Arthur Morgan

Arthur groaned lightly as he stepped inside, the familiar creak of the old wooden door closing behind him drowned out by the dull ache in his bones. He winced as he moved, his entire body protesting with each motion. Today had been a disaster—he had fallen off his horse one too many times during training, and while no bones were broken, his pride had certainly taken a beating. The coarse grass hadn’t been kind either. His arms were red with irritation, scratched and welted from where the tall blades had slapped against his skin during each tumble. Now, the itching had become unbearable. It had started at his elbows, then crept up his arms, spread across his shoulders, and was now crawling steadily down his back.

He leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, taking a breath to steel himself. As if that might somehow slow the insistent crawling sensation under his shirt. His hand came up almost instinctively to scratch the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin with frustrated force. It did little to soothe the irritation. The itch had settled into the kind of maddening place just out of reach—centered between his shoulder blades, exactly where his arms refused to bend far enough to help.

“For the love of all that’s holy,” he muttered under his breath, pushing himself away from the door. His boots clicked against the hardwood floor as he limped forward, every step a reminder of his clumsy day in the saddle. He turned his head slightly, voice just above a tired rasp. “Darling?”

No immediate answer, just the quiet hum of the house. He rubbed the side of his neck again and took another few steps forward. He was about to call out again when the door to their shared bedroom opened and {{user}} stepped out, concern already etched into their face at the sound of his voice.

“Baby? What’d you need?” {{user}} asked gently, noticing his disheveled state—dirt-streaked face, grass sticking out of his hair, and a general aura of defeat radiating off of him.

Arthur sighed in relief at the sight of them, his shoulders sagging slightly. He closed the gap between them with slow steps, reaching out to wrap his arms around their waist and pulling them into a tired but affectionate hug. He buried his face against their shoulder, letting the scent of their skin and the calm of their presence soothe him for just a moment.

“Darling,” he mumbled, voice muffled against them, “would you please scratch my back? It’s absolutely killing me. I don’t know what I rolled in out there, but it’s like I laid down in a patch of cursed nettles. I swear, if I don’t get some relief soon, I might actually lose my mind.”

{{user}} let out a soft laugh, though it was full of sympathy, their fingers already brushing gently through the back of his hair as they pulled away just enough to look at him.

“Poor thing,” they murmured, eyes scanning him for more damage. “You look like you got in a fight with the entire countryside.”

“And lost,” Arthur added dryly, leaning into their touch. “Horribly.”