#dad arthur morgan

[softheartedbunn]

Older blue collar husband that always comes home smelling a bit musky but never bad after a long day at work, his hands almost always covered in grease & grime. He never likes to bring home stress so he may or may not stash a pack of Marlboros in the glovebox for those extra hard days. In his free time he’s always making repairs to the chevy that he bought for cheap in “mint condition”(you told him it was too good to be true). Has the biggest appetite and will never turn down the opportunity to devour a meal made by his sweet little dove. Afterwards he likes to unwind with a drink on the couch, his darling nestled beside him as he showers her in all his love & praise ♡

[starlight-and-whiskey]

Arthur Having a Baby Headcannon

~ He'd pace outside the tent, listening to the screams within as he smoked cigarette after cigarette. He'd angrily bite back at anyone who tried to comfort him. ~ When he was told he could finally see you, his face would be pale, eyes wide as he swallowed hard and tried to still the tremors in his fingers. He'd sniff hard and take a long measured breath before entering, removing his hat and smoothing over his hair. ~ When he saw you and your child nestled against your breast, he'd pause in the entrance, his breath halting as his eyes glanced over you, his jaw hanging slack as a mountain of emotion surged through him. ~ When you ask if he wants to hold her/him, he'd stumble, his breath stuttering so much that he could only manage a nod. He'd hover close to your bedside as you handed the babe to him. ~ He'd feel awkward and unsure, but when he held the baby and placed a finger in it's hand, it would grip his finger tightly and his breath would rush from him in one harsh breath as tears misted his eyes. He'd look at you with glistening eyes and parted lips as words failed him completely. ~ Eventually he would perch on the edge of the cot, his hand looping around the back of your neck as sobs threatened to break free from his throat. He would whisper 'thank you' against your lips, sniffling back tears as he pulled back to flash you the most genuine smile you'd ever seen from him.

[allthemeniveloved]

Cradle

Summary: Arthur Morgan cares for his newborn daughter, reflecting on his past mistakes and vowing to protect his family at all costs.

wc: 1,681

ao3 link

a/n: Literally cannot get enough of hot father Arthur Morgan/John Marston right now. I'm ovulating.

The storm rolled in fast, the low rumble of thunder following Arthur Morgan as he urged his horse forward, the reins tight in his hands. His heart was pounding—not from the gallop of the horse beneath him, but from the fear gnawing at his chest. He had been gone longer than he should’ve been, out scouting for supplies, and now he was racing the clock. Racing fate.

And racing to you.

The moment Charles had found him in camp, breathless and shouting about how you were in labor, Arthur felt the air rush out of his lungs. He hadn’t said a word, just mounted his horse and took off like a bullet, the world blurring around him. All he could think of was you—your face, your voice, and the child you were bringing into this wild, dangerous world.

The cabin came into view, nestled in a clearing just as the rain began to pour. Arthur pulled his horse to a stop, leaping from the saddle before the animal had fully stopped. His boots hit the muddy ground, splattering his pants, but he didn’t care. The soft glow of the lantern in the window was his beacon.

"Did I miss it?" he calls out to whomever could hear, fear laced in his voice.

“Arthur!” Abigail’s voice called from the doorway as she stepped outside, shielding her face from the rain. “You’re just in time!”

He pushed past her with a muttered “thanks,” his heart pounding as he crossed the threshold into the small cabin. It was warm inside, the air thick with the scent of herbs and something sharp, almost metallic. The midwife—a kind-faced older woman who had been passing through camp—was kneeling by the bed where you lay.

You. His heart nearly stopped when he saw you, your face pale and damp with sweat, your hair sticking to your forehead. You looked exhausted, your body trembling as you gripped the sheets beneath you, but your eyes snapped to him the moment he entered the room.

“Arthur,” you whispered, relief flooding your voice. “You made it.”

He crossed the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees beside you and taking your hand in his. His calloused fingers enveloped yours, rough but steady, grounding you as you held on for dear life.

“‘Course I made it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“You almost did,” you teased weakly, though your grip on his hand tightened as another contraction wracked your body. Your face twisted in pain, and Arthur’s heart ached in a way he’d never known before. He wished he could take it from you, bear it himself, but all he could do was be there.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’m here. I got you.”

You nodded, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you did as he said. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his thumb brushing over your skin in a gesture that spoke louder than words. He was here. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Time became a blur after that. The midwife gave instructions, Abigail hovered nearby with clean cloths, and Arthur stayed rooted by your side, his hand never leaving yours. He whispered words of encouragement, reassurances that you could do this, that you were the strongest person he’d ever known.

And then, just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, a sharp cry filled the room.

You collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down your face as the midwife held up the squirming, wailing baby. Arthur stared, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the tiny, perfect life you had brought into the world.

“It’s a girl,” the midwife announced, her voice warm with pride. Arthur let out a shaky laugh, his hand still gripping yours as he turned to you, his blue eyes shining. “A baby girl,” he repeated, as if the words were foreign to him. “We got ourselves a daughter."

Arthur Morgan had a daughter.

The midwife cleaned the baby quickly before wrapping her in a soft blanket and placing her in your arms. You looked down at the tiny face, your tears mingling with laughter as you marveled at the little life you had created.

Arthur leaned closer, his large hand hovering over the baby’s head as if he was afraid to touch her. But when he finally did, his fingers were impossibly gentle, tracing the curve of the baby’s tiny cheek, then her nose.

As the baby settled in your arms, Arthur stayed close, his presence a steady warmth at your side. The storm raged on outside, but in that little cabin, all was calm. The three of you were together, and for the first time in a long time, Arthur felt like he had something worth fighting for.

-

The morning sun crept through the cracks in the cabin walls, casting golden rays over the small room. The air smelled of wood smoke and fresh pine, mingling with the faint scent of baby powder. Arthur Morgan stood near the hearth, rocking the tiny bundle in his arms with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place for a man of his size and reputation.

He hadn’t slept much the night before—not that he minded. Every sound the baby made, every soft whimper or rustle, had him awake and alert, ready to jump to your side or pick up the little one himself. But now, with you finally getting some well-deserved rest in the small cot across the room, it was just him and his daughter.

“She’s got your nose,” Arthur murmured, his deep voice quiet, as if afraid to break the spell of the moment. He traced a finger gently over her tiny features, marveling at how small and delicate she was. She stirred slightly, her face scrunching up in a way that made his heart ache.

“Already got a temper, huh?” he said with a small chuckle. “Guess that’s from me.”

He settled into the old rocking chair by the fire, cradling her close to his chest. The rhythmic creak of the chair mixed with the soft crackle of the fire, and for a moment, the chaos of the world outside seemed far away. He hummed a low tune, the same one his ma used to sing when he was a boy, his voice rough but steady.

“You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?” he whispered to her. “Didn’t think a man like me deserved somethin’ this good.”

She let out a small sigh, her tiny fist curling against his chest. Arthur stilled, his breath catching. It was the smallest thing, but it felt like the world to him. He hadn’t known he could love anything this much again, not since Isaac and Eliza. But here she was, proving him wrong with every beat of her little heart.

He glanced over at you, still asleep and bundled in blankets. You’d been through so much bringing her into the world, and Arthur had been there every step of the way. He’d held your hand, whispered reassurances in your ear, and wiped the sweat from your brow when you thought you couldn’t do it. And now, watching you sleep peacefully, he felt a surge of gratitude that he couldn’t quite put into words.

“She’s got your strength, too,” Arthur said softly, glancing down at the baby again. “Hope she’s got more of you than me. World could use more like her ma.”

The baby let out a small cry, her face scrunching up again. Arthur’s eyes widened, and he quickly stood, bouncing her gently in his arms. “Alright, alright, easy now,” he murmured, his voice soothing. “What’s the matter, huh? You hungry?”

He walked over to the small table where a clean bottle sat waiting, quickly warming it by the fire. Once it was ready, he settled back into the chair and offered it to her. She latched on immediately, her tiny lips working with determination. Arthur couldn’t help but laugh softly, his eyes crinkling with affection.

“There you go,” he said. “Ain’t no need to cry when your pa’s gotcha, huh?”

As she drank, Arthur leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. His mind wandered, thinking of everything he’d done, every bad choice he’d made, every road that had led him here. He wasn’t a good man—not by a long shot—but holding her, he wanted to try. For you. For her.

When she finished, he placed the bottle aside and held her up against his shoulder, patting her back gently. “You’re gonna have a good life,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t care what I gotta do. I’m gonna make sure you and your ma are safe. Always.” Arthur couldn't make the same mistake twice.

The baby let out a soft burp, and Arthur chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, settling her back into the crook of his arm.

A soft rustle from the bed caught his attention, and he turned to see you stirring, your eyes fluttering open. You smiled sleepily when you saw him, your gaze drifting to the baby in his arms.

“How’s she doin’?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

Arthur smiled, his expression soft. “She’s perfect. Just like her ma.”

You sat up, stretching before crossing the room to join him. Arthur shifted slightly, making room for you to sit on the arm of the chair. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder as you both gazed down at your daughter.

“She’s gonna have your heart, you know,” you said teasingly, though there was warmth in your voice.

Arthur let out a quiet laugh. “Reckon she already does.”

For a long moment, the three of you sat there together, the fire casting a warm glow over the room. The outside world could wait. Right now, all that mattered was the love shared in that little cabin—Arthur, you, and the tiny miracle cradled in his arms.

[somnoshy]

CUTEEEEEEE 😫🫶

Arthur bathes his infant daughter in the shower & sings to her

Part 1 of Morgan & Family (Fluff Dump)

*cropped screen caps from the film Three Men and a Baby

RDR2 | Relationship: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader | Rating: General

Tumblr Fic Masterlist | Ao3

a/n: My very first-ever non-anon request!! This is a request by @ackerman-19s in response to this post of mine, which was in turn inspired by a scene in Three Men and a Baby, which is a great movie. You can find the movie on Disney+, and the scene occurs at about 1:06:40 in the movie. :)

This is also the first installment in what I’m going to consider a fluff dump work, since I have lots of fluff scenes that run through my head and nowhere to put them. At this time, I’m opening it up to anyone who’d like to submit requests for fluff scenes. Please feel free to share your fluffy Arthur Morgan thoughts with me! (Unfortunately rn I suck at writing spicy things. So so sry.)

p.s. to the sweet requester: So sorry this took me about a month longer than I would’ve hoped. There was a period there when I wasn’t writing anything at all due to depression. But I’m glad I wrote it. It was a nice change of pace bc usually I fret over whether anyone will read at all. This time, I don’t have to fret bc it’s really for you and me. 🥰 So if anyone else reads and enjoys too, it’ll be a cherry on top! Thank you again, sweetie, and I hope you enjoy!

🌻Comments always welcome! Re-blogs always appreciated!🌻

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When Arthur awakes naturally to the dim blue light that edges the gauzy curtains draping the nearest window of your master bedroom, he knows you’ll still be asleep.

He can feel the solid warmth of you beside him. And when he gingerly turns, he discovers that you’re indeed blissfully asleep, facing him on your side, your petal-soft eyelids shuttered with your flattened hands slipped beneath the pillow. Even in the dusky, muted morning light of the room, he can see how deeply amidst slumber you still are, and just how peaceful you look.

Beautiful and carrying a kind, selfless heart, even in your sleep.

It doesn’t take him long to decide to leave you there, just like that. With the near-constant chaos of raising two little ones, rest in all its forms is ill enough afforded and oft eludes you.

Leaning forward, he brushes a feather-soft kiss to your cheek, careful to keep from inspiring you to stir. He lifts the covers off and promptly turns to tucks them in near you to stifle the rush of chilled air towards your body, and to keep you blanketed within the warm cocoon of dreams.

Gingerly opening and closing the door behind him, he pads barefoot down the hall and straight to the kitchen, pressing start on the coffee machine to get it brewing. He’ll only be satisfied once he hears the machine come alive and sees the dark umber liquid trickling into the pot, evidences that the grounds were prepared properly the night before and that the morning to come will transpire with a ready willingness.

As he stands there, he realizes how quiet the mountain cabin is, and he turns toward the sliding door across the living room to find the pale blue light of morning seeping slowly through the glass. Quiet moments before the mixed madnesses of laughter and cries and cackles ensue, as each day usually seems to bring now. Quiet moments that remind him of when the cabin was empty of all but himself and the dog. Remind him of when his life was more empty, before the children, before family, before you.

As he stands there, he realizes how quiet the mountain cabin is, and he turns toward the sliding door across the living room to find the pale blue light of morning seeping slowly through the glass. Quiet moments before the mixed madnesses of laughter and cries and cackles ensue, as each day usually seems to bring now. Quiet moments that remind him of when the cabin was empty of all but himself and the dog. Remind him of when his life was more empty, before the children, before family, before you.

Having come to stare at nothing for a few moments, Arthur softly smiles before turning to look back at the pot. Quiet moments brought a nice balance, it was true. But he’d never give anything to go back to what life was before.

Once he sees the coffee dripping successfully, without waiting another moment, he softly pads back down the hall to the children’s room and quietly pushes the door open. When he finds both his toddler son and infant daughter still adrift in sweet slumber in the dim room, a broad smile finds his face.

The little room is decorated thoroughly with drawings of horses and little watercolors of mountain scenes that dot the walls, and accent furniture that boasts cowboy regalia and vintage automobiles. The walls themselves are hand-painted with a smiling sun, moon, and stars, and flowers, mushrooms, and windingly growing vines. A labor of love in every inch by himself and you.

Walking over to his son’s small red automobile bed against the far wall, he discovers him turned away to the side. He gently rubs his big hand back and forth over his clothed belly.

“Gabriel,” he whispers. “Time to wake up. You want breakfast?”

He watches as Gabriel stirs, squishing his face and arching his back to stretch.

“Mornin’, son,” Arthur says.

“Morning, Daddy,” he replies groggily, yawning and rubbing one eye with a loose fist.

Arthur places a little smacked kiss to his cheek. “Want breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get up then.”

Arthur walks over the tall crib against the adjacent wall and looks down into it to see his six-month-old daughter snoozing with her small, pudgy arm draped up and her little hand relaxed and curled near her turned face. He brushes a fingertip to the soft, plump skin of her arm and back and forth over her round cheek.

“Beatrice…” he whispers. “How’s my babygirl this mornin’?”

He watches her blink her eyes, thought they don’t open, and she yawns, tucks the side of her chin inward, and arches her back a bit to stretch, just as her brother did.

“Good mornin’, my darlin’, how you doin’?” he whispers with a sweetly lilting tone. Quickly, he goes to flip on the light and returns to the crib side. “Hey there, my babygirl,” he says warmly with a bright smile when she finally opens her eyes and turns to look up at him.

The moment she sees him, she smiles wide enough to display her toothless gums and show the precious dimples in her cheeks. Her arms and hands flail and wiggle in excitement for him.

“Ohhh… That’s my babygirl. Good mornin’, sweetheart. Ready to get up? You hungry?”

“How ‘bout if I dress myself this morning, Daddy?” Gabriel asks from behind him.

“Sure, you can try if you want to,” Arthur replies.

Clad in his pajamas, four-year-old Gabriel peels his top over his head, careless about messing his hair, and scoots his cotton bottoms, decorated with space nebulas, down his little legs. Leaving his pajamas on the floor and dressed in only his underwear, he walks over to his little dresser and rummages in one of the drawers, picking out a blue t-shirt with a puppy on it.

Meanwhile, Arthur gently tucks his hands into his daughter’s little underarms, scooping her up and bringing her close to his chest while sliding his forearm under her bottom. “Oh yes, you love daddy, don’t you?”

“Where’s Mama?” Gabriel asks from beneath the clean shirt, having trouble finding the neck hole and tugging it downwards.

“We’re givin’ her a few extra minutes of sleep today. She’s tired, Gabe, she needs it.”

“Oh, otay. But she’ll get up later?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Arthur takes Beatrice to the nearby change table and cradles her head as he slowly lowers down on her back with a quiet, theatrical grunt. “Let’s get you changed, sweet baby.”

Having just succeeded at popping his head through the neck hole of his shirt, Gabriel walks over to stand beside his father at the change table near his sister’s head. “Hi, Baby BB! Lil sweet BB… Look at me, baby, look at me!” he coos and garbles in a high baby-talk tone, eager to catch her eye. When she looks over at her big brother and a watermelon-slice-smile overtakes her chubby face, Gabriel’s chest erupts into tight, coiled giggles.

Arthur watches from the corner of his eye with a warm smile as he begins changing her diaper, knowing full well Beatrice had been Gabriel’s very favorite thing in the world from day one.

As Arthur peels open Beatrice’s diaper, her sticky, orange-brown deposit begins to reveals itself, smelling almost as rotten as the grave.

Gabriel peers over his father’s arm at the squidgy mess, wrinkles his nose in a tight grimace, and whoops. “Stinky winky, baby, you stinky winky!”

Pulling a wipe from the package, Arthur begins to clean her. The task shows itself to be less than simple, since the lovely deposit is adhering to her skin like thick plaster.

“Stinky winky, baby! Yucky ducky! You yucky ducky!” Gabriel chants.

Arthur finds himself pulling wipe after new wipe from the package. The goopy mess is smeared all across her tush, and when he lifts her leg gently by her ankle, he discovers with muted horror that it’s spread up her back and is even inching towards her hair in what looks like no less than a flattened Zion Park monument.

“Stinky winky…” Gabriel slowly wags his lowered head with wide eyes and lifted brows.

“Enough with the stinky winky, Gabriel,” Arthur flatly reprimands, glancing up at the wall with half-mast eyes. “She’s a baby, she can’t clean herself. She needs someone to help her.”

“Otay,” Gabriel sings.

“Did the same for you when you were a babe.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Not as bad as that though,” Gabriel points assuredly.

“Some even worse!” Arthur rolls his eyes before looking down at him at his side with a deep half-smirk.

“Whoa,” Gabriel’s brows rise again. “That’s pretty bad.”

“Yeah,” Arthur chuckles. “It was. But we cleaned you right up. Which is just what we’re gonna do for Bee.”

‘Now how to go about doing it…’ Arthur thinks as he very gently scrubs at her tender baby skin.

Nineteen wipes later, and he has every bit of muck off of her, though he’s certain invisible bits are still tucked away in places and tiny crevices. When he has her clean enough to fasten a diaper around her, an idea occurs to him.

“There we go,” he says in latent triumph, gently scooping her up by the underarms again. “That’ll have to do for now, and later you and I’ll have a little shower, hm?” he smiles to her, placing a little peck to her cheek as he brings her to rest on his forearm.

Once he has her there, Arthur begins to bring a bottle he’d warmed for her up to her mouth. “Now I know you prefer Mama, honey. I know, and I do not blame you. Not one bit,” he begins, his voice low and warm. “But this is straight from Mama, I promise!”

When Beatrice sees the bottle, she grimaces, begins to try to push it away, and whines sorely.

“Oh, I know, sweetie… Mama’s just catchin’ up on her sleep right now, that’s all,” he coos, his voice low and swooping. “But she pumped this just for you! It’s Mama, I promise! Just not Mama’s skin and Mama’s warmth and Mama’s face and Mama’s voice…” Suddenly he pauses and glances up. “Jesus, what a lousy bargain.”

Looking back down at Beatrice, he turns, takes the bottle’s nipple, and tucks it behind his face, at an angle that looks like he’s gurgling it himself. “Look, Daddy likes it, huh?” he smiles bright, making smacking and munching sounds. He promptly brings the nipple back to her and squeezes a few warm drops onto her lips. “C’mon, Bee, give it a try for Daddy. It’s Mama, I swear, you’ll see.”

The moment it seeps past her lips to her tongue, she’s satisfied enough and takes the bottle's nipple into her mouth to suckle.

Arthur blows air through puffed cheeks and looks over at Gabriel to find him with only the puppy shirt and his underwear on.

“Um, I’m just gonna wear a shirt only for now, is that otay?” Gabriel asks. “That was kinda hard, and I don’t think I can do the pants too, and I really juss have to go potty.”

It’s then that Arthur notices his slight bouncing where he stands and smiles. “Fine by me.”

After taking Gabriel to the toilet and helping him step up to the sink to wash, Arthur asks, “Hungry, bud?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel responds, and the three of them pad barefoot down the hall’s hardwood floor towards the kitchen.

“What d’you want today?” he asks as he carefully pours himself a mug of coffee with one hand while keeping Beatrice tucked snugly in his other arm and balancing the up-tipped bottle under his chin.

“Ummm…” Gabriel slowly climbs up the bar chair’s lower footrest rungs and onto the cushioned seat, finally plopping his little elbows on the bar counter.

“French toast?” Arthur asks.

“No…” Gabriel whimpers musingly, pursing his lips.

“Omelet waffle?”

“No…”

“Hash-brown benedict?”

“N-n-no,” he says curtly, resting his cheek on the heel of his hand and yawning a moment with his eyes squished closed.

As Arthur watches him from behind the rim of his coffee mug, he has to tamper down a wheeze at the wonderment of how an unknowingly whip-smart, crustily crotchety, dryly witty old man was squeezed into his son’s little four-year-old body.

“How ‘bout, um…” Gabriel begins to offer his thoughts. “How ‘bout today juss, um…see-wheel.”

“Perfect,” Arthur concurs after briefly darting his tongue out over his bottom lip to savor his hot black coffee. After going to the cupboard to retrieve a box of spiced oat cereal and a bowl, he pulls a green plastic toddler spoon from the nearby drawer and grabs the milk from the fridge.

He hears his son gasp.

“You forgot my fin-stones!”

“You’re right, I did! How could I do that?” Arthur smiles as he turns back towards the cupboard and pulls down a little canister of Flintstones chewable vitamins. “What color you want?” he asks as he spins the cap off and begins to jostle the specimens into his free hand.

“Um, Mommy said…Mommy said that if I eat all the ones I like firss, then all the ones I don’t like will be the only ones left, and um…and um, then I still have to eat them.”

“Well, that’s a pretty good point, Mama’s usin’ her head,” Arthur says, looking up at him and shifting his weight to his other foot. “So what do you wanna do?”

“Um…” Gabriel sings as he looks up. He looks back at his father with a bright, curled smile. “I like red.”

“‘Atta boy!” Arthur growls playfully, immediately looking down at the bottle and digging through for a red vitamin. “Red it is.” He tosses the red vitamin onto the counter before his son and grabs the cereal ingredients from the counter.

After quickly popping the vitamin in his mouth, Gabriel perks up when the cereal bowl misses the space on the counter before him as his father rounds the bar and heads for the coffee table in the living room before the tv. Quickly hopping down from his seat, he plods across the soft carpet and lands with folded legs on the carpet between the low coffee table and the sofa. He watches with an antsy bounce as his father pours the bits of cereal, and they jingle and bounce into the little enamel bowl. With anticipation, he watches the glistening white river of milk make a bridge right into his bowl filled with a mound of cereal.

After Arthur returns the milk to the fridge and the box of cereal to the counter, he reaches for the tv remote and flips to Blue’s Clues. After returning the remote to the counter with a quiet clatter, he adjusts Beatrice in his arms and notices she’s finished with the bottle. He takes it from her and wipes her mouth.

“I’m takin’ sister to wash up, all right?” He says. “You can sit here and not get into any trouble, or…break things or get into messes, right?”

“Right,” his son says, diving his little spoon into the smattering of oat buoys afloat in his bowl and immediately plunging them into his mouth as he stares at the screen.

“I’m trustin’ you,” Arthur says firmly. “We’ll just be a few minutes. Do not get your bottom up from that spot.”

“Otay.”

“Gabriel, I’m serious.”

“How ‘bout if I want another bowl of see-wheel?” he says, eyes never leaving the screen.

Arthur mutters, “Well, that’d be okay, here,” grabbing the box from the counter and setting it beside his bowl on the coffee table.

“Otay. That’s good.”

“You won’t get up, right?”

“No,” he shakes his head.

“Good,” Arthur says. “When I come back, we’re turnin’ the tv off and doin’ your puzzles, then we’re goin’ outside to play. So you better enjoy the tv while it’s on. All right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Arthur looks up to see Gabriel’s gaze glued to the screen as he shovels another little spoonful past his lips.

“Did you hear what I said, son?”

“Cereal and tv, then turn off tv and do puzzles, then play outside.”

Arthur finds himself unable to reel back his recusant smirk. “Good,” he mumbles, walking towards the hall with Beatrice in his arms. He turns to look back at him and asks again, “You’ll be all right?”

“Yeah. You can go now,” he states very lightly and plainly, stuffing another mouthful in and munching.

Grinning, Arthur silently wheezes as he turns and grabs the bassinet seat before heading back down the hall to the master bedroom.

When he arrives at the door, he carefully opens it to find that you’re still fast asleep in bed. With Beatrice snug in his arm, he gingerly closes the door again and retreats to the guest bathroom just down the hall.

After taking off her onesie and diaper and placing her in the bassinet seat, he strips naked himself.

“Wanna take a shower with Daddy?” he says, bringing her into his arms again and stepping past the toilet room door towards the walk-in shower.

After turning the knob, he reaches out a hand and waits for the droplets to turn warm. Once he’s satisfied, he steps in and looks down at her with a smile and mumbles, “Yeah, we’re gonna get you all clean.”

…

A couple minutes later, you’re awakened by a quiet melody, muffled by distance. Stirring, you gently rub your eye and turn onto your back. You first notice that your husband is not in the bed when you feel a cool emptiness in the sheets beside you. Sliding your legs to the edge of the bed, you get up and walk towards the sound.

It leads you through the bedroom door, down the hall, and to the guest bathroom. When you incline your ear to the door that’s been left open just a crack, you hear the clear, steady chink of shower water and Arthur’s voice.

Singing.

Your brows crimp just a touch, and a curious grin wobbles at the corners of your mouth. Why is he showering in the guest bathroom?

Pushing the door open a bit more, you tiptoe inside, past the bathroom counter, and towards the next door that you know the walk-in shower and toilet are just beyond. You peek inside, and the scene unfolds before you.

Just beyond the stubborn droplets of water that adorn the glass shower door, you can see that there stands Arthur, stark naked, with your infant daughter sitting upright before his chest where he holds her little bottom in his large hand and wrist, while his other arm is wrapped around her back. He gently bounces and bops and sings to her,

“Baby, I need your lovin’… Got! to have all your lovin’… Baby, I need your lovin’… Got! to have all your lovin’…”

“You like that one?” he asks her as the water falls softly around them. “That’s one of your mama’s very favorite songs in the wide world. Or how ‘bout this one? I…guess…you’d…say! what can make me feel this way? My girl…my girl…my girl!”

An incandescent smiles spreads across your face as you watch him gently touch her tiny, curled hand to his own hairy chest with each beat of the words.

“Talkin’ ‘bout…my girl… My girl!”

Beatrice’s head turns as her unconcerned gaze flits to the side and all around. When she glances down at the floor, you can’t help but grin at the way her pudgy cheeks are a bit more pronounced as they dangle in rosy, rounded little half-domes from her precious face.

Having bathed her yourself many times, you can imagine how silken-soft and warm her honey-sweet rolls of baby skin across her arms and legs must be, doused and slippery as they are with the shower’s warm and gentle stream.

Your smile brightens further when you notice how easy it is for Arthur to savor her cheek’s sweet warmth and softness. He can hardly keep himself from pressing gobs after gobs of little smacked kisses to her cheeks and neck every few seconds.

You watch as Arthur lathers a bit of baby soap in his hands while he continues to sing to her and draws his chin back to look down where he runs the gentle lather across her back and down her little legs. The squared shape of her plump tush is almost ruddy with the warmth of the shower.

“Oh, you know what? How ‘bout this one?” he asks.

“You are so beautiful…to me…” he sings very softly. He pauses and fakes a boisterous shout that cracks his voice a bit, sending you into silent giggles that rack your chest. “Can’t you seeee?!” He chuckles at himself, inserting the comment, “Brother likes that part.” He then takes a breath and continues, his expression full of earnest, though theatrical sincerity as he looks at her. “You’re everything I hoped for! You’re everything I nee-ee-eeed! You are so beautiful to me…”

Arthur smiles to himself as he continues to go about washing and rinsing her. “We used to sing that to Gabriel and you when you were both brand brand new. Itty bitty. Even when you were in Mama’s tummy! D’you know that?”

For a few moments that seem to stretch like glutinous dough, you watch them, your loves—Arthur as he gently bathes your sugar-sweet baby; your plump little girl, so tenderly pure and innocent, so very round in comparison to his angled frame, so small in comparison to his tall, thickly muscled form. Your eyes watch Arthur’s expression as he gazes down at your child together. The look in his eyes, so easy and natural, like she is more precious than everything in the world put together, a look full to overflowing with the sincerest of love for her. A love like molten gold, glowing resoundingly and saturating the very air that envelops them.

Though your eyes droop a bit with heavy emotion at the sight, a warm and loving smile graces your lips.

Placing one more round of tiny, stuttered kisses to her cheek, he says warm and low, “Love you babygirl. Ready to get out?”

Silently and smoothly ducking back through the door, you hurriedly step back into the hall and readjust the door so you can maintain your peeking position.

You watch through the cracked door as Arthur takes a huge bath towel and wraps it around the both of them, draping it over Beatrice’s head and giving her a gentle rub down all over to ensure she’s good and dry.

To you, they’re angels wrapped in a single soft terry towel.

You watch as he talks to her clearly and plainly, as if she were another person who could understand him and not a novelty, all while he fits her with a new diaper, dresses her, and places her in the bassinet seat while he dresses himself. You watch her round dewdrop eyes, radiating beautifully clumped wet eyelashes as they alertly follow his every single movement and sound. You watch the way her lips move and smack together in simple relaxation, until she opens her mouth to talk right back to him.

“Gah-dah-ah-aahhh!” she bursts almost confidently, her arms suddenly bopping up and down a moment, still looking at him as she reaches for her own feet where she sits in the bassinet.

“That’s right, ain’t it?” he says. “Mama got the almond honey wash for you this time, and it smells just wonderful.”

Again, she promptly bursts with another gibberish response, as clear as she can be.

“Why thank you for your help, Sweet Miss Bee,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head. “I gotta put my arm through the sleeve, don’t I?”

The moment you realize he’s done dressing and about to head for the door to the hall, you decide to maintain your hidden nature a while longer and briskly tiptoe back to the master bedroom.

When he walks down the hall to the living room, you leave the master bedroom and carefully venture out into the hall, making sure to keep yourself draped in shadow so you can continue to watch your family with your presence unknown.

“Good job, son,” Arthur says. “You didn’t ever get your bottom up from that spot.”

“Yup!” Gabriel sings, setting his spoon down. “Did BB have a good bath?”

“Why yes she did,” Arthur sings lightly, pressing another couple kisses to Beatrice’s cheek. “And now it’s time for what?”

“Puzzles!”

“That’s riiiight,” Arthur says low.

You watch as Arthur turns the tv off with his free hand before taking his bowl and spoon to the sink and replacing the cereal box to the cupboard, all with Beatrice tucked snugly and securely against him in his large arm. He then brings a crate of puzzles and crafts, catalysts of learning guised as very fun activities that Gabriel has always loved.

Still sitting criss-cross, Gabriel shifts in his little nested spot on the carpet, looking down eagerly at the day’s specimens as Arthur lowers the full crate to the coffee table and takes a seat on the floor beside him with Beatrice in his lap.

“What’re you thinkin’ today?” he asks.

“Hmmm…” Gabriel hums, digging into the crate and pulling out pieces of colored felt, markers, crayons, glue, paper, dried leaves, googly eyes, fuzzy pipe cleaners, and popsicle sticks. “I think today…first I’ll make a backpack for campeen with you and Mama. I can glue the felt together to make a big pocket, then add straps.”

“Okay…”

“And maybe add a face to the flap,” he smiles over at him. “Just for fun.”

“You got pieces of felt big enough for a backpack?” Arthur almost squeaks doubtfully, glancing at Beatrice and lifting her up and down a moment to occupy her.

“Daddy, it could be a small backpack. It could be a small one. For um… For gnomes.”

Arthur chuckles. “Okay. You can try, but I ain’t sure you got pieces big enough today. We might have to get more another day.”

Suddenly Gabriel gasps, whips his head to him, and brings a tiny, wiggly finger up beside his own face to point at his father.

“Agh!” Arthur capitulates with a dramatic throw of his head to the side. “Not! I’m not sure…”

“No ‘ain’t!” Gabriel giggles at having caught him.

Smiling brightly, you bite your lip at the lovely way Arthur readily plays along, at the melodic sound of Gabriel’s giggles and the way he sticks his softly creased throat out and lets his head sag back a moment.

“Maybe you’re right, Daddy…” Gabriel says as his giggles calm. “I could do a backpack another day.” He cocks his head a bit and asks in a light tone, “What should I make with the felt instead?”

“So it’s the felt you wanna use today?”

“Yeah,” he nods, once and sure. “And the glue and markers,” he says, bringing the other craft supplies over on the table. “And the googly eyes. And maybe the leaves and paper too.”

“All right…” Arthur says, reaching for the items and sorting them with his free hand. “Well what if we use popsicle sticks too…” he says, adding the supply to the bunch, “and you can glue the felt around them, add eyes and draw faces to make puppets.”

Gabriel gasps and bounces in his spot as he looks up at his father. “Yeah! A different face for each one!”

“Exactly,” Arthur smiles.

“And maybe I could glue the leaves for hair and clothes!”

“Perfect!”

Grinning, you watch Gabriel tuck his chin as he looks down at the table and gets to work, quickly becoming engrossed in wherever his imagination takes him for each puppet.

“And guess what! After, we could do a little play for Mama when she wakes up! Huh, Daddy?”

“Absolutely, I think she’d love that.”

“Yeah…” Gabriel muses warmly. “I love Mommy.”

“Me too,” Arthur grins softly.

A smile slowly grows across your mouth.

“I bet I love her more than you do,” Gabriel says.

“You think so?” Arthur says, and you can see that crimp in his crows’ feet, the one you know all-too-well signals a bubbling chuckle wanting to be released.

“Yeah,” Gabriel says in his little voice, still busily going about his craft.

“I don’t think that’s possible, little man.”

“I think it is. I think it’s possible.”

“Naw. It’s not.”

“Yeah-huh!”

“I love her more.”

“Nunh-uhhh! Me!”

“Want me to win a tickle fight to prove it?”

Gabriel’s hands quickly shoot up, and he tucks his shoulders up tight to his cheeks. “Nooooo! No tickle fight!” he giggles.

Very amused, Arthur snorts a bubbled chuckle through his nose to himself. “All right then. We can agree to disagree.”

“Agree to disagree,” Gabriel repeats in song, nodding as he glues his felt pieces together.

After several minutes, he has a horse puppet, an owl puppet, and a little pig puppet, all glued successfully to their popsicle sticks with googly eyes and faces drawn on each one. But he quickly abandons his thought to come up with a play for another craft idea.

“Hey, Daddy. What if instead, um…I use the dried leaves, like…” he mumbles, trying to articulate what he’s continuously coming up with. “What if I glue the leaves right here, here on the paper, and then, um…and then you could draw animals on the paper around ‘em, sorta like…like the leaves are their bodies. ‘Cause you draw so good.”

“Hey…that’s pretty genius, Gabe,” Arthur says lightly, grinning as his son’s eyes pop up to him with a smile.

“Really?!”

“Yeah!” Arthur chuckles. “We’ll be a team. Then we can show ‘em to Mama and put ‘em on the fridge so we’ll see ‘em each day. But you gotta let me and Bee scoot in there closer so I can draw on your papers.”

“Otay!” Gabriel sings, quickly scooting aside to make room.

Once Arthur scoots in, he mumbles to him, “Pass me the pencil, son.”

“Here you go.”

“Got the leaf glued down real good?”

“Mm-hm.”

“‘Kay, what animal you want for this leaf?”

“A sheep.”

“Sheep, you got it. I’ll start with the head…then the little tail…then the legs. That what you had in mind?”

“Yeah! Just like that!” Gabriel smiles.

Arthur glances over at him as he continues to sketch, a gleam in his eye and a smirk on the corner of his mouth. “You my smart boy,” he murmurs low, taking a moment to reach out and ruffle his hair. He then brings his big hand to the far side of his head to pull him close and press a few smacked kisses into his hair.

Gabriel looks up at him and quickly plants a peck to his lips before going back to gluing. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, son. Much more.”

“Nooooo!” Gabriel shakes his head.

Arthur only looks at him knowingly, a quiet, airy chuckle escaping his chest.

For a few moments that seem to stretch like drying amber resin sliding down a tree’s stalk, you watch them, your loves—Arthur as he gently strokes his thumb along your sugar-sweet son’s soft cheek; your precocious little son growing so quickly, growing good, growing strong, so deeply tender-hearted and compassionate, cunningly witty, and sharply intelligent already, a mirror-image of his father beside him. Your eyes watch Arthur’s expression as he gazes down at your child together. The look in his eyes, so easy and natural, like he is worth so much more than everything in the world put together, a look full to overflowing with the sincerest of love for him. A love like the shimmering glints that bounce from finely cut jewels as they turn, casting haloes of the most luxe colors into the very atoms about all three.

All three. Your loves. Your dearest loves.

And oh, what a love you have for this man. A love that aches and reverberates in every cell of your body, in every fiber of your heart and mind, in every quadrant of your existence. A love that runs deep and strong, like thick roots of a towering Sequoia, growing and spreading supernaturally to the earth’s core, like everlasting tendrils.

“Hey Gabe,” Arthur suddenly whispers, his tone quick and truncated.

“Huh?”

“Wanna give Bee some whipped cream?”

You see Gabe’s little face whip up to him, and you watch a bright smile slowly relax his face and spread across it. “Yeah,” he says warm and low.

“Yeah. Let’s do it,” Arthur says with a similarly warm and mischievous smile, fumbling to stand with her still in his arms.

Stepping forward, you say, “Well you can’t give Bee her first taste of whipped cream without me!”

“Mamaaaa!” Gabriel sings, running to you and wrapping you in a little hug.

“Hey, baby. You’re up!” Arthur smiles.

Coming close to press your body to his and look up at him, you let your head sag back as you press a few sweet kisses to each other.

“I was awoken by…singing,” you say, flashing a look of knowing in your eye that he hardly notices for a moment.

“Singin’, huh?” he mumbles absentmindedly, smiling over at Beatrice in his arm between you. Then his eyes quickly dart back to yours. “Oh, singin’!” He chuckles and brings his hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “Ah, you heard that?”

“I heard…and saw that,” you grin.

“Ah…” he smiles. “We just had ourselves a little shower.”

“I watched you, so tender and gentle with her,” you quietly say, not allowing him to avoid the words as the facts that they are, though he meekly dodges your gaze in looking to Beatrice again. So you gently take him by the chin to bring his gaze back to the arresting gaze you have for him and say earnestly and slowly, “You are a sweeter man than you’ll ever know and the sweetest I have ever known.”

You promptly kiss him, very gently pressing your lips into the plush curves of his.

“I got the whipped cream,” Gabriel’s little voice arises from just beyond the kitchen bar as the quiet, suctioned close of the fridge door sounds.

Keeping his eyes locked with yours a few moments more, Arthur says aloud, “Well lets see how this babygirl reacts to whipped cream.”

A warmth creeps over your smile as Arthur hands your daughter to you before turning to take the whipped cream canister. After pressing several kisses to her soft, plump cheek, you set her down in her bassinet seat and watch as he sprays a bit on a little plastic spoon, manifesting a tiny white cloud of culinary magic.

It takes only a fraction of a moment after he lifts it to Beatrice’s mouth and she takes it past her lips. Her entire face melts into a darling smile full of delight, and all three of you standing there release low whoops of excitement. When the spoon draws away from her, she hurls into a slight panic, flailing her arms up and down and huffing loudly for more.

Gabriel’s little chest erupts into tightly coiled, raucous cackles, and he whips his head back in jubilation at the sight. You and Arthur can’t contain your own hearty laughs at the sound.

You quickly tuck Gabriel to you, kissing his softly creased throat before he brings his head back down. And the two of you watch as Arthur squirts another tiny bit of whipped cream on the spoon and offers it to your daughter.

[stellasdrafts]

Girl Dad Headcanons - Arthur Morgan

“[Mr. Gillis] treats his daughter like a possession to be mistreated and abused as he sees fit. Strange creatures, men. I don’t know.”   -RDR2, Chapter 4, Fatherhood and Other Dreams

Notes: I was playing RDR2 the other day and his journal entry (above) after seeing Mary for the second time stood out to me. I think his relationship with women and feminism in the story is worth writing about. afab reader. 1.1k words.

Thinking of Arthur Morgan’s reaction to you birthing his little girl. It’s a surprise, naturally, given the time period. He isn’t disappointed by any means – God, no. He considers himself a blessed man as long as the little one looks like you. He’s concerned. Terrified of the world his little girl will have to live in, of the hardships she will be forced to face.

It isn’t something he’s thought of in such depth before. Sure, he’s had conversations with the women at camp -  he’s not naïve. Prejudices never even made logical sense to him.

Arthur, who didn’t bat an eye when Mary Beth told him she wanted to be a writer. He got her that pen without thinking twice because why shouldn’t women be able to write? Ain’t they people just like everyone else?

Arthur, who didn’t question Tilly for a second when finding out she killed that Foreman. He was told the asshole deserved it and sided with her in a heartbeat, assuming she had acted in self-defense. He would speak to her like a friend, too. Not like she was some inferior woman.

Arthur, who considered marrying Abigail when John left, because no woman should be shunned for being an unwed mother when it’s a deadbeat man who left in the first place. He always thought John took her for granted.

Arthur, who was always in awe of Sadie’s raw courage and determination, and who didn’t question her lead when she asked him to come along on her escapades. A good idea is a good idea, and a good shot is a good shot, no matter whom it comes from. She was a better fighter than most of the men in the gang, anyway.

Arthur, who saw Karen’s femininity as a strength rather than a weakness. She was clever and ambitious. She knew how people perceived her and used that to pull off outrageous heists. Plus, she wasn’t half bad with a shotgun. He never thought anything about her was weak.

Arthur, who despite enjoying teasing her, noticed everything Susan did for the camp. It secretly irritated him when he heard the others whining at her when she asked them to do chores because he knew the place would’ve fallen apart within days if it weren’t for her leadership.

Arthur, who immediately discerned when Molly started acting off. He checked in on her even when the rest of the camp villainized her as this spoiled, ungrateful girl. Sure, she had made mistakes, but most of the men had done worse.

A wave of dread washes over him as he admires his daughter, her little fingers wrapping around his finger, and he feels sick. He shouldn’t feel like this. He should be overcome with joy. Well, he is, but his upbringing will never allow him to be immersed in a moment without thinking of the harsh realities surrounding it. He looks at you and the fragile baby bundled in your arms. His whole world sits in the bed before him. Everyone and everything he values most in this miserable world – are women. Women who have and who will inevitably be mistreated and underestimated, despite having the power to create literal life. Despite being ten times more rational, intelligent, and kinder than almost all the men he’s known even with the challenges thrown at them. He makes a vow to himself the minute his daughter is born. A vow that he’ll never let anything happen to her or you as he did Eliza and Isaac. He’s never known his purpose in life, but from that moment on, he knows exactly why he was put on this earth – to care for the two of you, his family.

Arthur, who overheard how Micah would speak to and of the women at camp, and never so much as entertained his delusions.

Arthur, who always offers a hand to help women off or on their horses and wagons.

Arthur, who excuses himself when he bumps into women, as opposed to telling off men when he does them.

Arthur, who rides around Rhodes some weeks after your daughter was born, searching for any women he might recognize from the suffrage protest he crashed with Beau all that time ago.

Arthur, who stops in his tracks when he hears the voice of the woman in Saint-Denis who pickets for her voting rights – the same voice he’s heard twenty times before, but it feels different now. He drops a few bills into her hat because he’s never been a particularly political man, but he’ll be damned if his daughter doesn’t get a say in the kind of world she’ll live in when the time comes.

And you can be sure he’ll teach her how to handle a firearm when she’s older. It brings back unpleasant memories, and he wishes for a better life for her than what he had, of course, but he knows the type of men there are out there. Hell, he used to run with them.

Arthur, who sees the two of you as his redemption.

He doesn’t know how he’s been handed such goodness. Surely, he was undeserving after everything he’s done? But every time he lays eyes on his precious baby girl, he grants himself a smidge of forgiveness. Something all bad couldn’t produce something so perfect, right?

He listens to her babbles and he can’t understand a thing. He thinks back on every good thing he’s ruined in his life – he’s a destructive man. He destroys everything he touches, but his baby reaches out to him with a sleepy smile and the utmost trust. When she looks at him, she sees her father, not a killer but rather safety, not the blood of every man he’s killed but a warm embrace. She’s his, not in the sense of Mr. Gillis treating Mary like his property, but in the sense that he now has the privilege of having the responsibility to love, protect, and care for this angel of a being.

He's scared shitless. His father hadn’t stuck around much, but he’s determined to be the best version of himself for his little girl. He would never leave like his dad did. He would never give up on her as Dutch did him. He would teach her to be clever and to think on her toes, like Hosea did – without all the deception, of course.

Arthur, who starts a second journal to write solely about his girl, just to have something to leave her when the time comes. Until then, she’ll never know how good of a writer her father was.

He would gladly be a soldier one last time. One last time to give you and his daughter the life you deserve.

[zae-heeyyy]

Aegis

Summary: You defend your daughter from Micah. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,810 Tags: fluff, family, girl dad Arthur, angst, high honor Arthur Warnings: Violence, mistreatment of a child

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an: This was an anon request. I was weary about this one because I'm not a mom, nor do I spend a lot of time around toddlers, but omg exploring girl dad Arthur was so fun! Shout out to @emerald-ranch for helping me with a horse fact for this one! Thanks for reading. Enjoy!

Aegis: as in protection, means or method of defending

A pair of hazel eyes cut through the dark, shining like twin stars burning holes in the blanket of night. Those usually bright supernovas seemed dull now, washed out by the weight of the world. Your daughter's tiny form scooted in impossibly closer, and you bundled her up, swaddling her like she was still the wiggling newborn you'd held in your arms three years ago.

"Bea," you sighed, trying your best to shield her from the beast that was your frustration. Exhaustion had settled in your bones hours ago, pressing your patience paper thin. Sleep called out to you from the void, and you wanted so badly to answer, but your daughter reeled you back every time.

"I want Daddy," she whined, clutching the fabric of your shift in her little fists. 

You missed him too; she had no idea. In a time that seemed like forever ago, you and Arthur laid in this same cot, your fingers tangled in his shirt in the way your daughter's were in yours now. Motherhood terrified you, and after telling Arthur you were pregnant, you cried all through the night. Raising a child was daunting enough, but doing it with an outlaw in a gang seemed like a nightmare turned reality. 

Solid arms held you together in body and mind. He was your rock even though he was going through his own quiet panic. Arthur knew the harsh realities of parenthood all too well. Still, he knew the brightness, blooms, and blossoms it could bring, and he let himself want it more than anything. Making good on his second chance at having a family, he married you right away and devoted all of himself to you and the baby.

That warm summer night after your screams and her cries had died down, he bowed his head over her, staring without a word. First, one salty tear fell from his face and onto the blanket you'd knitted for her, then another, and another. You tried to offer him the dignity of silence, but your tears burst out with a sob. It was only then that he spoke, snapping out of his baby-induced trance, his eyes wide with concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong at all."

And his baby loved him oh so much, the very definition of a daddy's girl. He was the one who protected her from spiders and wasps, the one who made her giggle til her face turned red, the one who'd lift her up on his shoulders and run amok through camp, and the one who snuck her candy when she thought you weren't looking. He was her Polaris, and little did she know, she was his entire universe. Leaving both of you at camp, even if only for a few hours, chipped away at a piece of his soul every time. In the present, you combed your fingers through her light-colored hair and kissed her on the head twice–one from you and one from Daddy, as you always told her.

"I know. He'll be here when we wake up, honeybee."  

And the tent fell silent, but your daughter twisted and shivered, unsettled by passing footsteps.

"Momma…" Her words came out smaller than her. "M'scared."

You wanted to tell her there was nothing to be afraid of, but you couldn't lie to her–not when there was a price on her father's head, not after Blackwater, and not after Colter. In yet another attempt to calm her, you whispered soft shhs. But then she spoke once more, a single word–a name, and your breath caught in your throat.

"Micah."

You sat up with the quickness of a startled doe, sweeping your eyes over your daughter. Tears stained her rosy cheeks, but she was otherwise unharmed.

"What about Micah?" The question came out more urgent than you'd intended, and she hid herself in your bosom. You hoped she didn't hear your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. 

"Don't want him to come here."

"Why'd he do that?"

She only shook her head. You peeled her away from you, wiping her tears away with the pads of your thumbs before cupping her face in your hands. Your voice was loving but firm–a quiet, motherly demand.

"Bea. Talk." 

She vocalized as best as she could: "He's scary and mean."

And then, after a long pause, her small hand came to rest over yours on her cheek.

"He touched my face."

A curtain of red-hot wrath veiled your vision, and it took everything in you to hide it from the baby in your arms. No matter how big she got, she would always be that pink, wrinkly baby in the knitted blanket. You put on a stellar performance, eyes twinkling, your smile adding light to the darkness that'd settled over you. You reassured her that Daddy and Uncle Dutch would take care of that, that she had a whole family looking out for her, and that she was safe. 

In one last attempt to get her to settle, you laid back down, closed your own eyes, and began a slow hum of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." In the middle of the second run-through, she'd gone limp, finally.  You tried to follow suit, but your thoughts were louder than ever. 

Arthur'll be back soon.

Let the men dish it out. 

Get some sleep, get some sleep, get some sleep.

But your legs swung over the cot, and you left your eaglet behind in the nest as you soared into camp, sharp eyes scanning for your prey–a rattlesnake masquerading as a man. The drunk bastard saw you coming, flashing his fangs in a smug display of mockery. He didn't expect the beer bottle he'd been nursing to explode across his head, the glass shattering like a storm of meteors crashing down to earth. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, and you were on top of him in an instant in the only way you'd ever be–out for blood. A blackhole temporarily swallowed both of you as you slammed your forehead into his with all the force of two colliding planets. 

The shockwave drowned out everything around you–so much so that you didn't hear someone shout for Arthur and didn't notice your husband had returned just before you left the tent. Micah fought back hard, trying in his intoxicated stupor to twist free, but you had him good, your nails like talons breaking skin and cutting off his air supply.

An owl-like screech tore through your lungs as two strong hands yanked you away. Your husband's eyes locked onto yours, grounding you, clearing the haze of fury. Time seemed to slow as you saw yourself reflected in concerned chrysocolla-colored eyes.

"Hey now, hey, easy…"

Just when he thought he'd calmed his distressed mare, the snake hissed in the grass.

"Get control of your whore, Morgan!"

"Arthur," you caught his attention, him looking from Micah back to you, "Beatrice." 

At hearing his daughter's name, Arthur bared his teeth and dug his nails into his palm. Without thinking, he shoved you aside, and you knew if you let him get to Micah, all hell would break loose. Roles reversed, you grabbed at his sleeve with both hands, pushing your weight into your heels to keep him in place. Micah started a mocking chortle. 

"That seed of yours." He tried once again to rise up on his feet, "Ain't much hope for her. She'll let fellas buy her for a penny just like her momma."

His taunting stung enough for you to temporarily lose hold of Arthur, and he took his chance, sending the metal tip of his boot flying into Micah's chin. The devil incarnate spit out blood and chipped bone and let out a hoarse, guttural bellow of pain, but he didn't try to stand anymore. 

"Lucky she got to you first." Arthur spat, "I ain't stopping her next time."

Your husband stomped off with his arm around your waist, back to your lion's den where your cub was still sleeping soundly. Collapsing onto the cot, you dug your palms into your eyes, trying to ease the pressure of a building headache. Lantern light came into your field of vision as Arthur's calloused fingers pried your hands away. 

"That was stupid," he whispered, aware of Beatrice still sleeping. One hand clutched your chin, and the other moved your hair out of your face to get a good look at you, "I woulda' handled it."

The cold sting of a wet cloth against your bruises made you wince. 

"I know. Couldn't help myself."  

Arthur didn't say anything else and finished cleaning you up in silence. Though the presence of your family back together brought you a semblance of peace, you twisted the gold band around your finger, lost in hellish thoughts. You and Arthur made promises to each other and to your little girl, and you'd make good on them, no matter the cost.

"I'll kill him next time."

Arthur had stripped down to his union suit and nodded at you as he took his hat off and set it beside the photo of your daughter's namesake.

"I know."

Then, his face lit up. He stopped your fidgeting by taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles. Deep down, he knew you had it in you, but something about his wife, the sweetest thing he'd ever met, nearly ripping a man's head off his shoulders with her bare hands, struck a cord of pride within him. 

"Though I don't think anybody in their right mind would tempt you after seein' that."

And you felt embarrassed of your wild display of maternal ferocity. But Arthur, in all his tenderness and love for you, made all your doubt vanish.

"That's my girl," he whispered, holding his hands out.

You let him hoist you up into his warm embrace. The steady rise and fall of his chest and rhythmic heartbeat could've lulled you to sleep right then and there. This closeness had become a delicacy since parenthood, and you savored every bite. Arthur sighed contently as he breathed in the scene before him. Though you were buried in his chest, you knew he was looking over at his sleeping baby girl while he was hugging you.

"Maybe one day she can spend the night with Abigail and Jack, and we can have some husband and wife time." 

You hummed in agreement, tempted to let your limbs fall weak in his arms. The sounds of rustling blankets woke you right back up.

"Daddy?" 

Arthur didn't let you go. Instead, he squeezed you harder, a silent thank you for the life you'd birthed, the life you'd given him. He guided you back to the cot beside your daughter, tucking both of you in and pressing a soft kiss to your foreheads.

"Hey, sweetheart. I'm here," were the last words you heard before soaring serenely off the cliff of consciousness. 

[gh0stch3rri3]

they didnt even give Dutch real kids and he STILL found a way to be a deadbeat 💀💀

[tapeworrmart]

Red Dead Revenge (low honor Arthur)

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘heaven’s home’

tags: fluff, girl dad Arthur Morgan <3

authors note: just a really quick one so i can get back to doing some requests..this one has js festered my mind all week.

In 1899, silence was a gift greatly afforded every blue moon. When days were still tarred together in gunpowder residue and the stench of a fresh kill bleeding warm down the side of your horse. The only silence you could be afforded was the head-ringing of a shotgun blast crackling in your ear or the call of buzzards honing in on dead bison in New Hanover. Silence was quick and brief as it was sweet and peaceful. Yet, years later and you found the sound of silence only frightens you from your sheets, white chemise glued to your skin in a cold sweat.

In 1907, silence strung you up from your covers and throwovers. The air was void of that familiar bear snore that shook the four walls of your homely cabin, that disrupted the hanging fixtures of your portraits and pictures. Swimming in your sea of blankets and pillows, your hands scramble to the vacant expanse of Arthur’s side of the bed. With eyelids still glued shut in fatigue and the cold meeting your fingertips, you force your eyes open in lazy fashion when you hear that thick-throated chuckle sound from the corner of the bedroom. It makes your lips twitch up in a smile, opening your eyes with fluttering lashes to the dark silhouette of the lumbering man.

The image of him standing by the window greets you in a sight that is slowly becoming more familiar by the minute. As familiar as it has been since thwarting Dutch and Micah’s ever silver-toothed jaws. His shoulders sit square with the moonlight clinging to the snug fit of his union shirt, highlighting the curvature of his broad frame and tough body. With drawn curtains as sapphire as his eyes, he sways in place with a soft whisper from his throat. Despite his rough voice, he coos a bird’s song into his arms where he cradles the jewels of his endeavors and triumphs in his hands. A baby girl. A baby girl who he holds so close to his chest yet so gently, as if terrified of pulling a hair from her head. You rub your eyes and your vision is blinking stars when you finally hear that thick velvet voice.

“Shh.. Easy, girl.. Easy..” Arthur doubles down his soft cooing and praise, the soft babbling from your daughter quickly waning. Old habits die hard, you suppose. It makes you laugh the amount of times his old, gunslinging tendencies shine in vulnerable moments such as these. Years of pulling on leather reins, stalling down steep, sunrise crested mountains had finally led to those rough and calloused hands to this moment. “Come on, babygirl.. You already woke mama up..” He teases without even glancing at you, yet that crooked smile pulls you from your sheets and you go to grab a thin shawl hanging on your bed frame.

He hears you emerge from your throne of pillows and blankets and shuffles his feet, shifting his back towards you as if trying to keep her all to himself. A sharp exhale escapes you in amusement. “She’s fussy cause she wants her mama..” You say scoldingly, wrapping a soft brown shawl around your shoulders as you pad your way over. He finally gives in, angling your daughter’s head down to your eyes where you’re met with an almost spitting image of Arthur. Well, for the most part. She had his bright, turquoise eyes and his pouty scowl everytime she was awake. Yet, Arthur liked to talk about how much she looked like you when she smiled or babbled laughter. Everytime she wrinkled her nose he’d kiss it with a flowery kiss, gentle as the petals of a flower. He says that also reminds him of you.

It had been 7 years since the two of you had made it on your own. Arthur could’ve sworn he would be closer to a noose around his neck, facing the crowd of the gallows in Valentine or Saint Denis than the days he’d ever see you walking to him in a flowery white gown. Years after the stinging betrayal of Dutch, he had a vivid picture of his impending punishment painted in galleries in his head. Yet, you seem to distract him from that impending, divine punishment. Soon, he had concluded that no punishment will collect its debt, that your hair had gotten longer and your figure fuller as the dewy summer days passed and the howling winter wanes. Scars that webbed your pretty skin slowly faded as did his and grey hairs sprouted from atop of his brown rooted head. He figured he could get used to living without punishment, without fear.

About 7 years ago he had begun to build you your home of blood sweat and love. Arthur feels the years of violence and sin purge from his body in the heat of labor and love, venerating it in a monument to you and only you. Well, now you and your daughter. You wanted a house by the lake, it took quite some time to level the land around Lake Owanjia and yet it was all worth it to be seated in your perfect slice of heaven. Purple and white wildflowers spotted the thickets and forest floor, surrounding your homely cabin in a chamber of color and love. Delicate shades of brown paint a flowery wallpaper across your bedroom, just as you had liked it. You reach to hold your baby girl and he’s hesitant to give her up, you could see it in those guilty dog eyes.

“We didn’t wanna wake you up, mama..” He coos. You stifle back another lovestruck giggle as Arthur finally turns to look at you. Moonlight splits his face into sharp edges and lines, wrinkles deboss his sunlined skin, you catch that lazy crooked smile from his teeth and lean against his bicep. “See, I already got her to sleep fa’ you.” Slowly swaying with him, you look over his shoulder to your daughter who shut her eyes tight and seemed to stir in her father’s arms. You can’t help but laugh at his stubbornness.

“She’s gonna start crying again.” You jut your lip playfully.

“No she aint.” As if the stars knew you were correct, her big blue eyes met his with a glossy acknowledgement and as her mouth opened to whine he moved to adjust her into your arms shakily. He keeps his hand on her head where soft locks matching your hair sprout, calloused palm smoothing the strands back into place where he leans down to press a kiss to her hairline. “Guess we all want mama, don’t we?” His voice comes out in a whisper as you begin to rock her in your arms, shushing her with your honeyed voice and smile. You watch his hands instinctively come to rest on your shoulders, adoration in his eyes as he looks down at his two favorite girls. Arthur Morgan had spent the first half of his life devoted to a senseless cause—he was sure he couldn’t have anything as precious as a daughter. Let alone a wife as perfect as you.

His stubble scratches your cheek when he leans down to press a kiss to your cheek—a longing for your skin as though you weren’t asleep beside him moments ago. Ever devoted to you. Yeah. He could definitely get used to this.

[silly-little-guy-and-co]

saying "omg my wife" and it's a huge cowboy with a tragic past

[photo1030]

This is so adorable. Such a different perspective too. Nice!

can we get Arthur Morgan as like a daddy caregiver? I love your writing sm 🥺💓 thank you!!

𝓑𝓔𝓛𝓞𝓥𝓔𝓓 𝓒𝓐𝓡𝓔𝓖𝓘𝓥𝓔𝓡 ,

꒰୨୧꒱ never fear, papa-Arthur is here ₊˚⊹♡ !!

BEFORE YOU PROCEED ┊fem ! reader • little ! reader • Arthur Morgan if he was a caregiver/papa • fluff fluff fluff • cowboy papa ?! • reader is mentioned 2 have hair that allows itself to be brushed easily • OOC Arthur -.- • mini head cannons

Warm, like the sun shining amongst the early frost-spring morning dawn. The snow melts, and reveals a beautiful array of wildflowers which bloom with colour. Loving, as a dutiful teddy bear who gave the toastiest cuddles. And finally.. Cheeky, as a fox would as it titters around a bunny to play around with. The epitome of what Arthur was like, as a daddy.

“Papa.” You tug on his sleeve. You sat on-top of a burberry-fluffed up bedroll, legs spread in a W shape with a small plushie resting on your lap. What was he doing? You weren’t too interested to bother in finding out, other than wanting him back in bed to cuddle.

“…Papa >:(.”

“I hear ya, I hear ya.” He rolls his eyes, lazily plopping beside you on the edge of the roll. Your thoughts vanish easily as he grabs you by the waist and easily places you on his lap. You eagerly wave your legs because of the fact that it did not reach the floors when you sat on daddy’s lap like a tiny kitten whom wants to be groomed with the nails of her owners hand. Cuddle, your face quite literally demanded.

He did not hesitate at all, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist and cradles you.

You looked like you were in a doze, almost sleepy-like because of the way you rested your dainty head on his chest. Perhaps it was because of his warmth

He looks at you with that lazy dog grin again. A soft squeeze from his arms around your waist which pulls you back from your thoughts. And you hear the cacophonous southern drawl which deepens the second he speaks, “What’s my lil’ girl thinkin’ about, hmm?”

“Nuthiiiin’,” you cheekily giggle. You purposefully tinker those long lashes of yours, beady eyes staring up at his.

He looks at you with narrowed eyes. Something was clearly up.

“I don’t believe you for a second.” He lowly mumbles right next to your ear, squishing you playfully. You squeal and giggle.

His hugs were as sweet as marshmallows. You felt safe, he felt safe. Something about those hard, worn muscles coming to trap you into a bear-hug gives you the most happiest butterflies in your tummy. A soft nuzzle to your cheek, the stubble grazes the swells of your temple lightly.

You try to stifle the soft giggles escaping your lips. The large oak tree that loomed and towered over you hid your little figure easily. The bark you leaned upon stenches of fresh petrichor, invigorating. It scratches at your soft skin- but in a good way. The sun kisses at your skin prettily, but the small straw-hat adorned with a light pink ribbon shields the heat rays away from your face.

The faint grunts of spewing numbers out from papa was heard from afar. You hope that he doesn’t find you as easily as he did last round. You were quick, but he was quicker.

The wind sways and flows, allowing yourself to cool down slightly from the sun which shines through peaks of the bunched up leaves from above. It was warm, warm alike of daddy’s hugs. Warm like the way he looks at you. Warm like his hands which come to clamp onto yours heavily to allow the numbing cold fading to warmth.

You cover your lips with your hands as he approaches nearby. You crouch down, trying to peak your head.

That deep, familiar southern drawl hisses- almost like a snake, but with less venom and more teasing in nature. A crunch of leaves, followed with another, and a jingle of spurs. “Where could my little girl be..”

The air stills, just for a moment.

“Found ya.”

You squeal loudly and laugh, and he traps you in his arms again. The hat you wore fell to the grass. You felt weak in his embrace, but you weren’t afraid. How the small wildflowers around you danced around with the two of you happily, you squirm and giggle at the large adrenaline rush which spiked you in the heart as soon as you heard his footsteps.

The grass prickles around your ankles, the same sensation of his stubble which grazes near your cheek.

He snickers at your startled reaction, before cheekily grinning and poking you in the side. “Either I’m real good at this game, or you suck.”

You gasp.

Sometimes, days can get too lazy and things move much slower. You feel yourself sink into the bedroll, even more so as the the clock ticks ever.. so.. slowly. The stuffies around unconsciously squeak at the little girl to get up and start the day, but alas- you never heard.

Papa sits behind you, and you sit in front of him. The same teddy bear from earlier is plopped on your lap, as you yawn loudly from the eager amounts of fun you had a few moments ago. Your legs are tired and jelly-like, and your doe eyes almost succumb to sleep as he busily combs your knotty hair out.

You were too busy trying not to fall asleep to worry about the knots in your hair. You barely even felt the tugs of the brush forcefully breaking the knots into separate hair lines because of how gentle he was.

With just a few more strokes of the pricks from the comb, your hair feels less messier then before. The fluffy bloomers and the gossamer-made top makes it far more harder to succumb to not slumber.

“There we go,” He coos softly. As soon as he puts the brush down, the back of your head falls onto his chest with a snooze. He snickers at your sleepy state. It’s certain that the small game of hide and seek took a toll on your energy.

“Sleepy..” You mumble. Oh so adorably, too cute for his own liking. It was like looking at a pup.

“I know, girl. I know.” He coddles you gently, feeling a tad bit guilty, “c’mon, let’t take a small nap. Don’t want my baby to be all grumpy.”

“Cuddle..” He wants to roll his eyes badly, but resists as you sleepily pull him in. Those same, warm arms come to squish you like a baby mouse in the grip of a bears paw, but with no intention to harm.

[godmerlin]

Merlin 4x03 The Wicked Day

[allthemeniveloved]

Too Sweet - Sequel to Cradle

Summary: Arthur wears his daughter’s flower crown into town, showing his love and care without hesitation.

wc: 1,415

ao3 link, part 1

a/n: Inspired by @scarletlove2's comment!

The soft coos of your baby girl filled the cabin as dawn broke over the horizon, golden light filtering through the curtains. Arthur was already awake, sitting by the hearth with her cradled in his arms. His eyes were tired, shadows darkening the space beneath them, but his expression was peaceful. Content.

You watched them from the bed, a quiet smile playing on your lips as Arthur rocked her gently. His large, calloused hand dwarfed her tiny body, but his movements were impossibly delicate. He hummed an old tune, one you recognized from the gang’s nights around the fire, and though his voice was rough, it carried a soothing rhythm that made you want to drift back to sleep.

“You’re up early,” you said softly, sitting up and wrapping a shawl around your shoulders.

Arthur glanced at you, his lips curving into a small smile. “She woke up hungry,” he said, nodding toward the empty bottle on the small table beside him. “Didn’t wanna wake you. Figured you deserved some rest.”

You stood and crossed the room, leaning down to press a kiss to his scruffy cheek. “You deserve some rest, too, Arthur. You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

He shook his head, his gaze dropping back to the baby in his arms. “I’m alright. Can’t seem to sleep much anyhow. Every time I close my eyes, I think about… things.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “What kinda world she’s gonna grow up in. What I’ve gotta do to make sure it’s good enough for her.”

Your heart ached at the weight in his words, the unspoken fears that lingered behind them. You knelt beside him, resting your hand on his arm. “You’re already doing it, Arthur. Just by being here. By loving her.”

He didn’t answer right away, his thumb brushing over your daughter’s tiny hand as she squirmed against his chest. “She deserves better than this life. Better than runnin’ and hidin’. She deserves a home.”

You nodded, your own thoughts echoing his. Life with the gang wasn’t what you wanted for her—or for yourselves. The danger, the uncertainty, the endless cycle of violence and survival—it wasn’t a life you could bear to raise her in.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” you admitted quietly. “About leaving.”

Arthur’s head snapped up, his blue eyes locking onto yours. “Leavin’? You mean… for good?”

“Yes.” You held his gaze, your voice steady. “I know it’s dangerous, and I know Dutch would never let us go easy, but… we can’t keep doing this, Arthur. Not with her. She needs stability. She needs to grow up somewhere she can be safe.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his brows furrowed in thought. You could see the conflict in his eyes—the pull of loyalty to the gang warring with the deep, unshakable love he had for his daughter. For you.

“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice heavy but resolute. “I’ve been thinkin’ the same. Just didn’t know how to say it.”

Relief flooded through you, and you leaned your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Arthur sighed, his free arm wrapping around you to pull you closer. For a moment, the three of you were wrapped in a quiet bubble of warmth, the weight of the world outside held at bay.

“I’ll talk to Charles,” Arthur said after a while, his voice thoughtful. “He’s good at coverin’ tracks, and he’ll keep quiet. We’ll need supplies, horses… somewhere to go.”

You nodded. “We’ll find a place. Somewhere far from here.”

Arthur looked down at the baby, her tiny hand clutching his finger in her sleep. His jaw tightened, and you could see the determination harden in his expression.

“I ain’t lettin’ anything happen to her,” he said firmly. “Or to you. We’re gettin’ outta this, and we’re gonna give her the life she deserves.”

You believed him. Arthur had always been a man of action, and now that he had a purpose that went beyond survival, you knew he wouldn’t stop until he’d seen it through.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, bathing the cabin in warm light. Your daughter stirred, her little eyes fluttering open as she let out a soft cry. Arthur stood, handing her carefully to you.

“Guess she’s hungry again,” he said with a small chuckle.

You smiled, holding her close. “You go rest, Arthur. I’ve got her.”

He hesitated, his protective instincts warring with his exhaustion, but finally he nodded. “Alright. Wake me if you need me.”

As he climbed into the cot and closed his eyes, you sat by the fire with your daughter, the weight of the coming changes heavy but hopeful in the air. The road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but with Arthur by your side, you knew you could face it.

-

The morning sun spilled golden light over the wildflower-dotted meadow just beyond the small homestead you and Arthur had built. Your six-year-old daughter, Sarah, was kneeling in the grass, her little hands busy weaving a crown from the flowers she’d been gathering all morning. Arthur sat nearby, his long legs stretched out and his back propped against a tree, watching her with a smile that softened his rugged features.

“You about done there, little miss?” Arthur teased, tipping his hat back to get a better look at her handiwork.

“Not yet, Papa!” Sarah said, her small tongue peeking out in concentration as she tied a daisy stem into place. “You gotta be patient.”

Arthur chuckled, leaning his head back against the tree. “Patience, huh? You sure you didn’t learn that from your ma?”

You smiled from the porch, where you were sitting with a cup of coffee, watching the scene unfold. Sarah had Arthur wrapped around her little finger, and you both knew it.

Finally, Sarah stood, holding the flower crown aloft like it was a treasure. She marched over to Arthur with a triumphant grin. “Okay, Papa! All done!”

Arthur sat up straight, his grin widening as she climbed into his lap and carefully placed the crown on his head. It sat crooked, teetering on his messy hair, but she clapped her hands in delight.

“There!” she declared. “Now you’re a king!”

Arthur laughed, the sound deep and genuine. “A king, huh? Well, I reckon I couldn’t ask for a better crown.”

“You have to wear it into town!” Sarah said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “So everyone knows you’re a flower king.”

Arthur raised a brow but didn’t hesitate. “Alright, if that’s what my princess wants.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Arthur, you’re really gonna wear that into town?”

He shrugged, his expression as relaxed as ever. “Why not? Ain’t nobody’s business what I wear.”

Sarah beamed, throwing her arms around his neck. “You’re the best, Papa!”

Later that afternoon, the three of you made the trip into town, Sarah skipping happily beside Arthur while he strode confidently through the dusty streets, flower crown still perched on his head. People turned to stare, some with bemused smiles, others with outright laughter. Arthur, however, didn’t so much as flinch.

“Mr. Morgan,” an elderly woman called from her rocking chair on a porch. “That’s quite the look you’re sportin’ today.”

Arthur tipped his hat—well, the flower crown—at her with a grin. “Why, thank you kindly, ma’am. My little girl made it for me. Ain’t it somethin’?”

The woman chuckled, waving him off. “You’re a good father, Arthur.”

Sarah giggled, tugging at his hand. “See, Papa? Everyone loves it!”

You walked a step behind them, your heart full as you watched the easy way Arthur carried himself, unbothered by the stares or whispers. For all his gruffness and rough edges, he’d become the kind of father you’d always dreamed he’d be: patient, loving, and willing to wear a flower crown in public if it made his daughter smile.

When the errands were done, and the three of you made your way back home, Sarah sat on the wagon seat between you and Arthur, her little hands busy weaving another crown. She looked up at him, her eyes full of admiration.

“You’re the best king ever, Papa,” she said.

Arthur looked down at her, his blue eyes soft. “And you’re the best little princess a man could ask for, I reckon.”

As the wagon rolled on, laughter and love filled the air, and the flower crown stayed on Arthur’s head until the sun dipped below the horizon.

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

a/n: I'm not very good at writing children's dialogue, my apologies! Hope you still enjoyed!

[ak319]

Hello, I love your writing so much, if you can do so, could you please write a Yandere!Arthur Morgan x infant daughter reader where he's a papa bear to her, and he finds out she's being bullied by other kids in school. Ofc familial /platonic please

Thank you and hope you have a great day!

AN: moi heart AGH! Cute!! Tsym btw! (^///^) Warnings/MDNI: None, jus' fluff fluff nd' fluff! A little angst, bullying +++ Arthur is 30, Modern AU🍼 tag list: @nayykura @shackspossum @whalecage

Arthur's ears perked at the sound of your soft burp, a tiny noise that brought a tired but satisfied smile to his face. Finally. One of the trickiest tasks, but one he wouldn’t trade for the world. He adjusted his grip on you, gently patting your small back, his broad hand covering you almost entirely. Rocking in his old chair, the rhythmic creak matching his soft coos and steady breathing, he lulled you into a peaceful slumber, and before long, he drifted off too.

After a long, grueling day this was what grounded him. You were his balm, his anchor, the only thing keeping him steady after everything he’d been through. Holding you brought him a peace he never thought he’d feel again.

Stirring awake, he carefully laid you on the bed, making sure to stack pillows securely on the empty side. Then he stretched out beside you, his rugged face softening as he traced the curve of your cheek with a rough, calloused finger. He couldn’t resist placing featherlight kisses on your tiny forehead and rosy cheeks, his heart swelling with a love so fierce and pure it almost hurt

He couldn’t be more grateful for your presence. Just you, him, and this quiet farmhouse nestled in a peaceful community. The same family farmhouse he had nearly sold, back when everything seemed simpler, before life turned upside down.

Then he almost lost it all. Your mother, his wife (M/N), taken from him in a senseless tragedy during his time as a cop. The memory still felt like a jagged wound, one that would never fully heal. By some miracle, you had been spared, untouched by the violence that claimed her. God knows what he would have done if… if something had happened to you too. The thought alone twisted his stomach into knots. He knew he wouldn’t have survived it, he would’ve lost himself entirely.

So, he made a choice. He left it all behind after ensuring the culprits got caught and sentenced. The city, the job, the chaos. He packed up what was left of his life and came here, to the farm. Away from those dangerous, vengeful people who had shattered his family.

He wasn’t alone in the transition. His childhood best friend, John, stood by his side, helping him find his footing in this new chapter. With John’s support, he rebuilt, trading badges and bullets for the quiet rhythm of rural life. Now, he works from home as a graphic designer, balancing his new career with the role that means the most to him: being your father.

The move to the farmhouse was no easy feat, but Arthur didn’t care about the logistics, his top priority was you. Arthur let only Abigail watch over you while he handled the chaos of packing and unpacking. He didn’t trust babysitters, no way in hell. He’d heard enough horror stories from folks and read about things in the news that made his blood boil. The idea of leaving you with a stranger wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was unthinkable.

The only person he trusted was Abigail. “You’re family, and you’ve got Jack, so you know how it is,” he’d said when asking her to keep an eye on you. His version of breathing was checking in every ten minutes, asking Abigail if you’d eaten, slept, or cried. Even when he knew you were safe, his mind wouldn’t rest until he saw you again.

The farm itself had seen its fair share of upgrades, some subtle, others impossible to miss. The once-simple property now stood fortified with long, reinforced fences and modern electric security gates. The kind designed to deliver a harmless but sharp jolt to anything attempting to breach them, ensuring no unwelcome visitors, human or otherwise, made it in.

Security cameras were mounted everywhere, their lenses scanning every corner of the property without missing a spot. Arthur had spent weeks installing them, triple-checking blind spots until there were none.

And for those thinking of trying their luck? Booby traps, carefully concealed and strategically placed, added an extra layer of insurance. He hadn’t been sure at first, was that going too far?--but the idea of anyone getting past his defenses to threaten you erased any hesitation.

Inside, the house was an entirely different kind of fortress. Childproofing was everywhere, every sharp corner was padded, and cabinets latched tight.

Then there was the basement. What was once a dusty, forgotten space had been transformed into a stockpile, his grandfather’s old cavalry arsenal, now fully restocked and meticulously maintained. The weapons had been relics from a long-forgotten outlaw era, but Arthur saw them as a necessity. A last resort. If anyone dared to cross that line, they’d find out the hard way what kind of man they were dealing with.

Because nothing, nothing, was more important than keeping you safe.

❀˖°

“Hey--no, no-" Arthur picked you up, his glare faltering under the effort to stay stern. “You don’t claw or brawl with Pa’ on this matter, miss.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement as your legs thrashed in the air. 'Aren't you a tiny feral adorable kid---no be strict , Arthur-'

' “You, ma’am, are going in the tub-”

“WAIT! I’ll go myself!” you blurted, words tumbling out so fast they were practically gibberish. But Arthur, seasoned in the art of decoding your toddler babble, understood every syllable.

“Fine,” he huffed, setting you back down and straightening up with his hands on his hips. He gave you a look that screamed, I’m watching you.

Your eyes darted everywhere but to him. “Um-kay!,” you muttered with exaggerated determination, shuffling your feet as if preparing for the world’s longest journey.

“1,” you started.

“2…”

“um..4? 3-”

“You ain’t counting to ten for the tenth time, young lady. That’s it.” Before you could stage another dramatic delay, he swooped you up mid-mock-Olympian stance and plopped you straight into the tub.

“NOOOOOOO! NOT FAIR! you wailed, your indignation echoing off the bathroom walls.

“Nothing’s fair in baths and bedtimes,” he said with a grin, rolling up his sleeves. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, Bunny.”

❀˖°

Arthur set the plates and a steaming dish of soup and garlic bread on the table, his ears perking up as your voice carried in through the open window, accompanied by Mouse’s sharp barks. His German shepherd was stationed outside, a necessity for security, Arthur didn’t trust Mouse’s temperament indoors, and keeping the dog outside served as both a deterrent and a watchful guardian.

He glanced out and spotted you with a ball, your tiny frame dwarfed by the expanse of the yard. His jaw tightened. What’d I say about being out at this hour?

He stalked to the lawn without hesitation, his boots crunching against the gravel. He scooped you up without warning, setting you on his hip like you weighed nothing.

“When it’s near dusk, you are to be inside, you get inside without me needing to remind and call you every time,” he said, his voice firm, though not unkind. “Why do I always have to repeat myself?”

“I was gonna come, Pa’!” you protested, squirming slightly. Jeez, he needs to loosen up sometimes.

Arthur stopped, fixing you with a look that left no room for argument. “Some things I say are meant to be words on stone, you hear me? No arguing, Bug.”

He set you down gently but guided you firmly toward the house, casting one last glance at the fence and Mouse, whose ears twitched as if sensing Arthur’s unease.

❀˖°

The early morning mist still clung to the fields as Arthur loaded up the old truck, a fishing pole in the back, tackle box rattling as he slid it into place. The air was crisp, the scent of pine and fresh earth mingling with the faint smell of dew on the grass. You sat in the passenger seat, your legs swinging with excitement as you clutched your little fishing hat, a hand-me-down from Arthur that was still a bit too big for your head.

The drive to the lake was peaceful, the old truck rumbling along the dirt road as the first rays of sunlight broke through the trees. The lake, just a short distance from the farm, was quiet this time of morning, still and calm, with only the occasional ripple as the wind stirred the water.

Arthur parked the truck by the shore and hopped out, stretching his arms over his head. He opened the back, grabbing your tiny fishing rod first, a smaller one he had made sure to get just for you. He handed it over, his large hands carefully guiding yours to the handle.

“You know what to do, Bug?” he asked, crouching down to your level, his tone soft but serious.

You nodded, eyes gleaming with determination. “I throw it in, wait, then reel it in, Pa’!”

“Good girl,” he said, pride swelling in his chest. “But remember, patience is key. The fish don’t always bite right away.”

You gave him a mock serious look, puffing out your chest. “I can be patient.”

Arthur smiled and ruffled your hair before picking up his own rod. Together, you both walked to the edge of the water, the soft crunch of grass underfoot. He demonstrated how to cast his line, showing you the way to swing the rod before releasing it into the water. You watched carefully, eyes focused on the movement, and then it was your turn.

Arthur stood behind you, guiding your hands as you swung the rod and released the line, the soft splash of it hitting the water echoing in the quiet morning. You let out a little cheer, stepping back to wait.

“Good job, Bug. Now we wait.”

You sat down on the grassy shore, your legs dangling, and Arthur followed suit, sitting close enough that he could keep an eye on you but still giving you the space to enjoy the moment. The world seemed so still here, only the sounds of the water lapping gently at the shore and the occasional bird call filling the air.

Minutes passed. Arthur cast his line again, his concentration on the ripples in the water, but he always kept an ear out for you. You were so quiet, so focused on the task at hand, that he couldn’t help but smile.

“Pa’?” you asked after a while, your voice soft but curious.

“Yeah, Bug?”

“Can we do this every month!?”

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. He turned to look at you, his chest tight with love. “Of course, Bug. We’ll always fish together, whenever you want.”

You beamed, your little fingers still wrapped around the fishing rod, staring out at the lake with a peaceful contentment that mirrored his own.

And then, as if on cue, there was a tug on the line. You gasped, your eyes wide, and Arthur was there in a flash, his strong hands guiding yours as you struggled to reel it in.

“Got it, Bug! Reel it in, slow and steady. You’ve got this.”

You grinned, your little arms straining against the weight of the fish, the excitement in your eyes contagious. Arthur stood close, his hands still hovering just in case, but he could see you were doing it all on your own.

With a final pull, you brought the fish to the shore, Arthur helping you hold it up for a brief moment, both of you staring at the wriggling catch.

“We did it!” you cheered, jumping up and down with excitement.

Arthur laughed, lifting you up into his arms. “You did it, Bug. You caught the first one. I’m proud of you.”

You giggled, your face flushed with happiness. “We’re gonna have fish for lunch! YAY!👹 "

Arthur laughed, holding you close. “Yeah, we will. And we’re gonna have a lot more days just like this.”

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, you both spent the rest of the morning fishing, the peaceful quiet of the lake wrapping around you like a blanket. Every now and then, Arthur would catch a fish of his own, but it was clear which one of you was the real star of the day.

❀˖°

One evening, as usual, Arthur sat at his desk, working on his laptop, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused face. You were sitting nearby, playing quietly, but after a moment, you turned to him, your small brow furrowed in thought.

“Pa,” you asked, your voice soft but filled with curiosity, “why don’t I have a mommy like Jack? Like the ones on T. V. ?”

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. He had been waiting for this question, dreading it, but he knew it was time to answer. He paused for a moment, setting his laptop aside, and turned to face you, his expression gentle.

“Well, Bug,” he started, his voice warm and tender, “you know how some kids have two parents, right? They’re like a big team, helpin' each other out. But you,” he said with a wink, “you’re extra special. Sometimes, God decides one parent is all a kid needs. Just one, but that one’s enough to love ‘em, protect ‘em, and make sure they’re always happy.”

He leaned down to your level, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “And that’s you, sweetheart. You got me, and I got you. We’re a team too, just the two of us.”

You blinked, absorbing his words, and a small smile tugged at your lips. Arthur ruffled your hair affectionately, the worry in his chest easing as he saw you begin to understand.

“Some kids might need a bigger team, but not you. You’re my girl, and I’m all you need, ain’t that right?”

You nodded slowly, your eyes lighting up with trust and love. Arthur smiled, his heart full. “You don’t need a mommy to be loved, Bug. You’ve got all the love you could ever need, right here with me.”

He pulled you into a tight hug, feeling your little arms wrap around him. “And I’m gonna love you forever, no matter what.”

❀˖°

Arthur couldn't believe how quickly time had passed. One moment, it seemed like you were still a tiny thing, curled up in his arms, and now, the time had come to enroll you in school. He didn't want to let you go. He'd kept you close, always close, and the thought of someone else seeing you, taking care of you, made a cold knot form in his stomach. But he knew John was right. You needed to make friends. You needed to grow.

"Y/N needs to learn how to be around other kids, Arthur," John had said, his voice filled with that well-meaning confidence. "Jack goes to the same school too, so it'll be fine. It's just school. Let her have a chance."

Arthur had reluctantly agreed. He trusted John, mostly, and if Jack was there, well... that was a bit of relief. Still, the idea of you being away from him, surrounded by others, made his chest tighten. He was used to keeping you safe, keeping you all to himself. The thought of someone else influencing you, teaching you things....but he would do this for you.

And so, with his heart heavy but his determination set, Arthur had filled out the papers and enrolled you in school. He kept telling himself it was for your own good, that it would help you grow, make you more confident. Even if it was hard to admit, you were growing up, and he had to let you experience the world outside the walls of their home.

But Arthur knew something else, too. You were shy. You didn't like being around other people, especially strangers. He'd always been there to protect you, to shield you from the world outside. But now, the world would be coming to you.

As he walked you to school for the first time, his hand lingering a little too long on your shoulder, he whispered softly, "You stick close to brother Jack, alright? If you need any help, you go to him. You don’t need anyone else. Just him, just me, and you. No one else matters."

You gave him a shy nod, looking up at him with those wide eyes that always seemed to need reassurance. Arthur smiled down at you, brushing a lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment too long.

"Good girl. And don’t let anyone take advantage of you.”

❀˖°

“You eat your lunch today?” Arthur asked, his tone casual but observant, as you stood in front of him with your hands tucked behind your back.

You nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Uh-huh!”

Arthur opened the lunchbox, finding it spotless inside, not a crumb left. For a moment, he felt a spark of pride, was he really lucky enough to have a kid who finished her lunch every single day? But then, something about your overly innocent expression made him pause. He set the lunchbox down and folded his arms, tilting his head.

“So,” he said, setting the lunchbox down and crossing his arms, “how was it?”

“Hmm?” You glanced up at him.

“The sandwich,” he said, watching your reaction closely. “Was it good?”

“Oh, yeah!” you said too brightly. “Really yummy.”

Arthur tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “What did I make again? Just slipped my mind.”

“Uh… peanut butter and jam?” you mumbled.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, though his expression stayed calm. He crouched down to your level, his presence steady and unyielding. “You sure about that, darlin’? Because I know I packed you a chicken and cheese sandwich this mornin’.”

You froze, the color draining from your face.

He sighed, shaking his head lightly. “Now, you and I both know you didn’t eat that sandwich. So why don’t you go on and tell me what really happened?”

You looked down at your shoes, your voice trembling. “I… I was going to eat it, but some kids… they took it.”

Arthur’s heart sank, though his expression remained calm for your sake. He reached out and gently lifted your chin so you had to meet his eyes. “They took it?”

You nodded, biting your lip as tears threatened to spill. “I told them to stop, but… but they wouldn’t give it back. They laughed and said it wasn’t m-ine anymore.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched a flicker of something dark flashing in his eyes. He pulled you into his arms, holding you close. “Bug,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, “you listen to me. No one, and I mean no one, gets to treat you like that. You understand?”

You sniffled, nodding against his shoulder.

“They got names, these kids?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with a steel promise that this wasn’t going to be ignored.

You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor. Then, in a barely audible whisper, you murmured a few names.

Arthur nodded, his jaw tightening. “Alright. I’ll deal with ‘em. You ain’t gotta worry about that anymore.”

As he reached out to hold your hand, his fingers brushed against a faint redness across your skin. He stilled, his brow furrowing. “What’s this?”

You instinctively tried to pull your hand away, but Arthur held it gently, his thumb brushing over the red mark. “Bug,” he said, his tone dropping to that low, firm register that always made you listen. “Who did this to you?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you sniffled. “It... it was the teacher,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

Arthur blinked, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “The teacher?” he repeated, his tone deceptively calm, though you could feel the storm brewing beneath it.

“I told her about the kids taking my lunch,” you explained, your words coming in halting gasps. “She... she said I was tattling and hit me with a ruler for ‘causing trouble.’”

Arthur’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, but only for a moment.

Arthur stood so abruptly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Get your shoes on, Bug. We’re going to the school.”

“But-”

"No buts. No one lays a hand on my girl, now c'mon, Pa’s got somethin’ he needs to take care of."

The sound of Arthur’s boots echoed ominously in the otherwise quiet hallway as he strode toward the principal’s office, his expression carved from stone. His hand hovered protectively over your shoulder as he guided you along.

The principal looked up as Arthur entered, his usual composure faltering at the sight of the respectable ex-cop's stormy glare.

“Mr. Morgan,” the principal began, forcing a tight smile, “is there-”

Arthur didn’t wait for pleasantries. “There a reason my daughter came home with a red welt on her hand?” he demanded, his voice low but seething.

The principal blinked, momentarily caught off guard “I--I’m not sure what you mean-”

“She told me her teacher hit her,” Arthur interrupted, his words sharp enough to cut. “With a ruler. After she reported kids stealin’ her lunch. That’s what I mean.”

“Well, if a teacher disciplined her, I’m sure-”

Arthur stepped forward, leaning over the desk, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You think layin’ a hand on my girl is ‘discipline’? You call ignorin’ the bullies and punishin’ the victim a job well done?

“We have rules about-”

Arthur leaned forward, his presence towering even as he kept his voice level. “You got rules about discipline, huh? How about rules about protectin’ kids?! Or do you only enforce the ones that let you blame the victim!?”

“Mr. Morgan, I understand you’re upset-”

“Upset doesn’t cover it,” Arthur snapped, his voice rising slightly. “My girl’s been comin’ home hungry because you let bullies run wild. And now she’s got a bruise on her arm because she finally got tired of takin’ it? You think that’s how you run a school? By punishin’ the one kid who’s just tryin’ to eat her damn lunch in peace? Because if that’s how you run this place, we got a bigger problem than I thought.”

The principal held up his hands, visibly nervous. “I assure you, Mr. Morgan, we take such incidents seriously. I’ll speak to the teacher and-”

“No, you’ll do more than SPEAK!" Arthur took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, you’ll make sure she’s held accountable. And while you’re at it, you’ll deal with those bullies, too. My daughter’s been hungry three times this week because of them, and now she’s got a mark on her hand for speakin’ up?! That ends today.”

“Of course, of course,” the principal stammered. “I’ll handle it immediately.”

Arthur straightened, his gaze never wavering. “You’d better. You’re gonna deal with those bullies and that damned teacher, properly. And you’re gonna make damn sure no one here ever lays a hand on my daughter again. Otherwise, I’ll be takin’ this to the school board, the police, and anyone else who’ll listen. You got no idea what I can do. You got me? You’ll be answerin’ to me."

He turned, placing a reassuring hand on your back as he guided you out of the office. As soon as you were outside, he crouched down and looked you in the eye.

“You did the right thing, Bug,” he said softly. “And I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself. But you leave dealin’ with grown-ups to me, alright? Nobody’s gonna hurt you again.”

You nodded, wiping your eyes as he pulled you into a hug.

“Now, let’s go home,” he said, ruffling your hair. “We’ll make somethin’ good for dinner and figure out how to make sure this never happens again.

❀˖°

“So... no school?” you asked hesitantly, peering up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, and sighed. “No, Bug. You’re still gonna study--but at home, alright?”

He could already hear John’s voice nagging in his head, telling him he was being too overprotective, that keeping you out of school might isolate you further. But Arthur dismissed it. You were still so young, still figuring out the world, and he decided what was best for you. Nobody else.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he said firmly, his voice softening as he brushed a hand over your hair. “Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you go back there to get hurt again. Not by kids who don’t know how to act, not by some teacher who should’ve never had a classroom in the first place. You’re my responsibility, and I ain’t lettin’ anybody mess with you like that. Ever again.”

You nodded slowly, relaxing into the bed. His words felt like a shield wrapping around you, and you trusted him entirely.

Arthur watched you settle, his jaw tightening slightly as anger simmered beneath his calm exterior. He’d been right on the edge of losing it, of storming over to those kids’ homes and making their parents pay the price and make them understand what it meant to raise decent human beings. And that teacher? Though fired, it still didn’t sit right with him. The thought of her laying a hand on you made his blood boil. It had taken every cell to control to not blow her brains out.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on you instead of the anger that threatened to bubble over. “I’ll teach you myself,” he said, his tone lighter now as he tried to make you smile. “We don’t need teachers like that, anyway. I’ll make sure you learn plenty, and we’ll even have fun doin’ it.”

“Really?” you asked, your voice small but hopeful.

“Really,” he said, tugging the blanket up around you and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now, you get some rest, Bug. We’ll figure out all the details in the mornin’.”

❀˖°

After finishing up the dishes and double checking all the doors, Arthur made his way back to your room. He found you sitting at your small desk, scribbling on a piece of paper with intense concentration.

"What’re you workin’ on, Bug?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

You looked up, a hint of shyness in your eyes. "A thank-you card," you said quietly.

Arthur’s brow furrowed. "For who?"

"For you." You held up the paper, a drawing of you and him making a cake. Above it, in your wobbly handwriting, it read: "Thank you for being my Pa."

Arthur froze, his chest tightening at the sight. He stepped closer, kneeling beside you to get a better look. "Well, I’ll be..." he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "That’s real nice, darlin’. Prettiest thing I’ve seen all day."

You smiled, a little bashful but proud. "You always take care of me. So, I wanted to make something for you too."

Arthur reached out and gently pulled you into his arms, holding you close. "You don’t ever have to thank me for that, sweetheart. Lookin’ after you? That’s the best thing I’ll ever do."

You nuzzled into his chest, your small arms wrapping around his neck. "Still. Love you, Pa."

"I love you more, Bug. Always and forever."

[keii]

Ride 'em cowboy! Outlaw Toji! AU

[zae-heeyyy]

Aegis II

Summary: Arthur returns from Guarma Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,006 Tags: family, girl dad Arthur, angst, mid-honor Arthur Warnings: Mostly angst, no happy ending

previous

An: Part II to Aegis and another anon request to break your heart. Read at your own risk, I'm warning you.

Lakay’s spellbound energy had finally gotten to you. You could only conclude that some voodoo priestess must’ve cursed this land by punishing intruders with hallucinations of their long-lost loved ones. This hex began with the silhouette of a light-haired bearded centaur materializing down the path, torturing your soul with the crushing weight of hope. With a ghastly cackle, she revealed the beast to be Micah Bell, the antithesis of your husband. The image of him instead of Arthur tugged fiercely on your heartstrings. But maybe the priestess was merciful after all because, alongside venom and rot, he carried Arthur’s name and word of life on his tongue. Hours spent waiting felt like nothing compared to the entire lifetime you thought you’d have to endure without him.

Rain clouds washed away the color of the bayou, making everything shades of brown and gray. Half delirious from a lack of sleep, you second-guessed yourself when you heard the steady clop of hooves on dirt. As if from a dream, a black and white Hungarian Half-breed emerged through the fog with the sunshine of your heart, Arthur Morgan, at the reins. Parts of your life flashed before your eyes in the brightest prism of colors—memories of making love under red patterned blankets, kissing alongside orange and yellow flames, dancing barefoot on soft green grass, cuddling against striped blue cotton, and prancing through fragrant fields of lavender. It all could’ve just been a figment of your imagination, but you knew it was real. You knew you were awake. You knew you were alive. And thank God, so was he.

Sharp curves of his ribs dug into yours as you threw yourself into his arms, and though the weight of you was heavier than he’d remembered or perhaps he’d gotten weaker, he still held you up as you fell limp against him, your mouth open in a screaming wail, a concoction of relief, heartbreak, and joy. He realized he hadn’t spoken a word since stepping back on US soil, and he choked your name out in a stunned whisper. Though your tears were soaking through his shirt, he could relax because he was home.

Every time he repeated your name, he squeezed you tighter. The closer he brought you to him, the louder you wailed as if he were wringing out every drop of anguish that had accumulated since he’d been gone.

“I’m here, beautiful. I’m here. S’okay...S’okay….”

Lost in him, you didn’t even notice the squelch of bare feet growing closer from behind. Arthur saw her before you did, and his whole body stiffened. Relief hammered at his knees, and he couldn’t stand anymore. He didn’t want to let you go, but his grip slackened as he sank slowly to the ground. You went with him, both of you lowering yourselves to meet the tiny, fragile thing standing before you. Her eyes looked to you first, and you smiled at her, holding back more sobs.

“Look, baby. Daddy’s home.”

But she didn’t move. Smile vanishing, you rose hastily to get to her. You knew that look anywhere: fear. From her eyes, this man was just a shell of her daddy. Everything about him was wrong. Wrong length of beard, wrong, dirty clothes, wrong sunburnt skin, wrong bloodshot eyes, and wrong sunken cheeks. You’d scooped her up and moved her hair out of her face, your eyebrows scrunched together in motherly concern, but her eyes weren’t on you. They were looking past your shoulder at the stranger who used to be her father.

The scene unraveled like the Creation of Adam. Arthur reached out, leading with his index finger like he had since the day she was born. He cleared his throat first before speaking.

“Honeybee…”

But unlike the fresco, Beatrice didn’t reach back. Instead, she screamed. She screamed a terrible, gut-wrenching cry.

In her young mind, someone had kidnapped her sunflower and picked his petals clean, leaving only a wilted stalk in his place. Arthur felt like a monster—like the ugliest bastard that ever lived. Before you and before Beatrice, Arthur wondered if he’d even had a heart. Now, he knew he did because it was being forcibly ripped out. His hand dropped to his side, and his face straightened into hardened lines. As his eyes lost focus, you knew he was building a fort around his heart because if he didn’t, it would shatter and never come back together again.

Beatrice Morgan, Beatrice Morgan, Beatrice Morgan, Beatrice Morgan.

At night, on Guarma, when he was trying to sleep, he’d write the letters of her name on his skin. The distant memory of her laugh was the only thing that gave him enough comfort to finally drift off. Thinking he’d never get to see either of you again was painful, but not being able to hold his baby girl was torture.

You bounced and shushed her while meeting his hollow eyes. Since before you were married, you had whole conversations with a gaze. You could compliment each other, check-in, and lust after each other through your eyes. This time, it was a silent apology as you whisked her away, walking fast towards one of the shacks. Arthur tried to follow, but now word of his return was out, and he was swallowed in the embrace and cheers of the gang. Though Beatrice had run out of tears, she didn’t let you leave her side for the rest of the day, clinging to your shirt any time you moved.

Days ago, a sea away and now only a room away, but the distance between you and Arthur still felt monumental.

Under the waves of your sorrow swam dreadful truths you couldn’t bear exposing to surface light. Truth: you’d given up on the thought of ever seeing him again. Truth: you’d mourned him—was still mourning him when he washed ashore that dirt path past dual skulls impaled on sticks. Truth and bitter shame: in a sleep-deprived haze, your patience with your daughter had been ground to a fine powder. Fed up with her anguished cries, cries for her daddy, you’d told her to hush up, that crying wouldn’t bring him back, that nothing would, because he was dead, and she screamed and screamed, and screamed until she couldn’t.

Getting her to sleep was a losing game, as always. Just as she quieted down for the night, Bill burst through the cabin, his booming voice waking her once again. Bill had barely stopped his yapping when a shout—the shouting of Death himself silenced the cabin. You threw your body over your little girl, shielding her with your life before Milton could even finish his speech. This had to be hell. Scripture that Reverend Swanson had drunkenly spewed rattled your mind as a Gatling gun wreaked havoc on the shack. Bullets and splitting wood were the furnace of fire and gnashing of teeth, and the weeping was your daughter screaming from beneath you.  

The gunfire ceased, and Dutch’s voice carried through camp, but you couldn’t hear a word over your violent retching.

It was almost the crack of dawn when you’d got Beatrice to settle into a restless sleep. Arthur had been waiting close by, and you left him to have a moment with her before he followed you out onto one of the docks. He didn’t get a word in. The conversation bounced back and forth, neither of you letting the other finish.

“Arthur, you have to get us out of here. We gotta leave. Beatrice, me, you, and—”

“I gotta go get John. Me and Sadie, I can’t just leave him. Abigail, and little Jack—”

“Fine, get John, but after that—”

“After that, I gotta do something for Dutch.”

The murky water rippled as a cottonmouth water snake swam by.

“For Dutch?”

No response. Someone watching from behind would’ve thought you sobbing so hard to make your body shake, but Arthur knew better. You were laughing—laughing without an ounce of amusement.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot of foolishness from you, but after last night, after everything—you gotta do some things for Dutch?”

Arthur knew, deep down, that you were right. One day, he’d get it through his thick skull that you were always right. Today wasn’t that day, though.  

“You ain’t the only one I gotta take care of,” he growled, but you barked right back.

“Now that’s one thing you got right you goddamn moron! It ain’t just me you gotta take care of.” You started counting on your fingers. “You need to get your head out of your ass and start worrying about taking care of me, Beatrice, and–” You swallowed hard, dropping your head, “And your baby.”

This wasn’t how you wanted to tell him. You wanted the next baby to be celebrated, to be thought about as a gift to the world instead of a crippling burden. When you lifted your head, sorrowful, pitiful eyes stared back at you.

His memories shuffled at full speed like a deck of cards in the hands of a Blackjack dealer. A face card fell into place, Shady Bell, then the Ace, the party. Blackjack.

Beatrice fell asleep outside, exhausted from the celebrations. Tilly offered to stay with her so Arthur didn’t have to carry her up the stairs.

You were so beautiful, laid up under him; he couldn’t help himself when he spilled inside of you. It’d only been a month and a half ago, but it seemed like a lifetime.

“Darlin,’ he started, outstretching his hand, but you couldn’t even look at him.

“Kept gettin’ sick after you went missing. Thought I was just heartbroken, but…”

He waited for you to finish, but you were tired of fighting for something that didn’t seem to matter to him anymore. You weren’t going to wait for him to find the right words, and you weren’t going to wait for him to make up his mind, so you left him with a final warning.

“I suggest you figure out where your loyalties lie, Arthur, before it’s too late.”

You could hear Susan yelling at Pearson from one of the cabins and decided going to his rescue couldn’t be worse than this. After finishing one chore and moving to the next, you stopped in your tracks. Though you couldn’t see them, their voices carried, Dutch’s more so than Arthur’s.

“Arthur, do you have my back?”

“Always Dutch, but there’s more than your back to worry about. I got a family. My wife, my little girl, and—” he paused but continued shortly after, “my wife, my little girl,” he repeated, “and a baby on the way.”

Silence, then...

“My my, how a woman we love changes us.”

“I ain’t changed, Dutch.”

Then Dutch’s laugh cut through the air, making you flinch, “Oh, you have, my son. You have changed.”

“Dutch I–”

And Dutch cut him off, “Yes, Arthur, you. You and your family. What about this family? You gonna abandon the rest of us just cause we ain’t your flesh and blood?”

You didn’t wait around for his answer. Arthur and Charles left for Roanoke Ridge, and you pretended to pack for the move to the next hellhole. But you weren’t going, not anymore. You were getting out. You were saving yourself, your daughter, and your unborn baby with or without Arthur.

The gunslinger didn’t have time to process anything in the chaos of Beaver Hollow. Only when the dust had settled and Molly’s corpse was drug away did he notice your heavy absence. Before he could even ask, Tilly wielded a sword disguised as a letter.

“M’sorry, Arthur.”

Mist built up in his eyes, and he had to blink rapidly to clear it away. He couldn’t tell if the tightening in his throat was from a building cough or suffocating guilt and regret. That lovely voice in his mind’s ear that once upon a time made him feel like the luckiest man alive was now speaking the words that would surely lead him spiraling head first to his untimely demise.

My Dear Arthur…