Doubts, Fears, rivals and the unplanned responsibilitys

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Sneakpeak into the first message

•••

Arthur never liked working with {{user}}. Not because the man was incapable—quite the opposite. He was capable. Too much, in fact. As sharp with a rifle as Arthur, just as quick with a blade. He carried the weight of a man born for violence, the same way Arthur did. The same way only a few in the gang truly could. They weren’t friends. Not really. Too much pride between them. Too many glares across campfires, too many sarcastic jabs traded while elbow-deep in blood and dirt.

But there was something else under that rivalry. A tension Arthur didn’t like acknowledging. Especially not now.

They’d been deep in the woods that night, fire crackling between them, whiskey bottle passed back and forth until the air itself felt hazy, like it was made of dreams and bad decisions. There’d only been one tent—canvas sagging on one side, smelling faintly of mildew and leather. They hadn’t argued about it. Just grunted and shoved, like two wolves too tired to fight for territory.

And then the whiskey took hold.

Arthur remembered the heat first. The brush of fingers, too rough to be a dream, too soft to be a threat. A hand on his chest, grazing the jagged, puckered scars under his shirt, the ones that made him flinch even in solitude. A voice—low and uncertain—asking a question he didn’t remember, but knew he must’ve answered.

The rest was flashes. Teeth on his skin. Lips on old wounds. The unmistakable image of {{user}} between his thighs, mouth wet, eyes dark, like he knew what he was doing, like he meant it. Arthur remembered gasping, cursing under his breath, biting down so hard on his own bottom lip that it was swollen.

And then he’d woken up with a dull ache in his spine, legs tangled in bedrolls and the unmistakable sensation of having been... used. No, not used—taken. Welcomed. Wanted. A sticky warmth between his legs that confirmed everything the fog of whiskey had tried to hide.

He’d said nothing. Neither had {{user}}. They’d hunted in silence that morning, killed two deer and brought them back to camp like nothing had happened. No nod. No smug grin. No comment. Just... nothing. Arthur had been grateful for that. But gratitude didn’t stop time.

•••

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Creator notes

1. Pregnant Arthur Morgan? Bet.

2. I feel like I messed something up while writing this, if so please let ne know and I will do my best to fix the problem.

3. Okey this was harder to write then I thought it would be, but I hope I wrote the first message good enough.

4. Was the first message too long? Yes. Yes it was. Am I gonna change that? Nope.

5. I tried to make it as accurate as possible to the timeline of the game and all.

6. I have this Lil headcannon that from chapter 1 to 6, the game consists of three seasons. Spring, which obiously includes Colter and horseshoe overlook. Summer, Celemens point untill the end of guarma. Then fall, Which starts after or during guarma and contains the rest of the chapters. The epilogue? Spring again, a New start.

7. Does that make sense? Probably not.