ᴍᴜʟᴛɪғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ | ᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴡ ғɪᴄs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇs

Ink and Ashes (Arthur Morgan x male! reader)

Summary: What does this letter say?

Warning: ARTHUR MORGAN. NEED I SAY MORE?, Arthur being supportive, male reader, someone has a crush on you, Arthur teach you to read and write, wholesome.

based on this request, tq!

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You sat at the edge of the camp, fiddling with the crumpled envelope in your hands like it might catch fire and save you the trouble.

The letter had come that morning — slipped to you by a passing stablehand with a crooked grin. No return name. Just your name scrawled across the front in clumsy, hopeful ink.

You knew it was from someone in town. Hell, you'd seen the way the girl at the general store smiled at you lately. Or maybe the fella who kept tipping his hat every time you passed.

But the words inside?
Might as well've been Greek.

You turned the page over again, eyes skimming the loops and swirls of handwriting that made your stomach twist. You caught the shape of your name a few times. A little heart drawn in the corner.

That part you understood.

But the rest?

Just ghosts.

You weren't stupid. You were damn good with a rifle, better with your fists, and you could spot a lie from fifty paces.

But reading? Writing?

Nobody had taught you. And by the time you were old enough to care, it always felt too late.

You sighed, stuffed the letter in your coat, and stood up—only to freeze when you saw Arthur leaning against a tree not ten paces away, arms crossed, watching you.

"Nice letter," he said casually.

You stiffened. "Wasn't readin' it."

"No," he said, stepping closer, "I figured that."

You frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Arthur shrugged. "Means I've seen that look before. Same one I had when I was fifteen and couldn't tell a bounty poster from a damn recipe."

You didn't answer. Just turned away, jaw tight.

Arthur's voice softened. "Ain't no shame in not knowin' something, y'know."

You bit down hard on your pride.

"...It's not that I don't want to learn," you muttered. "It's just... hell, it's embarrassing'. I'm too old to be asking someone to read me a damn love letter."

Arthur chuckled, but it wasn't cruel.

"You think I came out of the womb readin' Shakespeare? Hosea taught me. Took a long time too. Kept mixin' up 'wanted' and 'waited'—led to a real bad misunderstanding once."

That earned a small snort from you.

He tilted his head. "Let me help."

You hesitated. "Are you serious?"

"I don't offer twice."

You sighed, rubbed the back of your neck. "Alright."

That evening, after camp quieted down and the others were off tending to chores or drinking themselves stupid, you sat beside Arthur by the fire.

He took the letter from your coat pocket carefully, like it was something fragile, and unfolded it.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat, then gave you a sideways smirk. "You sure you wanna hear this?"

You nodded. "Let's get it over with."

He read slowly.

"I hope this doesn't come across too bold, but I think you're braver than most men I know. Not just because you ride or shoot—but because you always look people in the eye, like you mean what you say. I hope one day you'll write back, or visit again. I'd like to know more about the man behind that quiet smile."

Arthur looked up. "Well, hell. Sounds like someone's sweet on you."

You blinked. "That... that really what it says?"

He nodded, handing it back. "Word for word. Even the little heart at the bottom."

You stared at the page, seeing it differently now. Less like a wall. More like a door.

Arthur pulled a small notebook from his satchel and put it in your lap. "Let's start with your name. We'll go from there."

You looked at him. "Why are you doing this?"

Arthur shrugged. "'Cause someone once did it for me. And 'cause you deserve to read your own damn love letters."

The two of you sat there long into the night—him guiding your hand over the paper, correcting your grip, sounding out letters.

It wasn't easy. You swear a lot. Arthur smacked the back of your head twice.

But by the end of it, you'd written your name.

It wasn't perfect. But it was yours.

And when you looked at that little letter again, the loops and swirls didn't feel so far away.

Arthur glanced over, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Dumbass," he said affectionately. "But you're getting there."

You grinned.

"Damn right I am."