#red dead x reader

[noctunis]

hi love!! i saw that your requests are open and im here to help🫡

can i request some red dead headcanons/blurbs? maybe what their affection/kisses are like? arthur, john, javier and charles are my pookies (especially charles oh my god i love him so so much) but i would love to hear your thoughts on anybody really!!

hope you’re doing well <3

AFFECTIONATE - VAN DER LINDE BOYS

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ notes - for some reason i cannot post rdr2 with my manga headers or cutesy pink dividers it feels so off to me i have no idea why 😭 but thank you for sending this request in, i love it sooo much!’ it’s nice to see another charles lover in this fandom lolol— you take care as well!! 🫶

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ warnings - mentions of injuries in kieran’s and charles, kisses and kissing (?), hispanic!reader / spanish speaking!reader in mind for javier’s, intended lowercase, alcohol and drinking in sean’s, lmk if i missed anything!! 🫶

ARTHUR MORGAN who will put calloused hands around your waist when you’re alone in your tent at night, burrowing his nose in your hair as he lays behind you. you can smell his musk, the scent of the outdoors and faded linen, as it clings onto you with its tight grip and lingers. you don’t mind though, and neither does arthur; simply basking in your warmth as the crickets chirp in harmony with your soft exhales.

“‘ve missed you.” you say, your right hand crawling to interlock itself with his own draped over your waist as it fiddles with the soft skin there.

“missed y’too, darlin’.” you can feel his chest rumble with his voice, tone deep and gravelly from the lack of use. you let your eyes close as you savored the feeling of his hands caressing the small chub that gathered itself in his hands when he squished too much. you would give anything to have moments like these with arthur whenever you could.

JOHN MARSTON who’ll scoff as you pressed kisses along his face, sitting on his lap as the campfire graced your bodies with its warm glow. his affections held a more stand-offish tone to them but on the off occasional that he got a little too tipsy, you could never pry him off of you.

“if i’d’a known any better, i’d have thought you was in love wit’ me,” he huffed. regardless of his dumb comments, his hands never failed to find their way upon the dips of your hips, rubbing circles over the fabric of your clothes.

you bumped your head into his head as he chuckled, raspy voice rumbling throughout his chest as you halted your kisses and instead rested your head on his shoulder. your foot, bare and tapping against the ground in tune with the distant strums of javier’s guitar and karen’s drunken singing kept you grounded — kept you remembering that this was real, this was all real; and you were alive.

“why? you complainin’?”

you felt john’s cheeks widen with his grin. “naw,” was all he said.

two things that JAVIER ESCUELLA cherished most in this world were family and freedom; and he knew that he felt at peace knowing he had both of these things in that moment. you by his side, as neither of you had a care in the world. the sun glimmered and lazed around, taking its place on your backs and replacing the cool, dawn air with its heat. affection with javier is passionate and it’s scary, you never know what you’ll get or suffer the next day but it doesn’t matter — you persevere knowing you’ll find home in his arms a night more, you’ll live long enough to seek refuge and if you died in the process; it’d be okay knowing you died with who you loved.

deft fingers came to slide up and down the wooden fretboard along with his other hand plucking on the strings. you hadn’t realized you’d been staring until he peeked one eye open from under his bowler hat, a teasing smirk on his face as he mumbled, “no me miras con esos ojos, corazón.”

you rolled your eyes, “que quieres decir, javi?”

he hummed, he knew you knew what he meant — and you knew that he knew. but for now, you’d continue to stare, admiring your beloved that sat so prettily on that log; simply playing his guitar. he had his freedom, and he had his family right here.

loud laughs erupted from the obnoxious irishman known as SEAN MACGUIRE, a jug of alcohol in his hand and his darling in the other.

“i’m tellin’ ya, luckiest man alive—! they said they loved me, can y’believe it?” his accent only got thicker by the minute as he raved to everybody that walked by about how you had suddenly professed your love once more as you two sat on the barrel circling the rounded, wooden table. you smacked his arm to which he let out a rasping cackle. “shut up, will you?”

“ah, never. y’know ya love me,” he puckered his lips dramatically as you scoffed. giving him a chaste kiss, he groaned as you pulled away too quick before you went in deeper, seeing his eyes widen in shock before yours fluttered closed. he laughed out the side of his mouth before his hand, ever so gentle, buried itself in your hair. sean was a loud lover, one you’d typically be embarrassed by — but that only meant he loved you more than anything. a drunk man’s words is a sober man’s thoughts and he had you on his mind all the time.

CHARLES SMITH who’ll treat your wounds silently, as he always did except this time would be different. a tense silence would fill your tent other than murmured hisses and apologies due to the peroxide and other various natural remedies he preserved for your care. charles would always keep a level head, warning you not to go on jobs that micah would egg you on yet charles would always wait for you to return.

he never said anything during these times, charles loved silently. instead of telling you he loved you every second or having you on his lap like others, he’d bring you a trinket you remembered wanting from a storefront window or he’d take you out hunting with him; teaching you how to properly set up bait ( not in the reckless way that sean or bill would attempt to mansplain about ). he’d take care of you and he’d listen to you. so when you’d gasp and bite your fist from how badly he had to stitch your leg up, his hand would grab yours and bring it down to rest on your thigh — intertwining fingers as his thumb grazed over the crescent shaped marks your teeth left.

you really did love KIERAN DUFFY, seeing the way he’d try to puff his chest out when the guys at camp would look at you when really, he’d get all shy and blushy when you babied him. he wasn’t so used to this sorta thing, you know, relationships. everybody in camp looked at you like you were crazy, but they knew better than to tell that to you ( or him ), knowing they’d only get an earful from you about how sweet kieran really was.

you’d dress his wounds and in return, you’d find your horse prepped and groomed all pretty in the mornings — already fed and provided with water. and when you’d ask arthur or tilly, they’d always shrug and say, “must be that o’driscoll boy.”

you treated him with care, like no one had ever had, and that was the greatest gift in itself to kieran. he saw you as an angel, he’d even try telling you sometimes although backtracking a bit just to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable. kieran duffy’s affection was careful and nervous, stiff gestures presented to you although all of his worries melted away once he heard your sweet laugh. he didn’t know much about this stuff but that was okay, he’d learn just for you.

𐙚 taglist ; @ch3rryfiles @maskedteaser

𐙚 requests are closed — june twenty eighth, 2024

[gingersnapbrat]

"use your words darlin, tell me how you want it"

[ialreadymadeyouapromise]

𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄.

PAIRING: arthur morgan x fem!reader WARNINGS: shameless flirting, no use of y/n GENRE: fluff SONG INSPIRATION: into you - ariana grande WORD COUNT: 1.8k

navigation | inbox | arthur morgan masterlist

life in the van der linde gang had a way of skewing your sense of normal. when scheming, looting, and solving arguments with fists or bullets were part of daily life, "morality" became more of a suggestion than a rule.

you weren’t exactly a beacon of righteousness yourself, but you liked to think you were the sanest one in the camp.

not that anyone appreciated it. when you pointed out the ridiculousness of dutch’s insane plans or when you tried to keep fights from erupting during yet another round of whiskey-fueled shouting, you’d get nothing but side eyes or snark for your trouble.

it was a thankless role, but there was one shining consolation was arthur morgan.

at first, you hadn’t thought much of him beyond his reputation. a quiet, rough edged outlaw who could silence a room just by walking into it. but the more time you spent around him, the more you started noticing things. 

the way his voice softened when he spoke to jack. the way he’d carry supplies for the women without them asking. the way he’d sit by the fire after everyone had gone to bed, looking like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders but refusing to let it break him.

oh, and the way he looked.

because damn, arthur morgan was walking, breathing eye candy. the kind of man you’d dreamt about long before you’d ever laid eyes on him. the scruff, the broad shoulders, those hands that made you imagine things no one in camp should ever hear about.

when he worked under the sun, his shirt clinging to every defined line of muscle, it took everything in you not to stand there gawking at him.

and sometimes you did, forgetting to mask the blatant admiration on your face. it wasn’t just his looks. though those certainly didn’t hurt, it was the way he carried himself. every movement, every glance, a natural, effortless charm that hit you square in the chest.

you tried to be subtle about it at first, stealing glances when he wasn’t looking, marvelling at the sharp lines of his jaw or the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. but eventually, all pretense of subtlety flew right out the window.

how could it not, when he looked like that and acted like that?

of course, you told yourself that no one had noticed. surely everyone was too caught up in their own drama to care about your embarrassingly obvious crush. but one day, when you caught yourself staring as arthur tightened the straps on his saddle, completely transfixed by the veins in his forearms, you felt his eyes flick toward you.

the heat shot up your neck as you whipped your head away, but it was too late.

arthur had noticed. and from the way his lips twitched into a knowing smirk, it wasn’t the first time.

one evening, arthur sat by the fire, cleaning his guns. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted with just the right amount of sun kissed grit to make you lose focus. it was practically an invitation – or so you told yourself.

you strolled over, plopping down beside him with a grin.

"y’know, arthur,” you began, your voice low and undeniably flirtatious, “it’s almost unfair how good you look doing anything.” you let your gaze linger on him, smirking when he stiffened slightly. “honestly, it’s damned distracting.”

arthur paused mid clean, raising an eyebrow as he glanced your way. “what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“oh, don’t play coy,” you shot back, letting your eyes wander, not even pretending to be subtle. your gaze lingered just long enough on his body to make him shift slightly. “i’m just saying, it’s downright criminal. the rest of us don’t even stand a chance.”

his jaw tensed, and for a moment, you thought you might’ve pushed too far. but then his ears turned pink, and he ducked his head back to his gun, muttering, “you’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“i like to think so,” you said brightly, leaning back on your hands. “i mean, someone’s gotta keep you on your toes.”

arthur huffed, a soft laugh slipping out despite himself. he set his gun down for a moment, leaning back slightly to look at you. “keep this up, and i’m gonna start thinkin’ you like me or somethin’.”

the words hung in the air, his tone teasing, but the way his eyes searched your face said there was more to it.

you didn’t bother denying it. instead, you met his gaze with a slow, deliberate smirk, shrugging one shoulder like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

arthur blinked, his confident facade faltering for just a second as his ears flushed a deeper red. he muttered something low under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to his gun, but not before you caught the way his lips curved into an almost bashful smile.

the members in camp started to notice it too.

one afternoon, you were helping pearson unload some supplies when karen sidled up to you with a sly grin.

“still gonna tell me you’re not sweet on him?” she whispered, jerking her chin toward arthur, who was saddling his horse across camp.

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” you replied, deliberately watching arthur as he worked. the way his hands handled the leather straps with practiced ease was — god, was it warm out here, or was it just you?

“uh huh,” karen snorted, a smirk tugging at her lips. “and you’re about as subtle as they come, huh?”

across camp, arthur looked up, catching your stare. you didn’t even bother pretending you weren’t watching. instead, you gave him a slow wave.

he squinted at you, shook his head, and muttered something under his breath before going back to his work.

the real kicker came when you joined arthur on a supply run. the two of you were riding side by side, the silence comfortable until you decided to break it.

“so,” you started, grinning, "how does it feel to be so damn hot?" you asked, your tone playful as you gave him a teasing look. "must be a real struggle."

arthur groaned, tipping his head back toward the sky. “for the love of – will you stop?”

“stop what?” you asked innocently.

“all the... whatever this is,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.

“flirting?” you offered. “admiring? honestly, i think i’m being pretty restrained.”

arthur gave you a flat look, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet, here you are, riding with me,” you shot back, leaning forward on your saddle with a grin.

arthur sighed, shaking his head. “yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep you outta trouble.”

it turned into a full time occupation. flirting with arthur morgan like it was your god given purpose. subtlety was a distant memory. why be coy when you could see that little twitch in arthur’s eye, that helpless smirk he tried to fight every time you laid it on thick?

one morning, you caught him sitting by the fire, patching a tear in his shirt. you strutted over, planting yourself in the seat next to his, “arthur, can i ask you a question?” you blinked up at him.

“go ahead…” he turns his full attention to you now. “do you have a map?” 

he goes to answer, about to start searching his pocket until you speak up, “cause i think i just got lost in your eyes.”

arthur froze, his jaw tightening. he glanced up at you, then down at the shirt, his face already turning red. “you ever get tired of talkin’ nonsense?”

“not when it’s about you,” you shot back. “you’re my favorite topic.”

he sighed, shaking his head. “you’re gonna give me a headache.”

“i’ll kiss it better,” you said without missing a beat, leaning into his space.

arthur gave you a look, half-exasperated, half-amused, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him. 

“you’re somethin’ else.”

“and you’re somethin’ fine,” you quipped, giving him a wink.

later that day, you spotted him chopping wood near the edge of camp. the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, muscles flexing with every swing of the axe. it was almost cinematic, the way the sunlight hit his sweat slick skin.

“arthur morgan!” you hollered, startling him mid swing. he set the axe down, turning to face you with a wary look.

“what now?” he grumbled, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“you’re gonna need to start carrying a warning sign,” you said, sauntering over with a grin. 

“danger to hearts within a hundred mile radius.”

arthur snorted, leaning on the axe handle. “you need help, y’know that?”

“oh, i’ve got a problem, alright,” you agreed, gesturing dramatically at him. “how is anyone supposed to focus when you’re walking around looking like that?”

he pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about needing a drink.

“you can’t run from this,” you teased, following him back toward camp. “your hotness is a public safety hazard, arthur. i’m just trying to raise awareness.”

the next morning, you found him saddling his horse. he’d just come back from a job, dust clinging to his shirt, his hat tipped low. you leaned against a nearby post, arms crossed as you watched him work.

“you look good dirty, morgan,” you drawled, smiling when he stiffened.

arthur turned, leveling you with a flat stare. “ain’t you got somethin’ better to do?”

“absolutely not,” you said, grinning. “admiring you is a full time job.”

he shook his head, muttering under his breath as he tightened the saddle.

“i’m serious,” you continued, stepping closer. “you’re like a fine work of art – rugged, mysterious, impossible to ignore. if i had a lick of talent, i’d paint you.”

arthur paused, one hand on the saddle, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “you’re unbelievable.”

“unbelievably smitten,” you corrected, giving him a cheeky grin. “so, what do you say, cowboy? you gonna let me take you out on a real date, or are you just gonna keep pretending you don’t enjoy all this attention?”

for a moment, arthur just stared at you, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. then he leaned on the saddle, tipping his hat back to look at you properly.

“you ain’t gonna quit, are you?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

“not a chance,” you replied, stepping even closer.

arthur sighed, a soft chuckle escaping him. “alright, fine. but if i say yes, you gotta promise to quit with all the hollerin’ about how ‘pretty’ i am in front of the whole damn camp.”

you grinned, holding out your hand. “deal.”

he took your hand, shaking it firmly. “you’re really are somethin’ else, darlin’.”

“and don’t you forget it,” you said, winking at him.

arthur laughed, shaking his head as he mounted his horse. “god help me.”

you watched him get onto his horse and ride off, already plotting your next move.

subtle or not, you were winning this man over one shameless compliment at a time.

reblogs and comments are appreciated ᯓ★

© ialreadymadeyouapromise 2024.

[i-love-you-charles-smith]

Kieran Duffy dating hcs!

Warnings: gn!reader… and possibly rlly ooc Kieran.. I don’t really write for him much.

A/n: WOOO !!! My first post on this blog. I rlly hope that I can be up to y’all’s standards ><

~ When he had first been kidnapped, this truly wasn’t what he had been expecting from the Van Der Linde gang. He didn’t really expect somebody so… so… perfect, to be in such a place. Not that he minded.

~ Kieran could hardly speak to you without embarrassing himself with how bad he stuttered, how hard he stumbled over his words. He’ll get there eventually…

~ When he finally spoke to you, he asked you if you could go fishing with him !! And who are you to say no to the cutest man in camp ?

“Hey !! Uhm… it’s (Name), right ? I- I was just wondering if you liked fishing ?” “You do ?? Well, I- uhm.. would you wanna go with me ?”

~ Kieran had such a stupid grin on his face when you had said yes, and walked you over to his horse, Branwen, mounting it before helping you onto the back of it.

~ The way your arms wrapped around him was enough to make the man melt, it felt as if he was a little boy then with how giddy he was.

~ Finally, you two reached the fishing spot, climbing off Branwen. Both you and him pulled out your fishing rods, baiting the hook and throwing it into the water.

~ He was unsure of himself whenever he tried to make conversation, when you talked first it was a relief. He’d hate embarrassing himself in front of the woman he loved !

~ This would soon become an everyday thing for you two, a routine that you both became quite used to over time.

~ Times where you two didn’t talk, it wasn’t awkward, instead, it was comfortable. Not having to make conversation to simply understand one another.

~Until one day, Kieran finally spat it out. He didn’t know how to say it, he doesn’t even know why he did. An impulse thing he supposed.

“You.. what ?” You asked, looking into his brown gaze, trying to make sure what you heard was right.

“I love ya, okay ? I- I do, I really do!” He said, eyes averting away from yours.

It was true. Sure, you had suspected it for a while, but you didn’t know it exactly. You had liked him back too, everyone in camp knew you two liked each other except you two.

“I love you too, Kieran Duffy.” You giggled, excitement bubbling to the surface.

~ From then on, you two were barely seen apart <3

All reblogs and likes are appreciated !! <3

[thebookbutterfly]

fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

[dustandthought]

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[hihomeghere]

[slaughter-kin]

oh my god…. MY SHAYLA

[ramen-flavored]

[marigold-field]

nothing, and i mean NOTHING, compares to joining a new fandom and reading through all the ____ x reader tags. it’s akin to opening gifts on christmas or recieving a package in the mail. actually, scratch that; it’s th equivalent of ascending to the heavens

[psychotic-star-girl]

[noctunis]

whispers left in your shape | 1.5k words .

arthur feels your stare prickle at the pores in his forehead.

you’re warm. your hands on his face, the delicacy of which your hands move is all too known to arthur, as the tender gesture bleeds into his skin and into the wrinkles of his brain, seeping until it’s all he can think of.

your thumbs press into the bridge of his nose, right beneath his forehead, palms cupping his face, scratched by the stubble. they’re warm, a bit calloused, still somehow soft despite your constant handling of a gun. its clutched when you’re on watch, held tightly beneath the pillow and the cot, he’s sure you’d even cuddle it to sleep if needed be. a jumpy thing you are, he thinks.

massaging his temples gently, the pads of your fingers trail upwards, rubbing soothing circles against his temples. his eyes flutter at the slight pressure, brows pinched — your lips press together fondly at the sight.

your caress is gentle, slow; and from the instant relief he feels, arthur can tell it’s working with the way your fingertips smooth along his skin. 

“y’know,” he starts, a tired sigh slipping through his lips. “this ain’t necessary,” he tries to reason, looking up at you through thick, dark lashes.

you hum, fingers not pausing in their ministrations. “don’t think i haven’t seen you walking around with that scrunched up face of yours,” a finger taps at his cheek. “i’m sure all that work wears you down. this’ll do you some good,” you mutter under your breath.

arthur huffs, with a low grumble of, “whatever you say.”

a low hum buzzes in his throat, his head shifting in your lap — sunkissed with the way golden beams bleed into his tent through the sliver between the thin flaps, his scars and creases bared for all to see in the light.

horses slowing at the edge of camp, hooves soft against the dirt with a campfire welcoming ahead, threading through the golden hush that surrounded camp — the two of you worn down from a stagecoach robbery you’d had went on with bill. the inside of arthur’s skull was tormented by a persistent ache when you two had gotten home, you blinking with fatigue alongside him — though you still insisted on doing this. it took about a hundred times of you offering for him to finally accept, though.

lying him down on your lap, a hooded, green eye peeking open every once in a while; the back of his head finding respite on your thigh, hair mussed against your chaps. comfy, nonetheless.

“you’re, uh,” he clears his throat. you feel him swallow, feel the way the muscles in his face twitch beneath your hand. “you’re not half-bad at this, though.”

your laughter breaks the delicate quiet, save for the distant chatter of other people around camp. he follows with a huff at your amusement. “that’s nice to hear,” you say.

“y’sure you ain’t done this before?” he asks, softer, like it’s finally starting to kick in.

a pause in your fingers and a hum in thought, before you shrug although you know he can’t see it. “maybe for karen once or twice — nothing like this, i suppose.”

he wonders why you said that last bit. he ignores the heavy feeling that sits inside his chest and mumbles something incoherent in acknowledgement.

your thumbs press a little harder on the arch of his eyebrows, enough pressure to coax a small grunt from out his throat, a tiny spark of pain blooming between his sinuses. you suck in air through your teeth and murmur an apology, to which he cracks a smile at.

“spoke too soon,” he mutters.

“oh, hush,” you say, giving his cheek a pinch. arthur swats at it lazily, peeking an eye open to look up at you. he’s met with a crooked grin peering down at him; soft, mirthful. the sweetest sigh.

hooded eyes train on the way you scan his face, fingers still rubbing soothing circles on his skin. a soft groan slips from out his parted lips when you push against a certain spot — like a hand on a bruise.

somehow, even on the brink of exhaustion, your fingers still move in a rhythm that he can’t help but be captivated by.

such softness, arthur thinks. such goodness trapped within your palms, tenderness. you’re too sweet for your own good — he’s sure he’d find you in camp one day, stained fingers and dirt smeared across your cheek with an orange, and he’s sure you’d save him one as well; all melted and squishy and full of twenty degree promise. he notices you let yourself indulge in any form of sweetness, no matter how minuscule.

arthur’s sure you would invite him to sit alongside you. he’s not sure he’d be able to turn you away.

a tired sigh makes his way from past his lips, your brows furrow at the quiet sound — hands still massaging around his face. heat blossoms against the apples of his cheeks when he opens his eyes again, and if you notice, he’s at least thankful you don’t point it out.

you do, however, glance down at him and flash him a small smile. his eyes dart everywhere but your face for a bit, until you give a little, “hi, arthur.”

he nods a bit, a small noise. this feeling’s unfamiliar and he swears it’ll gnaw at him forever if he lets it. if he lets you. for arthur, only damnation is known through the balls of your fists — not comfort.

you only chuckle, cupping his cheeks and continuing to apply pressure on his forehead and nose, unbothered by all the grime that’s layered over it.

he can feel his heart pump a little louder. he clears his throat, taps your leg a bit before sitting himself up. your hands halt and move away. the warmth is quickly replaced by the cold breeze he feels accompanies him, his longing hidden in permafrost.

“i’d better get going,” he hoists himself off your cot, groaning at the ache in his bones but he does notice the pressure in his head’s what relieved. “probably have stuff to do before the day’s over.”

his hands rest on his belt awkwardly, watching the way your face morphs into a confused shock. your lips silently part before you stammer out, “oh— oh, that’s fine! jus’ let me know if you ever wanna come back in here then,” you nod quickly.

arthur nods in response, tipping down the brim of his hat as he leaves, covering his face even further as he’s faced with the bright light of the day and the ambience of camp suddenly growing louder.

much to his dismay, sadie eyes him walking out of your tent, cheeks a bit flushed and all. she grins, leaning against a tree. “too much for you to handle, morgan?”

he waves her off with a grumble and continues making his way over to the campfire, boots against fresh grass, soft crunches beneath his feet. she chuckles to herself, shaking her head and walking away.

and the day goes on, arthur occupying himself with either giving john shit or helping out charles — he’ll glance around camp, maybe to see where you are. maybe not. he’s not sure he’d even know himself.

the sun sets eventually, the noise in camp slowly dwindling until the moon has pulled itself into the night sky above you and only the chirps of crickets and various other bugs fill the silence.

he wishes a good night to uncle and sean who still sit dormant around the campfire, occasionally telling stories just to rid themselves of the odd quiet. stuffing his hands in his pocket, he begins walking over to his tent, taking one last glance at the closed flaps of your own before settling down onto his cot, a dull ache ringing in his bones once his body’s finally gotten a break.

maybe you’re right, he thinks; about working too hard and all that. not that it matters much anyway, he tells himself and yet he still seems to think about it.

in the meantime, arthur feels he has to make room — push his daydreams aside and let practicality eat the sides of him people don’t look past; and somehow, he still reaches for his satchel and unclasps the journal where ivory pages splay open and he is met with a blank page.

his hand grips onto the pencil, wondering what he could write. he taps it against his paper, and then looks over at the tent (your tent, he might add) ahead of him watching as you come out with your gun and settle in for the night, watching over the camp as you stay on the outskirts. something you told him you did often when you couldn’t sleep.

arthur shakes his head. goodness won’t just happen to him. he knows. he still can’t help but want to try.

looking back down on the page before it feels like the graphite is etched into the paper already, his hand is just helping it.

“a strange woman, she is,” is all he can manage to write down.

taglist ; no one yet! starting clean slate with rdr2

requests are open — june twenty-first, 2025

[stray-cat-with-internet-access]

[ialreadymadeyouapromise]

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

NOT SO SUBTLE

[abstractpyschopomp]

[gingersnapbrat]

Daddy Morgan

The big burly scary man, who’s a big sloppy mess in the bedroom.