why? You wanna go back to camp already?” You ask, not wanting to put an end to this little getaway.

“Nah. I think we should enjoy this trip a little more.”

“Got something more interesting to suggest?”

“I might have an idea yah… but it probably won’t be helpful with the heatwave thing and all”

Arthur winks at you and starts rowing away, his muscles contracting with each movement of the paddles, making your cheeks burn at the sight of his body.

“I think we cooled down enough” you reply, giggling as you squeeze out your skirt to get rid of the water.

“Let me take you to dinner?” He offers, heart hammering in his chest as he waits for you to say something.

You raise your head slowly, finding his eyes across the deck. “I’d love that, Arthur” The way you beam when you say his name makes him blush hard. He tries to hide it under the shade of his hat, but you saw him.

He rowes away, and as the boat sways on the lake, you start thinking about this secret life again, just you and him, somewhere safe.

But this time it isn’t unreachable, and you feel like Arthur might be sharing the same dream.

a/n: thank you so much for reading. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated 🫶🏼

Arthur Morgan masterlist | Arthur Morgan fluff recs

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astrobie · 21 days ago

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astrobie · 25 days ago

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golden boy

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astrobie · 25 days ago

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i love how he talks to his horses its so cute

commissions are open!!

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astrobie · 1 month ago

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YOUR LOVE BLEEDS

Gojo would happily live a life in an overpriced apartment with a boring job if that meant having peace with you. But he wasn't born to have peace. So he at least tries to have you.

Angst (what's new). Bittersweet. Gojo Satoru × gn!reader

♪Softcore by The Neighbourhood♪

It's not fair.

The way Satoru is almost never home. The way he is always on the verge of death when he is. The way he wants to keep you close enough while sending you away. The way he loves you.

It's painful. It's borderline cruel. And it's mostly definitely not fair.

He knows it. He knows the smartest thing he could do was to completely leave you, so you could curse his existence and then move on. That would be something selfless. That should be an act of true love.

Satoru is sure he loves you. He's seen people describing love as the greatest thing known to humanity. The one thing that makes you want to keep fighting, to stay alive. The thing he feels for you is the most pure thing that ever happened to him. The most innocent too. There is no other explanation for it: he loves you.

But his love is not an ideal one. He can't give up the life he has for you. He hates this world, he hates the curses and he hates his superiors. He wants to get away from it. But this sense of obligation and guilt consumes him until he chains himself into this lifestyle. And he wishes he could give up on fighting so he could have a normal life with you. He would happily live a life in an overpriced apartment with a boring job if that meant having peace with you.

But he wasn't born to have peace. So he at least tries to have you.

Even if he knows it's unfair. Even if he constantly pushes you away so the things that come with him don't hurt you. Even if he can never give him all to you. Even if he knows you'll wait for him to come home everyday. And that one day he won't.

But he isn't a selfless man, not as much as he wanted to be. He keeps you around either way. He hugs you at night like he didn't just cover his hands with blood. But deep down, the worries are still there.

And no matter how many times he kissed you, his "I love you"s would always be followed by the sound of a broken heart and a hopeless future.

#jjk angst #gojo x reader #im distraught

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astrobie · 1 month ago

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unspoken

summary: the one where two methodical routines stumble upon the quiet risk of affection. warnings: angst (mentions of childhood trauma); fluff. wc: 3.5k a/n: i wrote this one listening to “4only” by leehi and some songs by baek yerin, but i suggest you read the story listening to “the only exception” by paramore. enjoy! :)

Gaara was used to solitude. In a way, he had grown up alone, under the constant scrutiny of a society that saw him as a monster. That was a common experience for jinchuuriki, after all, and Gaara felt a little less misunderstood when he looked at the situation from that perspective.

But he was still alone. Compared to his — now — friends, and even his own siblings, he didn’t have a constant companion. For him, there were no expectations of dramatic love confessions, grand weddings, baby showers or bridal teas, a first child running through the house and another one on the way.

No. For Gaara, there were only bureaucratic duties related to the administration of the Sand Village. His role as Kazekage was the only thing that lay ahead of him, both as a perspective and as an expectation. Treaties, travels, meetings — most of his time was devoted to politics.

The idea of hiring a personal assistant came up when Temari and Shikamaru made their relationship official. Even back then, his sister had told him to start looking for someone who could help with scheduling and interactions with the other Kage, since she would be moving to the Leaf Village after the wedding, and Kankuro was already in charge of the village’s finances.

The idea lingered in his mind for a few days; the thought of having a stranger privy to such critical bureaucratic matters unsettled him. He even suggested that Temari handle the advisory work remotely. She refused. A minor argument ensued, and Kankuro had to step in to calm things down.

In the end, it was decided that Temari herself would look for someone trustworthy to take her place.

You were hired a few months before her wedding.

Your unfamiliar presence was reasonably unsettling. Your interactions with him didn’t go beyond the usual greetings and strictly professional conversations. Sometimes, he even missed Temari when he looked at you — so focused on digitizing old files or sending scrolls to schedule and confirm meetings. Because Temari wasn’t a stranger; she didn’t treat him merely as a boss — and there was no reason to, since they were siblings.

He didn’t know you.

There was a small folder with your information in one of the drawers of his desk. He had skimmed through it when Temari handed him the documents. They were trivial things: your date of birth, who your parents were, your blood type, where you studied, what your professional skills were, etc. Obviously, he didn’t want a full report on your personality and preferences. Those things wouldn’t help him trust you. He just wanted to feel a little more comfortable in your presence — to see you as something more than a walking enigma.

When he told Kankuro about the situation, his brother said he was being too strict. Temari agreed. Shikamaru, who had been present during the conversation, pointed out that the circumstances weren’t as extreme as Gaara made them out to be.

“Coworkers need time to build some level of trust. Has she at least been doing a good job?”

“Yes, of course...”

“Then chill out, little bro” Kankuro cut him off. “She��s not going to bite you... unless you want her to.”

Gaara frowned, appalled by the crude remark, as if you were there to hear it. Kankuro flinched slightly under his younger brother’s scolding gaze, raised his hands in mock defense, and apologized for offending the ghostly presence of the assistant.

Shikamaru’s words proved true after a few months of collaborative work. Gaara, ever observant, noticed that the two of you were quite similar in the way you handled your tasks: every movement seemed carefully calculated — from the estimated time for completion to the effort required for the task. Post-its over the desk, dates marked on the physical calendar — color-coded for easier visualization —, reminders and alarms set in the digital one.

You shared a planner. A small red notebook, soft-covered, lined with silk, with a small clasp like a brooch. At the top, the kanji of the Kazekage. The planner stayed with you most of the time. Your handwriting filled most of its pages. You scheduled his appointments — professional or otherwise — and yours as well, so that both of you would know when not to disturb each other. Sometimes, Gaara would write a few words above yours, adding information you hadn’t noticed or hadn’t yet received.

However, there was an undeniable distance between you — which was, in a way, paradoxical. Even though Gaara knew the days you worked remotely because of menstrual cramps, and you knew the days he didn’t come into the office because he was in therapy, you didn’t talk much. What you did was interact — the typical behavior of the first weeks of work still lingered.

But there was a certain familiarity in those interactions, a quiet sense of comfort on both sides, as if the strangeness between you had faded.

Gaara liked that feeling.

As the days went by, working with you became something pleasant — even enjoyable. Following his siblings’ advice, he allowed himself to be less rigid and mechanical around you, since you’d be seeing each other fairly often. Of course, he didn’t expect you to become close friends. Above all, you were coworkers — a boss and his assistant; there was a clear hierarchy between you. Every bit of information you exchanged, every conversation you had, was shaped by that social dynamic.

But one time, while reading through some long reports, he asked you to bring him a cup of chamomile tea. When you handed him the drink, you asked whether he’d like you to bring other types of tea in similar situations. He thought for a moment and nodded, silently.

From then on, a cup of tea always accompanied the reports. And in a brief, casual conversation about different types of tea, you mentioned that you had learned about the properties of certain herbs from your grandmother.

On another occasion, Gaara needed your company at a meeting with the other Kage, but the two of you had mixed up some of the dates in the schedule, and the meeting had ended up being set for the exact week you were on leave — working remotely, and only when the pain allowed. To make matters worse, the meeting would take place outside the Sand Village.

You only realized the scheduling conflict on the eve of the trip. There was no other trusted employee who could go with him, since the meeting’s agenda was confidential. You and a few assistants had been allowed to attend only because you had helped draft the agenda and coordinate the meeting.

You couldn’t go, of course, so you stayed in Suna and made sure the office kept running smoothly. When Gaara returned, he sent a small box to your home containing a copy of the meeting minutes and a few sachets of chamomile tea. On the sealed envelope that held the minutes, a small post it was stuck:

Thank you for your hard work.

Small and simple acts of care gradually became part of your routine, as if your shared love language were acts of service. But Gaara didn’t think of it as love, and you behaved similarly. Those actions — meaningful when seen from the outside — were just actions, to both of you. Like marking an appointment and circling a date on the calendar for emphasis. Methodical, calculated, necessary — never beyond the limits you had silently agreed upon.

And curiously, you both felt comfortable with the arrangement. As if, in some way, you even enjoyed it.

“You two are weird” Kankuro remarked one day.

You both lifted your eyes from the map you were examining and looked at him, curious.

“Ah... I mean...” he stammered a bit, as if realizing he had just said something intrusive out loud. “It’s just... Come on, guys... You know intimate details about each other’s health, you go practically everywhere together, official and unofficial, and you still haven’t started dating?”

You shrank back a little, embarrassment painting your cheeks with warmth, but turned your gaze back to the map, choosing to ignore the question.

Gaara, on the other hand, stared at Kankuro coldly. By his count, that was the second inappropriate comment his brother had made about his assistant — the first being the one about her biting him.

“Kankuro” he began, icy indignation slipping through each word. “If you embarrass my assistant again, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Kankuro blinked, stunned.

“The way ____ and I cooperate at work is none of your concern” he concluded.

You gave a quiet laugh through your nose.

Kankuro remained frozen, mouth slightly open at his brother’s reply. “Let’s get back to work, gentlemen, please” you said. “There are a few points on the map I’d like to highlight.”

Kankuro’s comment, although made behind closed doors, seemed to set a precedent for similar remarks — which, to your misfortune, began to be made in public. Suddenly, there were too many pairs of eyes and ears on you both, analyzing your actions, scanning your behavior, dissecting your words in search of answers to a question no one dared to ask.

Gaara felt small again — once more, the child who was watched and hunted. And that was one of the feelings he hated most.

Maybe hate wasn’t even the right word; in truth, he felt disgusted at those stares, those whispers, that feeling of not being able to move even a single inch left or right without causing a stir.

He deeply resented the fact that his life, personal or professional, had become the subject of speculation. And he hated even more that you had been pulled into the melodrama.

Because now, you seemed tense, withdrawn, almost afraid to approach him in public. And he knew you were not afraid of him. Since the day you started working together, you had never shown fear. You were simply doing what you always did: taking well-calculated steps, one after the other, to avoid fueling any more rumors.

He found himself aligning his own actions to yours, silently, until, from the outside, the two of you looked like nothing more than strangers forced to work together.

You looked at each other as if silently apologizing — as if carrying a guilt neither of you could explain.

It was exhausting.

But it was intimate, too.

Forced to behave as nothing more than coworkers, you created a private channel of communication. Not an entirely new coded language. In fact, the conversations between you, already rare, became even scarcer. Still, there was something that kept you talking, without audible words, in plain sight, like a secret that stubbornly refused to stay hidden.

You had become more attentive to each other’s needs.

It started with small things, still within the scope of work.

Little post-its were stuck to the back cover of some documents:

“We need to go to Konoha as soon as possible. The Hokage won’t stop making noise about our presence for a ‘matter of great importance.”

“Don’t forget to get a gift for Temari. Shikadai’s baby shower is coming up.”

“We’re running low on tea sachets and herbs. May I contact Kankuro-sama and request a restock?”

He kept each post-it in the folder with your personal file.

The replies came through short emails. Your visits to his office — and his to your desk — were replaced by those emails. At first, they held only two or three lines: the usual greeting, a response to a post-it, a request, a closing. They got longer over time. But the most significant change wasn’t the length — it was the sender address: you started using personal email instead of the official one.

Suddenly, a distinction that had never existed before slipped into your interactions.

You found yourselves discussing topics that didn’t quite fit a corporate inbox.

Like how emotional Rock Lee looked when he greeted you both at Konoha’s gates — because he hadn’t seen his “battle companion” in ages. Or the time Kankuro, in a rush, approved the purchase of five hundred tea sachets instead of fifty. Or when Gaara asked about a song he’d heard you humming, and you sent him a long reply — almost an essay — about the singer’s career and discography.

You didn’t use honorifics in those emails. Not anymore.

There were now two relationships.

On one side, a boss and his assistant. On the other, two people.

And even though managing both things — the work and the privacy of what was slowly being built — was undeniably exhausting, there was a certain relief in it. Because you were experiencing it together, like soldiers shielding each other in the middle of a battle.

“Do you think we’re something?”

Gaara looked up from the stack of documents in front of him and gazed at you, contemplative.

You were in his office. The workday had ended hours ago.

Earlier, he had sent you an email, from his official address, asking for your help after hours, to catalog some fiscal documents that would need to be handed to Kankuro in a few days. Normally, you would handle that on your own, or with Kankuro himself. But he was out of town. So Gaara took the lead — and asked for your assistance.

“Did someone bother you again?” he asked.

“Not exactly. I’ve just been thinking a lot about it these past weeks. I get the feeling that we are something.”

Gaara blinked, intrigued by your reasoning. But there was no reprimand in his expression, no sign of objection. Silently, he urged you to go on.

“The rumors about us keep spreading, like flies on food. They’re mostly just gossip and speculation. But every now and then, I catch myself overthinking one thing or another.”

You frowned at the information on one of the documents and slid the page toward Gaara. Your hands brushed briefly as he reached for it.

“Set this one aside for further review, please.”

He nodded, placing the document on a small pile to the left — eyes still fixed on you.

“Temari spoke to me the day before yesterday to schedule a visit from you to her home. Strangely, she insisted I come along, which, at first, confused me. After all, why would I need to accompany you on a visit to your sister? And why would your sister feel comfortable enough to open her home to me?”

You handed him another sheet of paper.

“And why did I feel comfortable enough to open my home to you and Kankuro when we bumped into each other at the market — and you not only helped me carry the groceries home but even helped put them away? We had lunch together that day. And Kankuro got attacked by Rumi because he tried to pet her after I’d already said she didn’t like it. Oh! This one’s missing your signature.”

Gaara gave a soft laugh, while signing where indicated, remembering how offended his older brother had looked when the cat had scratched his face.

“Forgive me if this sounds insolent, but your family acts like I’m already part of it, Gaara. And I’m flattered by that, I really am, but I can’t shake this... unease. Should I be part of your family?”

Though Gaara was still looking at you, you didn’t return his gaze.

Instead, your eyes moved restlessly, not focusing on anything in particular. They scanned the documents only superficially, as if some complex equation lay before you, and you were sketching out a possible solution, using every bit of your mental capacity.

Gaara liked watching you when you were focused.

He had learned to quietly observe you, in fact — and, strangely, his chest would tighten slightly at the sight, as some indescribable, inconceivable feeling crept in through the back of his mind.

Gaara liked watching you.

But at that moment, he wished you would look back — because your unease was no different from his own.

He had already noticed how much closer you had become to his siblings. Temari had sent you a basket of books and chocolates on your birthday. Kankuro often joined you for lunch and sometimes walked you home. You even made plans together now — and Gaara always ended up being dragged along on those small adventures. You had even won over his nephew, who was just as serious and reserved as his father.

And Gaara wasn’t surprised that you were confused.

Because, after all, it had started with just the two of you.

Somehow, what began between you had spilled over into other connections — filling spaces you didn’t even know were empty, until they weren’t anymore.

So yes, the questions were valid. At this point, any question was valid if it could shed even a bit of light on the situation because, apparently, neither of you knew how to feel about it. And without knowing how you felt, you couldn’t figure out how to act.

Because actions were what mattered to you both.

Actions always came first — as if life were a giant chessboard, and you were just players, following logic and trying to keep the game safe, comfortable, under control. Only when you met did the game stop being safe. It became slightly adventurous, a bit freer, though, at first glance, there was still some resistance to that freedom.

And yet, here you were.

You, confused. Him, contemplative. Too many questions — and not a single answer.

“It’s... comforting to know that my family trusts you. I can’t speak for them, but I feel at ease when I see you all together. I don’t really know how to answer your question either, because I’ve been asking myself something similar for the past... few weeks? I think so. Have you seen the brown folder?”

“Here.”

“Thank you. I think I’ve been wondering what we are ever since Kankuro made those remarks about us. It all felt natural, until people started pointing it out. I began to wonder if I was being naïve, missing something. I’ve never had many people in my inner circle — I imagine you know why. So emotional nuances aren’t exactly... clear to me. Most of the time, it feels like I’m learning how to feel — how to live, to be more precise. In that sense, perhaps you’re wiser than I am.”

You shook your head gently.

“Then I guess neither of us has the answer.”

You looked at each other.

The documents were already sorted, ready to be filed. Some would go straight to Kankuro; others would be returned to the department that had written them, for further review and correction of inconsistent information. The rustling of paper and scratching of pens gave way to introspective silence.

Your eyes scanned each other’s faces, as if searching in the strands of color within your irises for the unspeakable words, the unnameable feelings. The initial question grew heavier as the scene stretched on, uninterrupted, like a film forever paused. The unspoken doubt shimmered in your eyes, sent chills down your spines, tingled across your skin, and flowed through your veins like a silent ache instead of blood.

Yet your hearts didn’t race.

Your minds didn’t work too hard to stay alert.

Truthfully, you were calm — like a quiet stream, bubbling with every sensation, delighting in them, savoring this still-unnamed thing that tickled the back of your minds and gently woke something neither of you knew had been sleeping.

You were the first to speak.

“Then let’s leave it open. I’ll store the review files in my cabinet. Tomorrow, I’ll send them to HR so they can follow up with the departments that have pending issues. I assume you and Kankuro will go over the verified documents once he returns, so I’ll leave them with you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No. I think we’re done for now. I’ll send an email if I need anything else.”

You nodded, gathered the files and your things, and headed toward the office door. Just before touching the handle, you turned on your heels and looked at Gaara one last time, catching him slightly off guard.

“The email. Should I wait for the notification on the work address or...”

“Your personal one.”

You blinked, a bit startled by how quickly he’d cut you off.

Gaara himself seemed just as surprised — unsure whether he was more unsettled by the abruptness of his response or by the fact that his first instinct had been to contact you through your personal account.

He looked so flustered, so awkward.

And you knew he was your boss, but at that moment, he looked like a kid caught playing with something he shouldn’t have touched. It was funny.

Your laughter flowed like water. It began as a quiet nose-laugh, then rose a key higher and spilled into a soft chuckle. It wasn’t loud or sharp, but just enough to fill the awkwardness that had settled between you.

His laugh was quieter. He was laughing, in truth, because he’d made you laugh.

That moment eased the urge to define the nature of the relationship quietly forming between you.

At the same time, it pointed to a possible answer — an interpretive path. Could it be that, in those soft-spoken seconds of laughter, the first lines of two confessions were beginning to take shape?

Expectation lit up both your eyes.

Your smiles grew just a little wider.

Perhaps the confessions were already written.

#this is everything #gaara x reader

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astrobie · 1 month ago

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the most twisted curse of all

jujutsu kaisen— after you joined tokyo jujutsu high school, nanami has found himself struggling. his mind goes blank, his cheeks turn pink, and he freezes at the sight of you. nanami kento had found himself with the most twisted curse of all: love.

pairings: nanami x reader / slight satosugu & shokohime

cw: fluff, slight smut at end, mutual pining, geto doesn’t defect, haibara LIVES!!, emo hair nanami, timeskip at end, pov switches occasionally, lovesick nanami, bad writing, nanami is just down bad for you

for my fellow nanami lover: @pinkangelz ! enjoy🌷

credit dividers: @cafekitsune

“Y/nnnnnn, we’re going to the arcade! Gojo got his weekly allowance and his Granny sent him way more than she usually does, she probably thinks it’s his birthday or something, but he’s paying for all our food!” Haibara finished and slid open my door to my room, hurrying Shoko and I to join him along with the other boys who were waiting outside.

After slipping on my shoes, I make eye contact with Nanami: Who totally hates me.

After recently joining Tokyo high, I’ve become quick friends with everyone. Gojo and Geto never fail to make me laugh, Haibara can always cheer me up, Shoko just understands me without me even having to say anything, and Nanami..

I had fallen for Nanami at first sight. How couldn’t I? He was everything I had wanted in a guy.

It’s been two months since I joined, and I’ve yet to had a chance to talk to Nanami one-on-one. He only ever speaks to me in a group setting, and I’m worried I might’ve said or done something that upset him, because why else would he not want anything to do with me?!

Shoko wraps an arm around my shoulder as we walk, and I lean my head against hers and pout.

“Shokoooo” I whined, a pout forming on my face. Shoko had been the one I confided in, trusted with my secret about my feelings towards Nanami. Shoko smiled, “Y/n, I promise you he doesn’t hate you, he totally has the hots for you. He’s just got a stick up his ass and is too afraid to talk to you.”

I groaned. “He totally wants me to die and just transfer schools..” Shoko giggled and reminds me of how crazy I sound, and that I should try to have fun and not focus on him for now.

“Nanami when are you gonna actually say something to Y/n? She looks like a kicked puppy every-time you freeze up like a robot.” Gojo questioned, one arm propped up on Geto’s shoulder as they walked side by side together, with Haibara walking next to Nanami, who walks next to Gojo.

Nanami contemplated Gojo’s words. He made a good point, but it was hard to explain to someone whose personality was so different than his. Gojo doesn’t get scared, not of girls, (maybe because he’s attractive) but Nanami hasn’t seen him scared of anything. He always has a smile on his face and Geto next to him.

“Y/n is a beautiful girl, I don’t blame you Nanami for getting flustered. However I wonder how you’re gonna ask her out.” Geto added. Gojo smirks, “Y/n is a total babe, but she can’t compare to Waka Inoue!” Nanami rolls his eyes and Haibara nervously laughs, worried he might get glared at by Nanami for laughing at Gojo’s joke.

Haibara rubs a comforting hand on Nanami’s upper back, smiling at the blond male. “Nanami, I believe in you no matter what. I’m right here, best wingman ever at your service!”

A small smile washes onto Nanami’s face, “Thank you, Haibara. I appreciate that. I definitely will need your help.”

Gojo and Geto chime in, agreeing that they’ll offer to help as well. Nanami wishes they didn’t hear him.

At the arcade, I stand behind Nanami, trying to pretend I’m not ogling him and that I’m just watching him play air hockey with Geto. Currently Nanami had beaten Gojo and Shoko, but Haibara was next to see if he could destroy Nanami’s winning streak.

Gojo stands next to Nanami and his eyes dart to me before looking back at Nanami, and then a lightbulb goes off in his head. “Hey Y/n, what’s your type in a guy?”

Nanami freezes and Geto takes it as his chance to score a point, but messes up due to Shoko bumping into him accidentally.

I blink, my face turning pink as I glance at Nanami, who’s super focused and look back at Gojo. “Uhh.. I dunno.. give me an example.”

Gojo pretends to think and scratches his chin before he asks “What about tall.. handsome.. blond hair.. and maybe a cool eye color, not like mine, but…” Gojo takes a quick glance at Nanami’s eyes before continuing—“ hazel eye color?”

I think for a second, but the only thing that comes to my mind is Nanami, and before I can even think before speaking I blurt out “You’re just describing Nanami!”

Cheering comes from Geto and Shoko as Nanami had whipped his head around so fast and caused himself to lose the game, making Haibara whine about how he didn’t get a chance to play.

Gojo lets out a chuckle and pokes Nanami in the ribs, “Ooh Nanami you hear that? Y/n just called you handsome.”

My cheeks are burning hot, and I stutter as I explain that wait, I was just— it’s not—

But Nanami can’t even hear anything anymore, the only thing he’s processed is the fact that you called him handsome, and he thinks he must be in heaven.

The next day in class, Geto decides to help Nanami in gaining courage and confidence to ask you out. Nanami figures Geto might be more helpful, but he forgets that while Geto is Gojo’s other half, he’s more annoying than Gojo himself.

Nanami is sitting in class staring at you when all of a sudden Geto gets up and walks up to you, interrupting Shoko’s conversation with you.

“Y/n, we should go out sometime and get lunch together downtown. We would be such a cute couple, right?” Geto interjects. The classroom goes silent as they wait for your response.

I stare in disbelief. I make eye contact with Shoko, wondering if I woke up in some alternate universe where Geto just asked me out. Except I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. I deadpan, and look Geto up and down and look at Gojo to see if he’s serious or not, but Gojo just looks dumb as ever so that’s not really helpful—

“Uh. No thanks, Geto. I don’t like guys with long hair, we can totally be friends though.”

Haibara beams and shakes Nanami by the shoulders, as Nanami’s eyes widen and internally he praises every high being that blessed him that this moment is happening, but Gojo pokes Nanami on the shoulder and whispers “You need to get rid of those bangs eventually though, they’re almost like Suguru’s”.

Immediately Nanami freezes and wants to die. Haibara has to catch Nanami before he face-plants on the desk.

I’m walking next to Shoko and Geto as he and I talk about the last mission we went on together, when we overhear Gojo, Haibara, and Nanami’s conversation.

“He needs to cut his hair! He can barely see through his bangs, he has to part his hair to the side. What happens when he’s on a mission and his hair gets in his face?! He’s gonna die!” Gojo exclaims, and Nanami pinches his nose in irritation at how loudly Gojo is speaking.

“He looks fine! He shouldn’t have to change himself, plus, it’s the style! He has to keep his hair, what if he looks ugly?! No offense, Nanami—“

“What are you guys going on about? Nanami’s changing his hair?” Shoko interrupts, as the three stop their arguing and look up at us. I make eye contact with Nanami and I smile at him, before he looks away with flushed cheeks. Weird. It isn’t even summer yet..?

“He’s thinking about getting a new hairstyle before we graduate, but I don’t think he should!”

“And I totally think he should! Come on Haibara, you’re gonna make him fumble!” Gojo whined.

I look at Nanami and see annoyance all over his face, and I feel bad, deciding to add a neutral opinion to help him.

“I think Nanami would look handsome either way! Personally, I dont care how his hair looks. I think whatever he likes and feels confident in the most will be the best!” I added, smiling at Nanami.

Nanami feels his heart stop and restart. He thinks he just fell in love with you more.

Gojo groans at the corny love display, before showing a picture of a slicked back look that’s slightly messy.

“What if he did this?” I lean down to look at the image, back at Nanami, and then back at the image before picturing it. Fuck, he’d look super hot.. especially if he wore a business man suit, and he were to take off his tie and use it on me and—

I turn a bright red and stand right up, turning to walk away and avoiding eye contact with Nanami. I need to get ahold of myself!

Nanami notices my expression and turns to Geto, a serious look in his eye as he demands: “We’re doing it.” Haibara facepalms in the background.

On Sunday, on the way to do my laundry I turn the corner and I run into Nanami. I stumble, almost falling backwards before Nanami places a hand on the back of my waist and almost falling backwards before Nanami places a hand on the back of my waist in order to stable me, but his hold slips and I land on my ass. Great, I have to die now.

“Sorry Nanami! I didn’t see you there, I didn’t—- Oh my…” I trailed off as I look up and notice Nanami’s new haircut, and I swear flowers started blooming and music started playing as I looked at him. His blond hair has been trimmed, framing his face. His hair is nearly parted, and his bangs, much shorter now swoop on the side of his hair.

“Y/n.. are you alright? You’ve been staring at my face for quite some time now..”

Oh my god I need to control myself—

“Y-Yes! I’m totally fine, I was just noticing your hair.. it’s.. d-different!” I stutter, standing up and brush past him, hoping he doesn’t catch my flustered face or notice my nosebleed. I call Shoko as soon as I’m far enough, and I tell her how badly I need Nanami.

—-

Nanami stands, staring down the hallway you had just run down. Gojo comes up from behind with Haibara, as he places a hand on Nanami’s shoulder.

“I’m confused.. why did she run away?” Nanami murmurs, frowning. Gojo smirks, an evil idea coming to his head.

“Maybe you’re not strong enough like me? Y’know, since you totally couldn’t catch her and she busted her ass in front of you.” Gojo snickers, as Haibara notices a single dropped sock on the ground.

“Nanami, you should train to be super buff like superman, and then give her back her missing sock! She’ll definitely fall in love with you then!”

Gojo agrees, and the next weekend they go out to purchase protein shakes and food to help Nanami impress you. Gojo puts up a shirtless poster up on Nanami’s wall to encourage him, against Nanami’s arguments.

—

The following morning, you walk to Nanami’s room with Haibara and Utahime to see if she left her notebook behind before class starts. Nanami slides his door open and lets you all in. You cheer internally knowing you can use this time to see what Nanami’s room looks like. You look over, seeing the mirror on the wall (next to the poster) and you see Nanami in the reflection. Thinking, wow, even the back of his new hair is so sexy, you accidentally think aloud—

“Woah, who’s that hottie over there?” You point, and everyone looks at the poster instead of the mirror. Utahime groans, “Get a hold of yourself! It’s not even 8 in the morning!”

Nanami’s grits his teeth, and taps on Haibara signaling him to stay behind as Utahime and you leave the room, as you tell her you were just joking—

“I need to look better than that man. I need to look like superman. Even better, actually.” Nanami commands. Haibara laughs. “How are you going to be better than a guy who can literally fly and shoot lasers out of his eyes?”

“Watch me.”

Eventually everyone gets tired of Nanami freezing whenever you smile at him, and they all decide that it’s up to Haibara to get Nanami to confess.

A month later, I’m sitting outside with Gojo, Geto, and Shoko drinking soda’s as we talk about our plans for the upcoming holiday break. Shoko plans on asking Utahime out, saying “I’m not gonna chicken out anymore, the only thing scarier than her rejecting me is Gojo when he’s hungry.” We all laugh, and then the conversation shifts to me.

“Speaking of, Y/n, you need to confess already.” Shoko adds, making me yelp and punch her shoulder. “Shoko! You’re not supposed to say that in front of them!”

“It’s not like we didn’t know, it’s so obvious.” Geto interjects, making me groan in embarrassment. If everyone can tell, that must mean Nanami knows and he’s just been purposefully avoiding me. I slam my hands into my face and flop onto Shoko’s shoulder as she rubs my arms to console me.

Haibara and Nanami stand at the vending machines, as Haibara hypes Nanami to confess.

“Haibara, I can’t, I simply can’t even think straight around her.”

“Nanami! You’ve faced cursed scarier than this! What if you were to die tomorrow, would you wanna die without knowing if Y/n likes you back!?” Haibara insisted, shaking Nanami by the shoulders once again. Nanami grumbles, knowing his friend is right and decides to walk over to you and confess.

“Y/n.. a little certain someone is walking over here and looking right at you..” Shoko whispers, as I jolt upright and grab Gojo’s phone to look at myself in the camera and fix my hair.

“Because of your blabbermouth he probably heard us! He’s totally gonna tell me he hates me and thinks I’m such a freak!” I cry, before I fix my makeup and take a deep breath, putting on a smile as Nanami stands in front of me.

Never mind. I think I’d rather die than live in a world where she tells me she thinks I’m weird, and that she doesn’t feel the same way at all. Nanami’s confidence floated away the second he got closer to you and suddenly he stands in front of you, not saying anything.

Nanami bristles at the sight of you smiling up at him, the sunshine hitting your hair, making it flow a lighter shade, as the wind caresses your hair, and your eyelashes flutter with each blink. Your eyes staring deep into Nanami’s, making his cheeks warm up and forget what he was going to say.

Nanami stands there, staring at me. I nervously glance to Gojo and Shoko, who are rolling their eyes (because this isn’t the first time Nanami has been love struck by you)

“N-Nanami, are you okay? Did you want to say something?”

Nanami blinks, before shaking his head. “No, sorry, I didn’t want to say anything to you.” He stated, his bluntness slapping you in the face. I cringe, “Oh sorry, my bad.. uh.. did you want to sit here? I can leave—“

Haibara’s voice echoes in Nanami’s head: “Would you wanna die without knowing if Y/n likes you back?” Tied with the sad look on your face, Nanami’s doubts evaporate, and he decides to confess his feelings no matter the outcome. Nanami straightens his shoulders and clears his throat, and reaches for your hand and cups it with his.

“No, you don’t need to apologize, it is me who does. I apologize for my rudeness and boldness, my only excuse is the fact that…” Nanami locks eye contact with you, making sure his words get across correctly. “I think you are the most beautiful, intelligent, and strongest girl in the world. And because of this, my brain stops working and I can’t form a single coherent thought when I’m alone with you.”

Silence falls over everyone, as Haibara sits to the side along with Shoko, Geto and Gojo, as they all stare in shock at the fact that holy shit Nanami actually confessed, but the fact that he didn’t say anything incredibly stupid or embarrass himself.

My heart is racing at Nanami’s confession, and I feel my cheeks turn a bright red.

“I-I feel the same way..” I answer, as Nanamj sighs in relief and feels his heart grow three sizes. “Um.. let’s talk more maybe in private?” I giggle, noticing four pairs of eyes on us as they cheer. Nanami smiles and nods, following behind with a warm soft gaze on me as I hold his hand.

————

“Congratulations Haibara!” Everyone cheers, clinking their glasses. I sit next to Kento, his hand resting on my thigh as we all take a sip of our drinks. We are celebrating his promotion to a Grade 1 Sorcerer, thanks to recommendations from Geto. Shoko and Utahime sit together, along with Gojo and Geto who wear matching teaching uniforms.

It’s been over two years since we have graduated, and we have all gone different ways. Utahime teaches at the Kyoto school, while Shoko is a doctor at Tokyo. I am a grade 1 sorcerer along with Haibara and Kento. Gojo and Geto teach at the school, and Yaga has been promoted to Principal after we graduated.

Kento has changed from his high school self, confidence oozing out of him from everywhere compared to years ago. He sits upright, his hair neatly styled, wearing a dark blue button up with navy slacks. A gold watch I gifted to him on our 3 year anniversary rests on his wrist, the cold metal tickling my thigh.

“Nanamin, you know you’ve gotten totally hotter ever since we graduated. You’re almost a whole new person.” Haibara marveled, as the others stare at the button on Kento’s shirt struggling to hold itself against Kento’s large pecs. Not that I’m looking either..

“Yeah Y/n, damn girl, you’re lucky as hell!” Gojo half jokes, feeling Geto poke Gojo’s side in annoyance. Haibara nods in agreement. Shoko and Utahime roll their eyes as they hold hands under the table.

I laugh, rubbing Kento’s arm as he lets out a mirthful chuckle. “Oh I know, he just keeps getting bigger and better.” I respond, trailing my eyes and hand down his figure, resting my hand on the his hand that rests on my thigh. Everyone lets out a laugh as there’s a crack in Kento’s stoic face, as his ears turn pink at my bold comment. Everyone notices as Kento pretends to wipe something off his face to hide his growing blush. He’s still his highschool-Nanami self at heart. I turn to ask Nanami for water so he can calm himself down, and he presses a kiss on my cheek as he gets out of the booth.

“He’s so down-bad for you, I bet he’d do anything for you, just like the old days.” Shoko jests, as Gojo giggles. I shake my head, blushing my cheeks in denial. “Nuh uh..”

“We can totally prove it, just ask him for a kiss when he comes back.” Geto retorts, and I blush at the thought of Kento kissing me in public, knowing he prefers to be polite to others and only kiss me on the cheek. But on the lips?! He’s definitely say no.. right?

When Kento returns with a cup of water, I sit on his lap and wrap an arm around his neck and give him the best puppy eyes. “Kento.. can I get a kiss?” I ask, and Kento looks down at me and a lustful gaze washes over his eyes, as he lets out a small smirk and nods. He can’t resist my lips at the moment, especially after my comment from earlier. Our lips touch, and before I can break away he continues it, his lips devouring mine as I let out a small gasp. His hands trace my body in my dress, as he pulls me on his lap further and holds my dress down so I don’t flash everyone watching. I’m panting and moaning quietly, opening my mouth to let our tongues dance around each other.

“Trigger warning please, I don’t think anyone wants to see this.” Utahime barks, slapping Kento’s hands that trail over my body. Shoko takes a long swig of her drink. Kento and I remember where we are, and break off the kiss a string of saliva coming off our lips. I’m panting and my eyes are glazed over and I’m literally ruined just from kissing him while Kento looks so composed, (Yet you know that look in his eyes says what he’s thinking. He’s going insane internally, and he was minutes away from taking you to the bathroom and finishing your make-out session.)

“I want to apologize for getting so carried away, I would say it’s because I’m slightly intoxicated, but that would be a lie, I’d act like this if Y/n asked for a kiss any other day.” Kento muses, as Shoko waves away his apology and says that Utahime isn’t used to such broad displays of public affection. The subject changes as Kento and Utahime converse, but in the back, Gojo, Geto and Haibara have red faces and are busy shifting and adjusting their pants, suddenly feeling tight. They’re wanting to see more of this Kento and see if he really is bigger and better.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk nanami #nanami

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