arthxrcentral

Arthur Morgan, who starts spotting you everywhere you go around camp.

Once he noticed you, it was as if a veil had been lifted. Suddenly, you were the center of his periphery. 

Whether he was cleaning his rifle by the fire or chatting with Hosea, his eyes would instinctively drift toward you. He’d watch you helping Pearson with the stew, the way you laughed at something Mary-Beth said, or the way you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear while reading a book by the lantern light.

He began to find excuses to be near you. He’d linger by the horse picket longer than necessary, or he’d “happen” to be walking toward the coffee pot just as you were arriving. 

Arthur loved the quietness of your presence: you didn't demand anything from him, and you didn't judge the blood on his knuckles or the weariness in his eyes. 

You just smiled at him – a small, shy thing that made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He started noticing the little things: the scent of wild herbs that clung to your skin, the way your voice hitched when you were nervous, and the way you looked at him with a curiosity that felt like a warm blanket. 

Truth be told, he was terrified of these feelings, but he was even more terrified of the thought of you disappearing from his sight.

Arthur Morgan, who begins bringing you wildflowers from the fields during his rides.

Arthur isn't a man for poetry or fancy gestures, but he found himself captivated by the colors of the wilderness. 

On his scouting trips, while the world was quiet and the wind was whistling through the pines, he’d spot a patch of bright yellow primrose or a cluster of deep blue cornflowers. He’d stop his horse, look at the blooms, and immediately think of you.

He’d awkwardly pluck a handful, stuffing them into his satchel, feeling like a fool for doing so. 

“What am I doing..?” He’d mutter to himself, shaking his head. 

But the moment he rode back into camp and saw you, the embarrassment vanished, replaced by a desperate need to see you smile.

He wouldn't make a grand production of it. He’d walk up to you while you were working, clear his throat loudly, and thrust the slightly wilted bunch of flowers toward you without looking you in the eye. 

“Saw these. Thought... thought you might like 'em.” He’d grumble, his cheeks flushing a deep red. 

“Why thank you, Arthur. They’re… well, they’re gorgeous.” You’d reply, face heating up as you grinned up at him.

But when you took them, your fingers brushing his rough skin, and thanked him with that beaming smile, Arthur felt a rush of warmth that no amount of whiskey could ever provide.

Arthur Morgan, who lets his guard down during a drunken slow dance at a camp celebration.

The camp was in high spirits, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and the sound of a fiddle playing a lively tune. 

Arthur had been drinking – more than usual – and the whiskey had softened the edges of his anxiety. When the music shifted to something slower, more melodic, he found himself standing near you. 

The courage of the bottle pushed him forward.

He reached out a large, calloused hand, his voice low and slightly slurred. 

“Dance with me... please?” 

You didn't hesitate, sliding your hand into his. 

Arthur was a mountain of a man, and he felt clumsy as he pulled you close, his boots stepping slightly out of time. He wasn't a dancer – he was a fighter and a killer. But as he felt your body press against his, the world around them blurred.

He loosened up, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction as he rested his chin on the top of your head. 

Closing his eyes, he let himself breathe in the scent of your hair, swaying slowly to the music. For a few minutes, he wasn't an outlaw on the run; he was just a man holding the woman he loved. 

“Yer real pretty…” He whispered incoherently yet sweetly into your ear, a confession born of alcohol and longing, and for the first time in years, Arthur felt truly at peace.

Arthur Morgan, who finally kisses you after you help him back to his cot.

The party had wound down, and the whiskey had finally caught up with him. Arthur was stumbling, his head spinning, and you were the one who caught him, looping his heavy arm over your shoulder to guide him back to his small, secluded corner of the camp. 

He was leaning heavily on you, his breath warm and smelling of rye, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin tingle.

As you helped him lower himself onto the cot, you lingered for a moment, your hand resting on his chest to steady him. You started to pull away, but Arthur’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a surprising firmness. 

He pulled you down, and before you could gasp, his lips were on yours.

It wasn't a polished kiss; it was desperate, hungry, and filled with all the words he had been too scared to say. He tasted of alcohol and longing, his beard scratching your skin, but the heat of it was intoxicating. 

While he groaned into your mouth, his hand moved from your wrist to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were clouded with emotion, his forehead resting against yours. 

“I've wanted to do that... for so damn long.” He whispered, his voice cracking.

Meanwhile, you had hidden your face in the crook of his neck, too speechless to reply.

Boyfriend!Arthur, who is a mess of shyness and awkwardness the morning after.

The sunlight filtering through the canvas of the tent felt far too bright the next morning. 

When you woke up and looked over at Arthur, he was already awake, staring at the ceiling with a look of sheer panic on his face. The bravado of the whiskey was gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable uncertainty.

Whenever you tried to speak, he shifted away slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Mornin’...” He muttered, his voice gravelly. 

He couldn't quite look you in the eye, his ears turning a bright shade of crimson. He was terrified that he had overstepped, that you would regret the kiss, or that he was simply too ruined of a man to be what you deserved.

But as the day progressed, the awkwardness turned into a tender, tentative courtship. He started holding your hand in secret, his large thumb stroking your knuckles while you walked. He’d leave little notes or pieces of candy on your bedroll. 

He was still the rugged outlaw, but with you, he was a boy in love, constantly checking to make sure you were happy, his eyes following you with a devotion that was almost painful to witness.

Boyfriend!Arthur, who treats your first time together with a reverence that borders on sacred.

The transition from kissing to something more happened on a quiet, moonlit night, far from the prying eyes of the camp. He had led you to a secluded spot by a stream, the grass soft beneath you. 

Arthur was trembling – not from cold, but from a sheer, overwhelming nervousness. He had spent his life taking things by force or fighting for survival; the idea of being gentle, of truly cherishing someone, was terrifying.

As he stripped away your clothes, his hands were shaking. He kept pausing, looking into your eyes for permission, his voice a low, unsteady rumble. 

“You sure? I– I don't want to hurt you. I'm not– I ain’t a gentle man, darlin’.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure in my life, Arthur.” 

You’d assured him that you wanted him, and the look of relief and desire that crossed his face was heartbreakingly sweet.

When he finally entered you, he did so with agonizing slowness. He stopped the moment he felt any resistance, his muscles locking up, his breath hitching in his throat. 

He stayed still, his forehead pressed against yours, waiting for you to adjust, whispering praises into your skin. 

“Yer so tight… fuck, sweetheart.” He hissed, his voice thick with emotion.

He didn't rush. He focused entirely on your pleasure, his movements patient and rhythmic. Every time you gasped or arched your back, he would slow down, kissing every inch of your face, ensuring you were with him every step of the way. 

“M– Mmh! Arthur… feels s’good..!” You’d mewled into his ear, and he responded by capturing your lips in a kiss.

Arthur was so focused on your comfort that he almost forgot his own needs, his heart hammering against your chest. 

And when he finally came inside with a groan against your ear, he'd let go. He collapsed against you, sobbing quietly into your neck, finally feeling like he belonged to someone.

Boyfriend!Arthur, who becomes incredibly protective and affectionate in the aftermath.

After that night, Arthur changed. The softness he had shown you became a permanent part of his demeanor when you were alone. He became your shadow, always ensuring you were fed, warm, and safe. 

If another man looked at you for a second too long, Arthur didn't need to say a word; one dark, warning glare from beneath the brim of his hat was enough to send them scurrying.

But with you, he was a different man. 

He loved to wake you up with soft kisses on your shoulder, his large body curling around yours like a protective shield. He started talking to you about his past: the things he regretted, the dreams he had given up on. 

He trusted you with the parts of himself he had hidden from Dutch and the gang; the parts that were fragile and frightened.

He’d spend hours just watching you, his hand resting on the small of your back, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration on his face. 

He still brought you flowers, but now he’d tuck them into your hair, his fingers lingering against your skin. 

He had found something in you that he thought was lost to the world: a reason to believe that he was more than just a gun for hire. 

a/n: i forgot i owned this anyways who missed me

He saw you first.

And just like always, his face softened the second his eyes landed on you, just enough to make your heart feel like it tripped over itself.

“Mornin’,” he drawled, voice warm as the breeze.

You tried - you really tried - not to stare at the whole display of strength and surety in front of you. But your eyes lingered, caught somewhere between admiration and that fluttery feeling you refused to name.

“Morning.” You echoed, a little breathless. “Successful hunt?”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “Reckon so. Figured Pearson might actually stop complainin’ for an hour.”

You laughed, and he looked just a little too proud of himself for making you do it.

Pearson came bustling over like a man possessed, praising the meat and already planning dinner. Arthur let him yap, then turned back to you, thumb hooking absently into his gun belt.

“Didn’t expect you awake this early.” He admitted, eyes lingering on you like he was committing the sight to memory.

You brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Nice mornings like this? Hard to sleep through ’em. Besides,” you added, heat rising beneath your skin even before the words fully formed, “good company helps.”

It slipped out so soft you almost hoped he didn’t catch it.

But he did - and the look he gave you in return was slow, warm, and dangerous in the sweetest kind of way. A smile tugged at his lips, quiet and pleased, like he wasn’t sure whether to tease you or hold the moment close.

“That so?” He teased, voice turned low and rich.

Pearson yelled something unintelligible at him, breaking the spell. Arthur cleared his throat and adjusted the deer on his shoulder.

For just a second - one warm, golden-lit second - his tough, steady composure faltered. His ears went a little pink. Then that ghost of a grin returned, curling at his mouth like he couldn’t fight it if he tried.

“Well,” he said, tipping his hat, “good to know.”

He walked off toward Pearson, but not without looking back once more, like he couldn’t help himself.

Arthur emerged from the trees carrying the deer like it weighed no more than a coat slung over his shoulder, sun catching on his arms, sweat glinting off the warm bronze of his skin. Camp chatter softened as he passed - even the horses lifted their heads like they knew a man worth noticing when they saw one.

He crossed the clearing at that steady, grounded pace of his, boots sinking into dirt, muscles working in smooth, practiced motion. If strength had a sound, it’d be the quiet confidence in his steps. You pretended not to stare, yet every line of him pulled at your eyes like gravity.

He dropped the deer beside Pearson’s wagon with a heavy, final thud.

Pearson spun, wide-eyed. “Arthur, that there is—”

Arthur didn’t stay long enough to hear the praise. He’d already turned - not toward his tent, not toward camp work, but toward you.

His gaze found you easily, like it always did. Like maybe it was looking for you before he even got back.

“Hold up a second.” He grumbled, cutting Pearson off mid-breath.

Pearson blinked, baffled. “Arthur? Don’t you wanna—?”

But Arthur was already stepping away. You watched as he wiped his palms on his trousers, cleared his throat like he was preparing for a duel, and walked straight toward you.

You blinked. “For me?”

He nodded, then immediately seemed to regret nodding, because now he looked awkward as hell. “Just—wait here.”

Before you could say a word, he turned sharply, pacing toward his horse like a man on a mission and yet somehow embarrassed to be seen doing it. You watched him rummage in his saddlebag, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact. Then he hesitated… winced… and pulled something out.

It was a little wildflower bouquet.

…Well. Mostly a bouquet.

A few petals were bent, some stems twisted from the ride back: a handful of summer blooms in shades of pale yellow and soft white, tied together with a bit of twine. Clearly gathered by hand. Clearly meant for you.

He stared at it with a tiny grimace, thumb brushing over a crushed petal like he could magically fix it by sheer willpower alone.

Then he sighed under his breath, squared his shoulders, and headed back - bouquet held behind him like it might explode. When he stopped in front of you, he cleared his throat again. Twice.

“So, uh… this’s for you.” He muttered, finally holding the flowers out.

You looked at them - imperfect, sweet, heartbreakingly earnest - then at him. His eyes flicked to yours and away instantly, a pink flush climbing his cheeks.

“They were nicer before.” He mumbled, visibly annoyed at the betrayal of nature. “Got a bit squashed comin’ down the ridge.”

You accepted them gently, careful like they were a gift worth more than they looked - because to you, they were.

“They’re beautiful.” You said softly.

He lifted his head at that, searching your face like he needed to make sure you meant it. When he saw the truth there, his whole expression softened - relief, warmth, something tender he didn’t know how to hide quick enough.

“Yeah?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he just nodded once - slow, almost shy - and tugged the brim of his hat down.

“Figured you might like ’em.” He murmured.

A beat passed. Summer air between you, bright and gentle. Your fingers brushed his as you tucked one flower behind your ear, and he froze - breath catching just a little.

Behind him, Pearson’s voice cracked across camp like a frustrated rooster: “Arthur Morgan, that deer ain't gonna skin itself!”

Later, camp settled into that soft evening hum - the clink of plates being washed, the crackle of the fire, somebody humming a tune just off-key enough to make it human. Lantern light flickered across wagons, and fireflies drifted like tiny sparks caught in the warm twilight.

Arthur sat at the edge of camp with his journal open but absolutely not writing a damn thing. He kept pretending to scratch the page, but he wasn’t fooling anybody with eyes.

Especially not Dutch.

“So.” Dutch drawled from across the fire, swirling his drink like he was born dramatic, “I heard you rode back with quite the… spring in your step today.”

Arthur’s jaw ticked. “Don’t start.”

“Seems to me,” Dutch continued, voice like a smug cat stretching in the sun, “our dear Arthur’s been feelin’ inspired by nature. Flowers and all.” He smirked. “Romantic sort.”

Arthur’s ears went pink instantly. “Ain’t nothin’ like that. Just saw ‘em, figured… somethin’ nice. Nothin’ more to it.”

Dutch lifted a brow like he didn’t believe a single word. And truthfully? Neither did Arthur.

He tried to go back to staring at his blank journal page. Tried to breathe normally. Tried not to think about how close he’d come to makin’ a fool of himself handing those flowers over.

But then he looked up.

And froze.

You were walking toward the fire, lantern light catching your hair - and there they were. His flowers.

Braided into your hair, woven through like they belonged there all along. Little, soft, wild blooms threaded between strands, glowing in firelight, making you look like summer itself had chosen you.

Arthur forgot how breathing worked.

His fingers curled slowly into the paper of his journal. His shoulders stiffened. His heart - traitor that it was - kicked hard enough that he felt it in his throat.

Dutch followed his line of sight, then grinned like the devil himself. “Ahh.” He realised, low and pleased. “And there she is.”

Arthur swallowed. Hard.

You met his eyes briefly, shy little smile tugging at your lips when you caught him staring, and he had to look down at his boots before he did something stupid, like stand up and pull you into his arms in front of half the camp.

Dutch leaned closer, voice just loud enough for Arthur to hear. “Son, if you’re tryin’ to hide it, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Arthur grunted, voice strained. “Ain’t hidin’ nothin’. Ain’t anything to hide.”

Dutch’s laugh was knowing, quiet but wicked. “Mhm. And I suppose the sky ain’t blue either.”

Arthur tried to ignore him. Tried. But when you settled by the fire, flowers glowing in your hair, soft smile just for him, he felt something in his chest tighten, soften, and break open all at once.

He ducked his head, tipping his hat low to hide the way his mouth betrayed him with a tiny, helpless smile.

Dutch saw it anyway and clicked his tongue. “Lord help him.” He teased cheerfully. “The man is gone.”

Arthur didn’t look up. He didn’t trust himself to.

All he managed was a quiet, rough, “Shut it.” and even that sounded more like a prayer than a threat.

And across the fire, with your flowers in your hair and moonlight catching your eyes, you looked at him like maybe, just maybe, you were gone too.

a/n: arthur is such a cutie.. he just like me fr.. this is also my first post on this account what do we think chat