#Arthur morgan x gn reader

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 1: SOMEWHERE (FAR, FAR) EAST OF THE MOJAVE

synopsis: you wake up in some cabin, half-frozen to death. a man named arthur finds you and decides to have mercy on you, as do his associates.

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: if anyone wants me to start a taglist just lmk <3!! also there's a PROLOGUE before this, please read it before reading this :)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s cold. Above everything else, it’s fucking cold. 

You screw your eyes shut tighter, curling in on yourself. You’re vaguely aware that you’re on your side and in a fetal position. 

There’s a light, faintly, somewhere behind you. You let out a hiss that tapers off into a groan and draw your arms over your head.

“Hey!” A voice shouts. It’s growly and abrasive-sounding. There’s the sound of a revolver’s hammer cocking. “Turn around. Face me.”

You prop your forearm on the floor and push yourself up with more effort than you think would be needed. You pant softly, and your breath mists in front of your mouth. You manage to hold yourself up with both hands on the floor and turn your head to look at the man. 

He’s tall in a way that makes him look down his nose at you. His silhouette is stark against the door – there’s snow outside. You don’t remember it to be… snowing. It’s May in southern California. It doesn’t snow in May in southern California.

The man looks you over, his revolver still pointed at you. His hand is unwavering.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You don’t know why. “Is this your house?”

“No,” the man says simply. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I’m…” You look down at your hands, the way they’re braced against the floor. “I don’t know. I think…” 

Your arms shake, then collapse. Your jaw hits the floor with a dull thud, and your eyes screw shut on instinct.

“Shit,” the man drawls under his breath. 

“W-wait! Wait,” you say quickly. “I’m not on anything. I – I’m stone-cold sober. Like Steve Austin.”

You force a laugh and manage to open your eyes to look at the man. He looks confused – maybe a little disgusted? It’s hard to tell.

“Like, the wrestler?” You say. “Stone Cold Steve Austin?”

The man lowers his revolver, just a little, so that it’s not pointed at your head, but still in your general direction. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, in any capacity. Maybe he won’t shoot you if he thinks you’re insane? (Or maybe that would just give him more of an incentive to kill you.)

“Just – just ignore me,” you say. (Again, you don’t know why. You don’t want to be ignored – you’re very obviously in bad shape.) “I don’t know where I am. I remember being in California, just north of Los Angeles.”

The man scoffs and checks over his shoulder, like he’s checking he’s not being duped. He looks back at you. “California? Really?”

“Yes,” you say softly. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself the best you can with the way that you’re laying. “South. Right near Mexico – Tijuana.”

The man tilts his head and takes a half-step closer. “You’re bleedin’.”

“I am?” You manage to move your arm and see dried brown blood on your jacket laced with redder, fresher blood. “I am.”

“I just…” You shift, curling in on yourself further. Now that he’s pointed it out, you do feel some type of dull pain in your abdomen. “I’ll be okay. Don’t call for a doctor, or an ambulance. Please don’t call an ambulance. I – I’ll get to a hospital on my own.”

The man shifts on his feet. Was it always this cold? It’s… it’s so fucking cold. And no matter how much you curl in on yourself, there’s no warmth. 

The black returns. 

There’s snippets of conversations you can pick up on over the sound of feet shuffling and the sound of wind blowing outside. One woman gives a few demands to others, while another woman announces that “Davey’s dead.”

You can feel yourself being lifted and laid on something that’s hard against your back. You groan and try to open your eyes and sit up, but can’t. 

The voices grow quieter. There’s a man making some sort of speech – you can’t make out the words. 

You know you’re wavering in and out. There’s the warmth of a man’s hand on your shoulder, and a murmuring voice, still fading in and out: “I commend you… your Creator… who formed you from the dust… angels, and all the saints…”

It takes all your strength to lift your hand and grab him – some part of him. You can barely open your eyes and can’t make out a lot. “Not… dead yet. Fucking pr…preacher.”

Black again. There’s a repetitive, stinging pain in your side. 

Awake, again. Somehow. A woman, her face worn but still beautiful, hovers over you. Her wrinkles are stark in the lantern light. 

“Hello?” You say, your voice a bit slurred.

The woman turns and calls another woman over – this one much younger than her. “Miss Jackson, get Dutch. Let him know Arthur’s friend is awake.”

Miss Jackson turns and walks off with a “Yes, Miss Grimshaw.” 

“Arthur?” You interject. “Is that the man who found me?”

Miss Grimshaw turns back to you. “Yes, Arthur’s the one who found you. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot you.”

You wait for her to say something more. She doesn’t.

“Where am I?” You try. “I remember being in California, just outside of the Mojave. But the Mojave doesn’t get snow in May.”

“That’s because you’re not in the Mojave,” Miss Grimshaw says. “We’re in the Grizzlies.”

“Th…the Grizzlies?” You echo. “Like, Appalachia?”

“Somewhere in there, yes,” she says. “You been out a few days now. Reverend read you your last rites a handful of times.”

You try to sit up, but groan and lay back down. She pushes you down as well, a scowl on her face. 

The door opens with a gust of cold wind. A man steps in, then quickly shuts the door behind him. He hurries over, rubbing his gloved hands together. 

He looks you over, then drags a nearby chair over and sits. “What’s your name, friend?”

You give him your name. 

“My name is Dutch,” Dutch says. “Dutch van der Linde. I think you know by now that you’ve caught us at an… inconvenient time. And you’ll forgive us for not trusting you right away.”

“No, I get that,” you say. “I just… I need a map or something. I need to get back home.”

Dutch beckons for Miss Grimshaw to bring over a map. He opens it and holds it out to you. 

You sit up, slowly, making sure not to do anything too sudden. When you’re upright, you take the map from him and look it over. You don’t recognize anything on the map, but one point piques your interest – the date. The year reads 1891.

“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” You point to the year. “This map seems a little out of date.”

“It’s just eight years,” Miss Grimshaw says. “Most everything is the same.”

You glance up at her, then at Dutch, then at the people around the cabin. Your fingers twitch and crumple the map a bit. 

This is a dream! I’m in a coma! Your mind shouts. I’m in a medically-induced coma because I was shot and holy hell – how the fuck did I go from 2024 to 1899?!

“Right, right,” you say instead. “Sorry. I’m just being nitpicky.”

“Where’re you from?” Dutch asks. 

“California. Near the Mojave,” you say. “Out west.”

“And you would leave all that… virgin paradise…” Dutch laughs and gestures vaguely around him. “For this?”

“I don’t know how I got here,” you say. “I’ve been saying that since I woke up. I don’t…” You shake your head.

“Well, I’m sure we can get you back to your home,” Dutch says. “We’re persevering folk. Do you recognize anything – anything at all – on that map?”

You look down at the map again. It’s all unfamiliar. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, my friend,” Dutch says, reaching a hand out like it’s meant to soothe. “You’re a soul in need. I’m sure we can figure something out somehow. Can you at least tell me what your home is like?”

This is a coma, you remind yourself. I can just make something up. I’m not some person that couch-surfed for half my life. I can be whoever.

“I… it’s odd,” you say to buy yourself some time. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s a few tribes that live in Zion Canyon – the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. I was a courier delivering goods to the Dead Horses. There were two men there that convinced me to stay.”

A Black man – broad, intimidating, with long, dark hair – perks up at the mention of tribes. His dark (almost black, honestly) eyes find yours, then he looks down at the floor again.

“None of it rings a bell,” Dutch says. “But, these men – what’re their names?”

It’s in that exact moment that you realize you just prattled off part of the storyline of Fallout: New Vegas. Then you realize that, if this really is 1899, no one here would know what you’re talking about. 

“Joshua Graham and Daniel,” you say. “They’re white – they work with the natives and help them trade. Joshua’s acting as the Dead Horses’ war chief and Daniel is a healer that works with the Sorrows.”

Yes. You’re totally friends with Joshua Graham and Daniel and the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. And from the way Dutch nods solemnly, you think he believes you. 

You hold out the map and he takes it back, folding it neatly. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” you say. “I’ve never even been this far east before.”

“Don’t worry,” Dutch says. “You can stay with us, for the time being. At least until we get to some… some town, or city. Let you rest your feet while you recover. We’re a gang of… violent criminals and degenerates, but we care. I can’t say the same for the rest of America.”

Your hand instinctively goes to your side, where you felt the stinging, repetitive pain earlier. “Right. My side doesn’t feel as bad as before. Thank you for that.”

You look around and slowly swing your feet over the side of the table. A lightning arc of pain shoots down your leg, causing you to gasp and tense. As with everything else, you force through it and stand. 

“I need to get some air,” you say. Dutch just nods. You walk (shamble, really) to the door and open it, slipping outside.

The cold is even worse out here. There’s footpaths in the snow. You stick your hands under your arms and walk one. It leads to a man standing by a fire in front of a cabin, dressed in a winter poncho with a gun in his hands. 

You hold your hands out towards the fire and rub your hands together. It doesn’t replace the warmth you had while you were inside, but it’s still something.

“What’s your name?” The man asks. He shifts the rifle in his hands, but doesn’t move to point it at you. (An improvement, if a small one.)

You give him your name. “What about you?”

“Javier,” Javier says. “Javier Escuella.”

“Where are you from?” You shift your focus to the fire. “Not trying to be rude. It’s just that there’s a few ‘Javier’s where I’m from.”

“Northern Mexico,” Javier says. “You?”

“I’m originally from the South, but I live in the Mojave. I moved to the Frontier to be closer to my sister,” you say. “So I guess we weren’t that far off from each other.”

You look up at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. It’s the man from way earlier – Arthur. You look back at the fire instead.

Arthur nods at Javier and spares a glance at you before entering the cabin. People are talking inside, and you catch a snippet of voices before Arthur closes the door again.

“It’s too cold to be May,” Javier says. You can tell he’s trying to be polite by making conversation. “I’m not designed for this snow.”

“I know, right?” You laugh under your breath. “Neither am I. I’d go back inside, but I don’t want to intrude. Any more than I already have, anyway.”

“It’s below freezing,” he says. “Everyone needs shelter. Come on.”

With that, Javier turns and walks into the cabin, holding the door open behind him for you. You thank him and follow him inside. 

Inside is a group of men and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke. You tense when they all turn to face you. Most of them are, in fact, smoking. You nod politely and tuck yourself into a corner, next to a man with a blond mustache. 

A hefty man is sitting across from the blond man, and a much younger Black man is sitting on a table next to him. Javier is by the door, and you try your best to ignore Arthur’s huge presence beside you. You can see him throw a small log into the woodstove out of the corner of your eye.

The man sort-of across from you looks at you, then returns his gaze to the man sitting beside you. “I guess folks miss them… that fell.”

“Well, when I fall, I don’t want no fuss,” the man beside you says.

“When you fall…” The young man waves his hand, which is holding a lit cigarette. “There’ll be a party.”

“A party!” The hefty man echoes, laughing. “Hah, probably.”

You feel the beginnings of a smile start to cross your face. You don’t know these people, and while they aren’t exactly doing their best to welcome you, they aren’t exactly making you feel unwelcome, either.

The man beside you holds out a bottle to you. You hesitantly take it, even though you’re confused. “I don’t want this.”

He pays you no mind and stands, looking down at the man. “That funny, huh?”

“Sure,” the man says, the remnants of laughter still in his voice.

One man strikes another, and it’s loud, absolute chaos. On instinct, your eyes snap to the door. Unblocked. An exit if needed.

Arthur and the young man are holding the hit man back, and the blond man speaks. “Maybe  I don’t feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two!”

It’s going to escalate. You can get to the door. Dutch was right – this is a gang of violent criminals and degenerates. One you want nothing to do with.

But Dutch bursts in with a gust of cold wind. As soon as he sees what’s going on, his face twists. The men dissipate from their tight proximity and distance themselves from each other.

“Stop it!” He snaps. “You fools punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s needin’ punching – hard! You wanna sit around, waiting for him to come find us?”

Arthur slips out of the door as Dutch continues. “All of you, we got work to do. Come on.”

The men turn and start to file out of the cabin. You can hear Arthur and Dutch talking outside. By the time you’re outside, most of the men are over by the horses or on one of them.

Dutch is talking quietly to Arthur while they’re both mounting up – you couldn’t hear them if you tried. He straightens up on his snow-white horse and shouts. “Mister Matthews, Mister Smith, Mister Pearson, would you please look after the place? There are O’Driscolls about!”

With that, he snaps the reins and his horse darts off. The rest of the men from the cabin, now all on horseback, quickly follow. 

You resign yourself to following another footpath. This one leads to a partly-sheltered, partly-dilapidated garage-type-thing with something like a kitchen inside. There’s a deer hoist against the wall, but it’s empty.

Your eyes dart to some sort of cauldron-looking pot hanging over a fire that’s mostly coals. You walk over and hold your hands out to it, trying to get warm again. 

“You’re new.”

Your head snaps up to see the broad Black man from earlier. He still has that impassive look on his face. 

“Yes, sir, that’s right,” you say. You introduce yourself. “What’s your name?”

“Charles Smith.” Charles walks and stands beside you, mirroring you and putting his hands out towards the fire. “You were talking earlier about tribes.”

“Yeah,” you say. “What about them?”

“I’ve never heard of the ones you were talking about,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth and calm. (You try your best not to latch onto that sense of calmness. You now know how quickly things can turn.)

“The Sorrows and the Dead Horses?” You rub your nose as you try to think of an excuse. “I wouldn’t expect you to. They live in Zion Canyon – in the Mojave. They’re fairly isolated, but they’re good people.”

Charles hums and his eyes return to the fire. You try to think of something to keep the conversation going.

“Who’s Colm O’Driscoll?” You ask. “I’ve heard his name a handful of times.”

“A rival gang leader,” he says. “Runs the O’Driscolls.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You scratch your cheek. “That makes sense.”

A silence settles over the two of you again. Charles must be comfortable with it. Unfortunately, you’re not. 

“Is there anything people need done?” You ask, glancing at him. “I don’t like being idle for too long.”

He looks over at the empty deer hoist. “We need food.”

“I’m no good at hunting.” You look at the fire and rub your hands together again. “Sorry.”

“You apologize a lot,” Charles says. His eyes flick to you. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”

You bite back another apology and force a laugh. Your breath mists in front of your face. “Force of habit.”

Charles hums and his focus returns to the smoldering coals that make up the fire. A nagging thought in the back of your head tells you that you made him mad (even though he’s given literally no indication you’ve done so). 

You follow his lead and look at the fire. There’s nothing else to do in this kind of cold, anyway. 

[dmitriene]

low honor arthur morgan, everybody knows that he's a right bastard, far away from a good person, ain't sparing mercy on anyone who stands in his way, and there's no difference between a woman to a man, but when it's about you, there's a crack in the facade of his personality.

he can't utter a single harsh word, show you away, tell you how naive you are it's sickening, but it's nothing more than a lie, because there's so much more he tries to hide behind his rib cage, an attraction, crackling sparks of feelings he's afraid to voice.

he's so in love words die at his tongue everytime he sees you, there's no vile words, not a single snarls that draws at his lips, only a softening gaze of his bright eyes and a small squint of a smile, and arthur knows he's hooked.

it's shown in the way he helps you when you need a hand, someone stronger at your side, capable of sending someone to fuck off if they're bothering you, making the whole camp still when arthur barks at micah to not touch you.

it's when arthur brings something from you after a trip to the town, a small flower he picked up during a ride, a couple of things he remembers you babbled about, buyed on his own money, only to see the way your lips curl in a warm smile, the way you look at him all soft and cloyingly sweet.

things he never did, and would never have thought he would do, but you changed so much, softened the lines of his face and erased the veil of hatred from his eyes, the touch of his hands softer only for you, his notebook filled with sketches of your silhouette.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[thebookbutterfly]

°•. Arthur Morgan .•°

Fan fiction recommendations from BB’s Bookshelf. All my favourite Arthur Morgan works in one place.

⭐️ = One of my favourites.

ONESHOTS:

🦋 Goodnight and Goodmorning [Fluff] A tired, weary Arthur crawls into your bed late at night after he returns to camp. << Female Reader, Canon Typical Injuries, High Honour >> ⭐️

🦋 Touchy: Part 1, Part 2 [Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, A Smidge of Angst] Arthur is touch starved, you're the most affectionate person he knows. So why don't you touch him? << Female Reader, Mention of Abuse, High Honour >> ⭐️

🦋 Rainy Days [Fluff] It's pouring and you're soaked to the skin. Arthur invites you in and warms you up. Sharing body heat. << Female Reader, High Honour >>

🦋 Winter Cowboy [Fluff] Arthur returns cold and shaking from his ride with Dutch. You're happy to provide some warmth for your favourite cowboy. << Female Reader >>

🦋 A One Time Thing [Fluff] Your new horse throws you off, right into a damn river. Luckily, Arthur is by your side to warm you up. << Female Reader >>

🦋 Logs and Campfires [Fluff] You fall asleep next to Arthur, who's the last one remaining at the campfire after everybody else has gone to sleep. << Female Reader >>

🦋 Graphite and Gratitude [Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Minor Angst] After Micah crosses a line, Arthur comforts you in an unexpected way - by sharing his journal with you. << Female Reader, Micah is an ass, Slightly sexual mentions >>

🦋 Dancing and Daisies [Fluff] Arthur and the gang celebrate your birthday with you. << Female Reader, High Honour >>

🦋 Safety In A Storm [Fluff] Modern AU, in which there is only one bed. << Gender Neutral Reader >>

🦋 Cold [Fluff] On your escape through the snowstorm after the Blackwater Massacre, Arthur and you are looking for a place to get some sleep. << Female Reader >> ⭐️

🦋 The Caretaker [Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Slight Angst] You join the gang shortly before the Blackwater massacre and quickly find comfort in the gang's enforcer, Arthur Morgan. Even you seem to catch his eye, as he starts to flatter you with little gifts. When he flees from the O'Driscolls, you have the honour of taking care of him. << Female Reader, Canon Typical Injuries >>

🦋 The Rescue [Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst] You go missing in the mountains when you were scouting ahead with John. Luckily, Arthur finds you. The near death experience gives both of you the courage for a confession. << Female Reader, High Honour >>

🦋 Drunk Kisses [Fluff] A drunk reader gives Arthur Morgan a kiss. << Female Reader, High Honour >>

🦋 A Quick Sketch [Fluff] You catch Arthur trying to draw you. << Gender Neutral Reader >>

🦋 Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You [Fluff] Arthur realises he’s in love with you. << Gender Neutral Reader >>

🦋 Sharing Cigarettes [Fluff] You and Arthur share a cigarette by the lake. << Gender Neutral Reader >>

DRABBLES:

🦋 Jus' A Little Longer [Fluff] Arthur claims that he doesn't need hugs. You're hellbent on proving him wrong. << Female Reader >>

🦋 Treat [Fluff] Arthur gifts you some chocolate. Valentines Day Special! << Gender Neutral Reader, High Honour >>

🦋 Those Lovely Words [Fluff?] Arthur isn't the only one who sweet-talks his horse. AKA you call your horse a "good boy" and Arthur wants to combust. << Female Reader, Suggestive >>

🦋 The Stars Aren't As Pretty As You [Fluff] A short, sweet night under the stars. << Gender Neutral Reader >>

🦋 RDR2 Men As Girl Dads [Fluff] Featuring. Arthur, Charles, John, Dutch & Hosea << Gender Neutral Reader >>

[sir-walton-goggins]

Clean Shaven

Just a lil ficlet in appreciation of clean shaven Arthur. (736 words)

Tw suggestive! Just a whole lot of teasing eheh

Pic by me /// Thank you @raevennsge for the inspiration!<3

"Let me do that for you." Arthur paused and turned to you, shaving blade in mid-air. It was early in the morning, most of the camp was still asleep, and your husband was sitting in front of his portable mirror on his cot. Before he could even reply, you straddled him, placing yourself right on his lap, and gently took the blade from his hand. "Wh-hat..." he stuttered, gaze averted and traveling down to your chest, his cheeks and the tips of his ears glowing red. He shifted his weight to accommodate yours, suddenly very aware of the stiffening bulge in his pants. His breath escaped him in a short exhale when you promptly grabbed his jaw to hold it into place, a stern command exiting your pretty lips. "Don't move." Like under a magic spell, Arthur's muscles froze into place, not even daring to breathe too hard, heart racing in his chest and a tingling sensation spreading all over his lower abdomen. He would never admit it, but he was just so starstruck when you took control of him. However, it was written all over his face: eyes widening in a defenseless stupor, mouth slightly open, whole face as red as a bell pepper. He looked as vulnerable as a puppy. A small quiver shook his lower lip when you hovered your mouth just below his earlobe, on the portion of skin not covered by the shaving cream. A shiny mark of saliva glistened in the timid light of the rising sun. The skin on his neck felt tingly. "Be a good boy for me now." You ordered, softening the grip on his jaw and running the blade smoothly on his cream covered cheek. Arthur looked at you with his peripheral vision, the malicious grin pasted on your face making his stomach churn. God, you were so hot. He tried lifting a hand to put it on your thigh, but you quickly smacked it away, giving him a dirty look. "I said, stay still." "Yes ma'am" he whispered, a coy smile on his lips. You were often so sweet, but he enjoyed seeing this part of you emerge from time to time. It awakened something in him he didn't quite understand. All he knew was his pants now felt a bit tighter than before. "What did I do to deserve the deluxe service?" He joked, desperately trying to distract himself from the painful swelling you caused. The blood rushing over felt like thousands of pins and needles prickling at him from the inside. You didn't reply. Instead, you planted your eyes in his, softening your gaze a bit as if to silently say "You're my man. Of course you get special treatment". You continued shaving him, strip by strip, being exceptionally delicate yet firm. Arthur's skin was becoming smoother where the blade had taken away thick hair and dead skin, and you took pleasure in running your free hand on the freshly shaven parts, even leaving a soft kiss on them, making Arthur shudder in delight at the gentle contact on his still raw epidermis. His little grunts and moans as you held him in place made your own lower belly hot. You exhaled, trying to keep your cool. He gingerly tried to put his hands on your waist and this time, guard down, you let him. "There," you finally announced, shaving the last of Arthur's face. You smiled. "All done." You admired his clear features. Every single pore, wrinkle, scar, mole and sunspot that was now exposed made him even more Arthur. And you loved seeing every inch of him. You reached out to caress his clean shaven cheeks once more, but Arthur grabbed your hands and held them into place in one swift motion. "I'll finish up later," he rumbled, his voice suddenly so deep it made your heart skip a beat and every hair on your neck stand on end. He leaned forward, putting his lips on yours, his grip on your waist tightening as he opened his mouth slightly to taste you better. You instinctively obeyed, parting your lips enough to let him in. "Now, let me give you the deluxe treatment..." he purred in your ear, making your breath shaky and your core flutter in anticipation. Your squeezed your thighs around his waist and dove right back on his mouth, tasting every inch of the soft skin you shaved yourself.

[1-800-apricot]

imagine being arthur morgan's ex-lover

Thinking about Arthur Morgan reuniting with you. An old flame that never seemed to completely go away. Whose blazes had engulfed the forest of his heart only to dissolve into a root fire.  

And then he saw you. And as he stepped back into that charred oblivion he could see the smoke rising from the ground. Embers and licks of flames begin to rise once more. And perhaps this is when it hits him. The flames of your love had never choked themselves out. Rather they’d moved out of sight. Surviving with what they could find.

And God when he saw you. The way the sun framed your features. The way you styled your hair. Even the way you dressed. After all these years. Arthur Morgan could’ve died a happy man with the sight in front of him. He was sure. He could almost taste the smoke.

You would spot him quick enough. And for that split second his heart raced. But the curve of your lips were quick to dull as shock took over your expression. A tightening in your chest. A feeling far from Arthur with that awestruck expression of his. This was suffocating. 

The look on your face did not get past Arthur. He should’ve just walked away and acted like he never saw you. But he couldn’t. Not when this was his chance to hear you once more. So he made his way toward you. And as he approached perhaps you should’ve fled. There was only ever one ending to this story. You knew it because the two of you had played it over and over again. 

But you didn’t flee. Instead you stood there and watched as he neared. Perhaps you weren’t much better than him. Perhaps moths did still live in your stomach despite the lavender you douse yourself in. The very thought was enough to make you start to move however it was too late. After years, Arthur Morgan stood in front of you. 

He looked different. Time hadn’t been kind on him but that wasn’t to say he looked bad. He didn’t. But it was hard to ignore how tired he looked. The way the sun had aged his skin. Or the way the years of cigarettes seemed to have turned his voice raspier. Through it all though? There were still glimpses of your Arthur.

Maybe that was the most sickening part. That past all that had happened, there was your Arthur. The one you would’ve never left. That thought was shut quickly though. This was not him and the person that was with him all those years ago is no longer you. Perhaps this did not register within his mind though. 

The conversation was slow. Rocky even. His unsure questions and your short, stunned responses. But it seemed within minutes you had found a rhythm and a groove. One that the two of you had so often moved and spoken to. It felt eerie. Like stepping into a haunted house. Except you’d witnessed what exactly caused the haunt. 

You couldn’t testify how long you stood and talked to the man. There were lulls in the conversation where you should’ve and could’ve pulled back. Where he’d led you to a dead end but then he found something else to speak of. It had been something that amused you in the past. But now it was exhausting. That was what it was meant to do though. To wear you down and make you give into whatever was being sold. Even if he didn’t show it Arthur Morgan was raised by a conman. 

And it almost wore you down. It almost made you hand over the last of your coins. Just to feel the heat of his love once more. To rekindle the fireplace flames of your love. But you had to remember. While there had been no man quite like Arthur that also meant there’d been no devastation quite like his. 

So the conversation came to a lull and he searched for more to say. And instead of taking comfort in the growing embers, you cleared your throat. The next words would be the end. You both knew it. The final flag flown in a useless war. You’d thought it would’ve made you more devastated. Like it had all those years ago. However this wasn’t a farewell to love anymore. It was a farewell to all the destruction it's caused. 

So you took a deep breath. Bile might’ve risen but you pushed it down. You declared you needed to go and he nodded albeit a bit numbly. You exchanged goodbyes. And you turned away from him. 

“I missed you.”

Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. It was so unlike him and you hadn’t seen it coming. But no one was around and perhaps it should’ve been expected. Even the mighty could get desperate. This wasn’t a decision though. There wasn’t a choice to be made. So you turned and spoke your final words to him. Words that solidified that this war of love was over.

“You’re the loss of my life, Arthur Morgan.”

a/n: this imagine was based around the song 'loml' by taylor swift. i'm thinking of making a prequel to this where reader originally leaves but i'm not sure. anyways hope y'all enjoyed <3

[daneneedssleep]

I had a cute drabble idea with Arthur Morgan and I told myself I would write it down and potentially post it before I forgot

The Stars Aren’t as Pretty as You (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Warnings: This is completely just tooth rotting fluff. Like so sweet and fluffy it’s better than fucking cotton candy. Reader has no Male or Female associations so it’s GN! :)

Ever since Arthur warmed up to you, he would let you talk about any simple facts you wanted to tell him. He would always listen and pay attention to you, even occasionally writing some of the more helpful things you talk about down in his journal. Arthur always had a small smile on his face when you would go on rants about what you saw in town or who you met in the plains and he got into the habit of sitting next to you and sketching you just to hear you talk and see your face.

Tonight was somewhat different. You had gone into town with Arthur but it was late in the night when you were returning back to camp so you both decided to set camp in the plains. He knew you were gonna start talking about something and he sat in silence waiting for you to speak up.

“The Stars are so pretty aren’t they?” You asked Arthur, lying on your back to look up at the constellation filled night sky.

Arthur lays next to you, his eyes raking over the sky as he relaxes from the view and your company. “They are…” he replies quietly, his eyes glancing over at you beside him. Even laying beside him you were the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

You pipe up again, smiling fondly as you point to different constellations. “That’s Ursa Major… oh and that’s the Big Dipper. See?” You point to the direction of the star formations.

Arthur smiles and points at the same thing you are. “Yeah I see it”

You chuckle and glance over at Arthur. God he’s so handsome. “Did you know stars are big balls of heat and fire? Like the sun but a lot farther away…” You ask Arthur, still smiling to yourself. You loved talking to Arthur about different things. About your day, the animals you saw or hunted, people you met, and other things that you hoped Arthur found as interesting as you did…

“Huh… I never really understood that… they’re still pretty though” Arthur says softly, his blue eyes sparkling like the stars.

“Not as pretty as you…” You replied softly, glancing over at Arthur.

He couldn’t help but smile.

[spongeyspot]

can I please have some Arthur Morgan headcanons? here’s some ideas for it

His experience at a target

getting a little treat after a hard day of work

being a passenger princess

basically following his new “caretaker” around while he figures out the modern world.

1890s!Arthur being thrown into the modern world HC

A/N: I'm gonna go with the last two bc I find it so funny. ALSO: I should clarify, that this isn't a relationship hc. The reader (You/yours pronouns) is g/n, and Arthur becomes their roommate

(And they were roommates...)

Arthur Morgan was in the blast zone of Francis Sinclair's time machine and accidentally hitched a ride to the year 2023.

- Gets hit by (your) a car when he wandered into the street

- It took him quite a bit to come to terms that this place was not the one he once knew

- Wants to get home so badly, but it seems he's stuck. He can't find Vincent Sinclair anywhere.

- He seeks out your help and at first, when he explains his predicament, you think he's a crazy homeless guy

- He tries to go off on his own to figure things out but comes back immediately because things have changed so much from the place he once knew.

- He also almost got hit by another car

- You decide you want to show Arthur the finer things in life, first starting with getting vaccinated... God knows how many diseases Arthur would be exposed to, let alone the ones he already has.

- Also a toothbrush because his breath is probably rancid

- He sleeps on your couch for a while

- eventually moves into your spare bedroom and starts having to pay some of the rent

- He'd have to work under the table because his birth certificate says he was born in 1864...

- Probably gets a job with Construction or Bartending

- Also, clean slate? No Bounty! Hell yeah!

- tends to follow you everywhere because he likes how you explain modern life to him

- You got him a cell phone.

- He's never trying to be funny when he asks questions

- "What the hell is a "tik-tok"?"

- "Blue-tooth? Never heard of that, only gold ones... I used to sell em'."

- "And you can just.. talk to this? And it'll bring ya food?? Whenever ya want???"

- holds the phone pinched between two fingers on either side like he's holding a pair of dirty underwear and starts to yell at it that he wants some steak

- Absolutely blown away by pizza

- Astonished when he sees no horses, just giant metal boxes with wheels that seem to move on their own.

- When you explain how it worked and what it was, he called it a "magic stagecoach" for a while

- Passenger princess

- fascinated by modern music. It just comes out of your magic stagecoach with the press of a button?

- Huge Bon Jovi fan. his favorite song is "Wanted Dead or Alive".

- asks "What does this button do?" seconds before he presses it

- holds the "oh shit" handle in your car at all times.

-The first time he was in your car he probably actually screamed

- you got him an electric beard trimmer for Christmas and he acted like you handed him a gold ingot

- quite honestly starts to warm up to the domestic life. having to rob and steal to keep himself alive weighed on him way more than he liked to admit.

- adores movie nights. Movies in the 1900s-2023 are incredibly different than the motion pictures he was used to.

- after he gets used to this new world, he WANTS A MOTORCYCLE SO BAD but opts for a pickup truck instead because it's more convenient

- Insists on cooking dinner on the weekends

- didn't understand your gas stove the first time and he almost blew up your apartment

[gaybatmanenthusiast]

heeey, can i req arthur morgan

THE ARTIST, AND THE OUTLAW (oneshot)

(ARTHUR MORGAN X GN! READER)

⋆★ word count : 1,112

⋆★ warnings : n/a

⋆★ summary : arthur meets the reader sketching the landscape, intrigued by their talent and he approaches them, asking for a portrait of someone important to him.

⋆★ extra : wrote this with a friend in mind once again, praying shes the one that requested this orrr someone has been waiting for their request for a hot minute …

Arthur hadn’t expected to see anyone out here, let alone someone so intently focused on sketching the open plains. He paused, just watching for a moment, leaning against his horse as the sun dipped low over the distant hills, casting warm light across the land and across the lone figure on the ledge.

The artist—a stranger whose name he didn’t know—hadn’t noticed him yet. They were too absorbed in capturing the scene before them, their hand working swiftly over a sketchbook balanced on their knee. From his distance, Arthur could barely make out their features, but he didn’t need to. It was the energy in their movements, the quiet reverence in how they observed the landscape, that held his attention.

Finally, he cleared his throat and took a few steps closer, boots scuffing over the dry earth. “Hope I ain’t interruptin’ anything important,” he called, voice rough but softened by curiosity.

They looked up, blinking in surprise, though they didn’t seem startled. Instead, they offered a slight smile, as if strangers showing up in the middle of nowhere was just part of the day. “Not interrupting. Just trying to get the light right,” they replied, glancing back at the scene before them with a quiet determination.

Arthur nodded, a little more intrigued. “S’pose you come out here often?”

“Anywhere I can find something worth sketching,” they replied, holding up the book as if it answered everything. “There’s just… too much beauty out here to let it pass by unrecorded.”

Arthur studied their sketch from a distance. Though it was unfinished, he could already see the skill behind it—the way they captured shadows and the contours of the land with a precision that felt both raw and alive. The sight stirred something in him, an odd mixture of nostalgia and longing he hadn’t expected.

“Mind if I take a look?” he asked, nodding toward the book.

They hesitated only a moment, then passed it over. Arthur took it gently, scanning the pages. There were sketches of wildlife, mountain ranges, campfires, and even little moments—a flower caught in the breeze, a lone bird perched on a fence post. Each drawing held an attentiveness that felt almost sacred.

“You got a way with things,” he murmured, still focused on the pages. “Ain’t many folks out here would even notice half of what you put down.”

They shrugged, though there was a flicker of pride in their eyes. “Guess I like to see the world for what it is, not just what people want it to be.”

He nodded slowly, feeling the weight of their words settle in his mind. For a while, they sat in a comfortable silence, he by his horse, and they back to their sketching. Arthur watched, noting the way they glanced up every now and then, catching little details with an intensity he envied. It was as if they saw the world through a different lens, one that softened the rough edges he was so used to.

After a while, he found himself speaking up again. “You, uh… ever think about doin’ a portrait? You got the skill for it.”

They glanced over, brow raised in mild curiosity. “I’ve done a few, but it depends on the person.” Their eyes lingered on him, considering. “Why? Got someone in mind?”

Arthur shifted, uncertain for a moment. “Yeah… my ma, actually. She’s been gone a long time, but… you got a way of makin’ things feel alive.” He almost regretted the admission, but the words had come unbidden.

The artist’s expression softened, a gentle understanding in their gaze. “I’d be honoured,” they said quietly. “Tell me about her.”

He hesitated, caught off-guard by the tenderness in their tone. But as the words spilled out, he found himself recounting little things he hadn’t thought of in years—the sound of his mother’s laugh, the kindness in her eyes, the way she’d held him close when he was small and scared. The artist listened, not interrupting, letting him speak in his own time. And when he was finished, they simply nodded, already starting to sketch.

Over the following days, Arthur returned to the spot by the ledge, finding them there nearly every afternoon, waiting patiently with sketchbook in hand. With each meeting, they asked small questions, drawing more stories from him, little by little. He spoke about his ma, then his old life before the gang, and even the first time he’d ridden a horse on his own. Each story felt like an offering, as if he were putting pieces of himself down on paper through their hands.

As he spoke, he started asking about their life, too—where they’d come from, what had brought them to this place. They answered with quiet honesty, sharing tales of a life spent moving from place to place, driven not by restlessness but by a love for the land and the people within it. They talked about the way different skies looked at dawn, about quiet moments in bustling towns, about the simple peace that came from just sitting under an open sky.

Arthur began to see the world differently through them. The mountains seemed taller, the rivers gentler, and even the dusty roads they walked on felt more alive. For the first time, he wondered if there might be more to his own story than just the guns and blood he’d left in his wake.

One evening, as they were finishing up the day’s work, they turned to him, a small, contemplative smile on their lips. “Arthur… you ever think about what you’ll leave behind?”

He blinked, surprised. “Ain’t never thought much of it.”

“Well,” they said softly, looking down at the nearly completed portrait. “Even outlaws deserve to be remembered for more than just the dust they kick up.”

Their words struck a chord, one he hadn’t expected to feel. There was an ache in his chest, something that felt like hope, and it unsettled him. But as he looked at them, at the quiet sincerity in their gaze, he felt that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth holding onto.

They reached out, a light touch on his hand, fingers brushing his calloused knuckles. The gesture was simple, yet it felt electric, a silent promise that there was more to life than he’d known. He held their gaze, feeling the faint stirrings of something unfamiliar, something that felt like warmth and light all at once.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough, barely audible. And in the quiet that followed, they just smiled, a hint of something fond and knowing in their expression—a look that told him they saw him, the real him, and they still cared.

[mlmxreader]

Don't You Shiver | Arthur Morgan x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ you already know what’s up. arthur morgan x gn!reader

"Do you want your hoodie back?" "Keep it. It's yours."

but instead of hoodie it’s one of arthur’s jackets? pls and thank u mwah mwah ^_^ - @mockerycrow ❞

: ̗̀➛ Arthur cares a lot about you, so it's no surprise that he does what he can to help when you come back to camp less than happy.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, smoking

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Your hands smelled of cheap cigarettes and whisky as you wandered back into camp behind Charles, a little bit embarrassed that you had wasted his time on fool's gold.

You thought it had been a perfectly good lead at the time, and with Charles’ skills complimenting your own, you figured that the two of you would have had it done and dusted by noon the same day. But now it was dusk, you were shivering, and you felt like an idiot.

You kept your head down and your gaze on the ground, not even trying to talk to Charles even though he reassured you time and time again that he didn't mind - he enjoyed the nice day out with you.

It wasn't often that the two of you had much time to spend together despite your strong friendship, and even though you had been an idiot… you did admit, you appreciated his company at the very least.

Before he left you for the evening, Charles pulled you aside, and once again told you that he didn't mind; it happened, sometimes leads didn't work out and even he had had his fair share of bad luck here and there. He wasn't going to hold it against you.

However, you felt terrible when you snuck into Arthur's tent, going through your clothes as he sat on his cot and watched you for a moment, his head tilted slightly to the side.

It wasn't until he saw you shiver that he put two and two together and frowned; he got up and grabbed his semi-decent brown hunting jacket, and gently pressed it into your hands as he smiled.

“It's warm,” he told you quietly. “It'll help.”

You tugged it on, pressing your face against the collar of the coat for a moment and humming under your breath; you were always stealing Arthur's clothes, if you were honest, but he never minded.

He liked to see you wearing them, mostly because he knew that most of his coats were a lot warmer and a lot better for cold climates than your own. But he also… admittedly, he liked to think that everyone would realise that it was his jackets, and they would know that you and Arthur belonged to one another as well and that they couldn't do anything.

He ushered you out of the tent and over to the scout fire, letting you sit with your back against his chest and his chin on your shoulder, his arms around you tightly. He hoped that it would aid in warming you up, maybe even speed the process a little bit.

You didn’t even flinch, leaning into him and doing your best to steal some of his warmth  as you sighed and swallowed thickly; you brought the thick brown leather to your face, pressing it against your mouth and nose and inhaling the scent for a moment as you closed your eyes.

You were a little warmer now, but you still couldn’t shake the icy feeling deep within your bones and in your shaking hands as you grumbled softly and shook your head.

Arthur turned to look at you, frowning as he gently tugged you a little closer. “I’ll get you some coffee and-”

“Wait,” you murmured softly, almost under your breath as you tugged at the sleeve of his blue denim-coloured shirt. “I don’t wanna be alone in the cold.”

He sighed, nodding as he settled back down; he did his best to think of a few ways to get you to warm up, but unfortunately for him, all of them would mean leaving you, and you didn’t seem so keen on the idea.

So he pulled out two cigarettes, lighting them before handing one to you and doing his best not to smile at how you tried to get closer to him, almost straddling his waist as you squirmed. He grumbled, his grip on you tightening as he kept your back steady against his chest and shook his head.

You stopped shivering eventually, pulling away from him so that you could shrug the jacket off, holding it in your hands as the flames seemed to follow you wherever you went. 

“Do you want your jacket back?”

“Keep it. It’s yours, now,” Arthur told you with a short shake of his head. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You rolled your eyes as you smiled, a glint of something mischievous in your eyes. “You say that about everything of yours that I borrow.”

He shrugged, leaning back slightly to get a good look at you; with the flames so close, Arthur could have sworn that you looked just like something out of an old folktale.

A great, fair king; beloved by his people and as just as he was humble. He wanted to grin and to laugh at the thought, but he could only hum as he pulled out his journal and held it up for you to look at for a moment.

“Mind if I…”

You shook your head. “Not at all, where’d you want me?”

Arthur balanced his journal on his knee as he looked up at you, the tip of his tongue pointing out of the corner of his mouth. “Just stay there.”

You did as you were told, running your thumb across the lapel of Arthur’s jacket as you stood patiently. You could hear the scratch of his pencil against the paper, and how he hummed under his breath as he stole a look at you every now and then.

It was never uncommon for Arthur to draw you, you caught him doing it often enough that you knew he had pages of it; yet every time he actually asked, every time he told you to stay still so that he could do it, you couldn’t help but to feel rather giddy.

To know that you would forever be immortalised by his fair hand, to know that he loved you to the point of creation. You bit at the inside of your lip, doing your best not to grin in case it spoiled his latest masterpiece. 

[cold-red-venom]

Why's every x reader fic gotta be fem!readerrrrrrr and Why's so much of it gotta be hyper fem!reader like enoughhhh I'm dying out here

[immajustvibehere]

Unspoken Fascination

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader

Summary: You observe Arthur as he sleeps. You can't help but note all his little imperfections. But despite them, you love him deeply.

tags: slight (very slight) angst? Maybe. Fluffy. Self-indulgent.

1100 words, less than 10 minutes reading time

"He isn't the most beautiful", you tried to convince yourself. But even thinking that made your stomach turn a bit. Though it is true! You just needed to look at him.

"In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

for they in thee a thousand errors note;

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;..."

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, you felt yourself lost in the sight of Arthur. His broad frame leans against a tree, his hat resting in his lap, held in place by one of his big hands. Exhaustion had finally claimed him. You had been talking about your day and despite his weariness, he had been listening for a long time, nodding and mumbling affirmations. Now, you had the chance to observe him.

Aside from his soft snores, there was the rustling of the leaves in a gentle breeze. You were a few yards away from camp. Just near enough to hear people talking, but far enough to not being able to make out about what they were going on about.

Arthur's hair were unkempt and dry. You wondered when the last time was he had used a comb. A closer look revealed that it was also unevenly cut. Perhaps Arthur had tried to cut some himself, or the last barber hadn't done such a good job. Strands of his hair pricked his inner ear and you wondered if they didn't tickle him. His beard, too, was trimmed unevenly. It was shorter on his right face half. A small patch under his chin seemed to have been overlooked during his recent trimming session, adding a touch of rugged charm to his appearance.

You wondered when Arthur had stopped caring too much about his appearance. He always wore the same shirt, the blue one. A button was missing and the area around Arthur's hips, where he habitually crammed the shirt inside his patched working pants, was visibly soiled. Years worth of sweat, dirt and blood had worked its way into the fabric of the shirt. You know that he sometimes gave it up to have it washed, but he'd never part from it entirely, despite its worn-out state.

There was dried blood on his boots, and dirt under his fingernails. You looked at his hands. There was something intriguing about them. They had snapped so many necks and pulled the trigger to kill more times than you could even fathom. His skin looked so dry, his fingers calloused. They weren't made for soft touch but for hard work.

As your gaze travelled upward, you couldn't help but notice the various marks and signs of a life lived on Arthur's face and neck. His shirt, unbuttoned and revealing his weathered skin, showcased a distinct tan line around his neck. It spoke of countless hours spent beneath the scorching sun. On the nose, deformed from being broken multiple times, was a mild sunburn. Arthur's lips were chapped. They always were like that, you'd know, because you look at them quite often. And then there was this ugly, fading bruise on his cheek from a bar fight a couple of days ago.

A man, so much older than you, and marked by a harsh and brutal life. A man that had stopped caring about a clean shave or a fresh shirt and a nice haircut some time after he and Mary walked different paths. And - you tilted your head and squinted at him - in a way not the most handsome. His appearance bore the weight of exhaustion and melancholy. His fingertips black with either blood, dirt or pencil stains from sketching in his journal.

"Fuuuck", you mumbled, letting your head dangle.

It didn't matter.

You could pick on Arthur's imperfections as long as you liked, you knew it wouldn't help. As you wrestled with your own internal struggles, torn between your fear of rejection and the undeniable feelings you held for Arthur, you couldn't deny the depth of your emotions. You were desperate to get over this silly crush. No matter how much you may criticize or dissect Arthur's scars, hoarse voice, or any other aspect, it didn't change the fact that you loved him.

His messy hair looked perfect after a ride or even when his sweat made it stick to the back of his neck. The strands that pricked his ears looked cute and you wanted nothing more than to put them behind his ear with your finger. His hands, as rough and calloused they were, could draw the most beautiful pictures. They were capable of those small, delicate crafts. Arthur picked flowers and cleaned his guns like his hands had the agility of a child. And God knows you loved every scar and bruise, you would kiss them until he begged you to stop. Your fingers would run through his beard and you didn't mind the dirty shirt, because you knew it was his favourite.

Your heart shattered when you saw him sad and exhausted, but in his sleep his features were relaxed. This man had every reason to be sad and contemplative, he sure had. Sometimes, you overheard the small comments he made when he looked into a mirror. Please, you would do anything to be the person to tell him that everything will be alright and that he's neither old nor ugly, that you want to hug him and appreciate even the smallest wrinkle on his face.

It was his rough exterior that you loved. Because when you looked closer, it wasn't that rough at all. Every scar told a story, and you wanted to hear them all.

"Yer aspleep?"

Your head shot up and you were met by those beautiful blue eyes that glowed in the evening sun.

"No - I was just thinking."

"That so?", Arthur gave a half-smile and you melted. To see that smile more often you would walk straight through hell without a complaint. He stood up and stretched his tired limbs, looking down on you.

"Yer hungry?"

"Depends. I don't think I can do Pearson's stew again. He talked about a new ingredient and...well, I bet my boots taste better.

Arthur laughed, reaching out with his hand to help you up. You had been right, it was rough and calloused, but warm. And it engulfed your hand entirely, you felt so protected you were disappointed when he let it go again.

"Wanna head to the saloon then? My treat", Arthur offered.

"Only if I can pay a couple of beer later", you grinned.

"'Course. Wouldn't want it any other way", Arthur agreed.

There was no way you would simply get over this crush. Maybe some alcohol will lose your tongue and give you some courage to tell the man how much you really loved him.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 2: CHARLES SMITH, THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 

synopsis: charles makes sure you're getting on okay as you continue to try to evade arthur (poorly, might i add).

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: i almost leaked this to my classmate when sending her a link. nearly shat myself but we're all good this is all still under wraps

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Charles was right. Even though you want to help, there’s really nothing to do besides hunt – and the good Lord knows you’re useless when it comes to that.

For the last day or so, you’ve just been hanging around the garage-made-kitchen. Even though Javier told you you weren’t intruding (and that “everyone needs shelter”), you feel like you are. It’s not a good feeling. So you stayed outside, in the company of a man who introduced himself as Simon Pearson and the camp cook, Charles, and occasionally Javier when he found the time to swing by. 

A fair few people have introduced themselves as well – Hosea Matthews, Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers, Reverend Orville Swanson, Leopold Strauss (who just oozed sleaze), Miss Karen Jones, Miss Tilly Jackson, Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill, and little Jack alongside his mother, Miss Abigail Roberts. Those who didn’t directly introduce themselves to you were pointed out by Karen and you were given a run-down on them.

So far, these are the people as you know them: Missus Sadie Adler is a grieving, skittish widow. Uncle is a lazy sack of shit. John Marston is better at being wolf food than being a father. Miss Susan Grimshaw is stubborn (but caring – somewhat like how neighborhood mamas care). Miss Molly O’Shea has a stick so far up her ass she spits splinters when she talks. The man tied up in the barn, Kieran Duffy, is an O’Driscoll (or ex-O’Driscoll, if what he insists is true is really true). Oh – and the blond man that punched Bill? That’s Micah Bell: a man with the eye of a viper tasting the air and the nose of a shark waiting for blood in the water. From what you’ve deduced, his general vibe is “I would take sexual relationship advice from Bill Cosby if given the chance.”

All in all, a healthily diverse group of people – even if the traits that make them diverse aren’t all that desirable. (Mostly Micah’s. Especially Micah’s.)

But Charles is nice enough. So you’ve stuck with Charles. Even if you need to hang around Pearson to hang out with him. Pearson isn’t an intrinsically bad guy, just… a little off-putting.

Right now, you’re able to put your hands to use by opening canned vegetables and putting them in the cauldron-looking pot Pearson has for rabbit stew. Across the table, Charles is butchering and deboning a rabbit as best he can with his injured hand. You try your best to keep your eyes on the cans of carrots and celery you’re opening. 

There’s footsteps. You glance up. It’s Arthur. You look back down. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Pearson gripes to no one in particular. 

You watch Arthur approach the fire and he holds his hands out towards the coals in your peripheral vision. He shakes his head. “Ah, we’re okay.”

“We have a few cans of food and a rabbit. For, what – ten, twelve people?” Pearson gestures over to where you and Charles are working. “Even more with them and that widow.”

Despite yourself, you can feel the tips of your ears start to burn. What do you have to be embarrassed about? Needing to eat? If anything, Pearson should be the one feeling embarrassed for talking about you in front of you. Yeah… that’s it. 

Pearson continues. “When I was in the Navy…”

Arthur immediately interrupts him. “I – I do not wish to hear about what you got up to in the Navy, Mister Pearson.”

And yet, he keeps going despite Arthur’s protest. “We were stranded at sea… for fifty days.”

“And you, unfortunately, survived,” Arthur drawls. 

You glance up at him from underneath your eyelashes and smile. His eye catches yours, and your gaze drops, as does your smile. Instead, you work on getting your finger under the tab of a can of chopped onions – which is hard, considering the thickness of your gloves.

You feel Arthur’s eyes leave you and let out a soft sigh of relief that clouds in front of your face. Charles holds out his knife to you. You tip the top of the can towards him, and he wedges the (bloody – ew) blade of his knife underneath the tab and opens it. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You clench your jaw when you feel Arthur’s eyes on you again – yes, very briefly, but still. You can count the number of times you’ve made eye contact with him on one hand, and you don’t want to add to that total. 

Thankfully, Pearson seems ignorant to your plight and continues complaining. “When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn’t able to get supplies in!”

“Well, when government agents are hunting you down, sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short,” Arthur snaps. “We’ll survive. We always have. And if needs be, we can eat you – you’re the fattest.”

You bite your lip to suppress a laugh and clear your throat to mask any noise you might’ve made. You pour the onions in the pot and glance at the rabbit carcass, now carved up and stripped of meat.

“Damn, there’s nothing left on that thing,” you say. “You’re good at that.”

Charles nods in response. “If you’re done, you can put it on the fire.”

You lift the pot with a grunt – it’s heavier than you expected, but nothing you can’t handle. You move over to the coals and hang the pot on a hook over the fire while Pearson and Arthur continue talking. 

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting, and they found nothing,” Pearson says. 

“Well, Lenny’s more into book learnin’ than huntin’,” Arthur says. You perk up at that. “Bill’s a fool. Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read, ain’t no wonder they haven’t found –”

“Enough of this,” Charles interrupts. Even though his voice is relatively quiet and deep, it still cuts through whatever Arthur was planning on prattling on about. “We’ll go find something. Come on, Arthur.”

“Well, take them.” Arthur gestures vaguely in your direction. “Since they seem so keen on helpin’ out, and all.”

“I, um…” You shake your head. “No, thanks.”

“They don’t even know how to hold a rifle correctly,” Charles says. (His bluntness stings a little, but it’s true. You know how to hold a handgun, but not these old-timey types.) “If they knew how to hunt, we would’ve gone already.”

Arthur sighs and shrugs. “If you insist.”

“Wait a second, hold on.” Pearson hurries over to the table you and Charles had been working at earlier. He pulls out a can from the small pile you had organized and tosses it to Arthur. “You’re gonna need something to eat out there.”

“Hm… “assorted, salted offal”,” Arthur reads off the label. He levels Pearson with a dead stare. “Starving would be preferable.”

You stifle a laugh and, again, clear your throat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Charles says, adjusting the bandage on his hand. 

“You can’t go huntin’,” Arthur says. “Look at your hand.”

“I can’t stay here listening to you two,” Charles says. He gestures to you without looking at you. “The conversation they make is tolerable, but, again, they can’t hunt. Look, if there’s game in those hills, I’ll find it – and you can kill it.”

“You need to rest, Charles,” Arthur insists.

“You think this is rest?” Charles’ face twists into a scowl, then he turns and walks towards his horse with a “Come along.”

Arthur scoffs under his breath and his eyes flick to you. You do your best to suppress the temptation to duck away from his gaze, as piercing as it is. You win, and he looks away, following Charles to the hitching post. They quickly mount up and ride out.

You draw your shoulders up to your ears and shudder. When Pearson shoots you a questioning glance, you excuse it with “What? It’s cold.”

When a few seconds have passed, you roll your shoulders back. You settle down on the chair that’s inside the kitchen, just watching a few late, fat snowflakes fall outside.

After a good ten minutes of watching Pearson and playing with your hands, you figure he’ll be fine on his own and wander out along the footpaths in the snow. You find who you’re looking for quickly. 

Lenny gives you a polite nod as you stand across from him, the fire on the ground separating you two. He has a rifle – the sight of which doesn’t surprise you as much as it first did – and he settles the butt of the gun in the inner corner of his elbow. 

“You’re Lenny, right?” You try. 

“Yeah. And you’re…” Lenny gives your name. You nod in response.

“I just…” You clear your throat and bat away the embarrassment and anxiety that’s creeping up on you – something that always comes with approaching strangers. “Arthur mentioned that you like books. I, uh… I read, too. Sometimes.”

“Really?” Lenny says. “What kinda books have they got out in the Mojave?”

You look down at the fire and think, trying to come up with some excuse and build your backstory. “We don’t have a lot of books – I live in a pretty isolated part of the desert. But there’s traders, and they bring medical books, and a few storybooks. I like the medicine books they bring. You?”

Lenny seems to hesitate for a moment. “Poetry.”

“Poetry?” You hum. “Huh. Poems are nice.”

There’s a lapse in conversation. You don’t know how to fill it. You say the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Micah’s kinda a prick, right?” You blurt out. 

Your eyes snap up to Lenny’s face. He’s surprised, but his face quickly melts into a smile and he laughs. You feel the coil of anxiety in your stomach loosen. 

“Why, I didn’t expect you to come out and say it,” he says. “But your assessment is correct.”

“Yeah, sorry.” You laugh nervously, your eyes falling to the fire again. “I just get bad vibes from the guy.”

“Bad vibes?” Lenny echoes. 

The coil is tight again. You think for a moment. “Uh, yeah. One of the tribes I live with believes in, um… vibrational energy, that kinda thing. When you look at someone and you get a bad feeling without knowing them that well, they give you bad vibes.”

“Hold on,” Lenny says. “Vibrational energy?”

You nod and continue to pull things out of your ass and curse Lenny for being scholarly. “Yeah. Life… um, well. I don’t remember the explanation too well. But I remember White Bird – the Sorrows’ shaman – saying…”

You tilt your head and look to the side and think for a moment.  “He said, “All life is music – all music is rhythmic – all rhythm is life.” And that somehow relates to vibrations. I don’t know, you seem smart. Maybe you can understand what he was talking about.”

“Well, I don’t know what it means, but it sure sounds pretty,” Lenny says. 

“They’re good people,” you say. “Maybe you’d like to meet them someday – if you’re ever so far west you’re in the desert, I mean.”

Why the fuck did I say that?! You curse yourself in your head. They’re not real! The Dead Horses and the Sorrows and Joshua Graham and Daniel are all made up! They’re fictional characters –

“I don’t know, maybe,” Lenny says. “For now, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be goin’ that far.”

You hum and pretend to act disappointed while you fight the urge to crumple in on yourself in relief. “That’s a shame. I’m sure you’d like them. They’re interesting people, especially the Sorrows. Though, Joshua…”

You trail off as you check over your shoulder. Hoofbeats, you’re pretty sure. And you’re right – Arthur and Charles are riding back into camp, a dead, snow-dappled doe on the back of each horse.

“Brought some food back, boys,” Arthur calls.

They both hitch their horses at the post and hoist the limp does onto their shoulders, carrying them over to the kitchen. 

You look back at Lenny and jab a thumb over your shoulder at them. “Should we…?”

“I don’t think so,” Lenny says. “From what I seen, Arthur’s a butcher – a mean one, at that. I don’t think he’ll like it if his work’s disturbed.”

“That’s fair,” you hum. (Secretly, you want to thank Lenny profusely. You already know that Arthur’s a mean man – you don’t want to see him even meaner.)

You check over your shoulder again. From where you’re standing, you can see an old man has taken your seat in the kitchen, and you can hear Arthur giving him hell for whatever reason. What was his name again… Uncle, maybe?

Unfortunately, your staring caught Uncle’s eye. He beckons you over with a wave of his hand. You give Lenny a quiet, polite “See you later,” and head over, trudging through the thick layer of snow that’s settled on the ground.

“Yeah?” You nod at Uncle as soon as you step into the kitchen. You sidle up to the fire, warming yourself with the smoldering embers. 

“Thought it’d do Arthur some good to see the…” – Uncle waves you up-and-down – “…wonders some modernity will do you.”

“What? Modernity?” You repeat back. You tell yourself to calm down – you haven’t been found out. (Not yet.) “I’m far from modern.”

“Why, you’re perfectly modern!” Uncle says. 

“You don’t even know me.” You scoff and turn away. 

Your eyes catch Arthur wrapping wire around the back ankles of one of the doe corpses. He pulls it taut, then hooks both legs to the deer hoist. He lifts it with a grunt and puts the hoist on the hook sticking out of the wall. You avert your eyes before he turns around. 

“Well, I mean…” You shrug. “I guess I’m… sort of modern? But I don’t see any issue with what Arthur’s doing. He’s just hunting.”

Arthur’s eyes fly to you again when you say his name. You wish that the Spanish Flu had come sooner so you could wear a facemask to hide your pursed lips and clenched jaw. After a moment, he looks away.

“What a surprise,” Arthur drawls, “to find the camp rat loiterin’ around in the kitchen, chargin’ dimes for his thoughts.”

He pulls away from the deer hoist and walks over to the fire. He keeps a healthy distance, but you can still feel some sort of heat coming from him when he stands next to you. You guess a man that tall and broad would be a furnace in cold like this. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Uncle asks. “I feel we haven’t spoken for days.”

“I do my utmost to avoid you,” Arthur retorts.

Charles approaches the fire, standing on your other side. He gives you a small look that says “Ignore them. They can, and will, go on for hours like this.”

Uncle looks over at you and laughs. “He loves me, really. It’s his… sad way of showing affection.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You and Arthur turn to look at each other. You hadn’t meant to speak over him, and from the kind of-surprised look he’s sending your way, you think he didn’t mean to speak over you, either. You nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“It isn’t.” He turns back to face Uncle and waves a hand. “Now shoot, get lost.”

“Well…” Uncle shrugs and stands. “See y’all later.”

Pearson swipes a bottle from Uncle as he steps out. He then looks over at one of the deer. “See you got on just fine.”

Arthur nods toward Charles’ direction. “Charles is a wonder.”

“Have a drink, my friends.” Pearson holds out the bottle across the fire. “Ya earned it.”

Arthur takes the bottle after you wave it away. He takes a swig and sputters, coughing. “Jesus!” His voice cracks. “What is that?”

He passes the bottle to Charles, who sniffs the rim and takes a tentative sip. 

“Navy rum, sir. It’s the only thing – the only thing!” Pearson laughs as Charles hands the bottle back. “Keeps you sane, it does.”

“Yes, seems to have done a treat on you.” Arthur glances at Charles and waves a hand in his general direction. “You go rest that hand, Charles.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” Charles says. 

He makes eye contact with you and nods towards the cabins, indicating for you to follow. You do so while listening to Arthur and Pearson talk about skinning the deer. (And you hide a smile when Arthur asks Pearson if he gets to skin him, too. He’s mean, but at least he’s funny with it.)

“You settling in okay?” Charles asks when you’re in a somewhat secluded area. It’s not all that isolated, but it’s out of earshot for most people.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not being a massive asshole about everything.”

“You’re lost,” he says. (You notice he leaves out the very obvious “and scared” he could’ve tacked on the end.) “And you need help. It would be cruel not to give it to you.”

Yeah, totally! You think to yourself. You’re literally one of the kindest people alive and I’m… what? A scumbag that’s taking advantage of you? Oh, it’s so sweet that you’re ignoring the blatant lies I’m throwing in your face! Thank you, Charles! Thanks a fucking million.

“Still. Thank you,” you say instead. “You could’ve easily kicked me out in the snow and left me to freeze.” 

“We could’ve.” Charles looks out at the horizon. The way he pauses almost makes you think he’s considering it. “But we didn’t.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to reassure you or continue the conversation at all. After a few moments, you awkwardly hook your thumb over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna, uh…” You nod. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later?”

Charles is still looking out at the treeline, looking at the way the snow weighs down the leafless trees and the way even the smallest sound could disrupt everything. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

[ravenswritingblog]

candlelight

He's tired from a long day and he only needs you. The room is dimly lit by a fancy oil lamp, its flame flickering and making the shadows dance on the walls and on your naked body. His own looks like a marble statue, carved by the playful chase of light and dark, his broad shoulders pushed back as he loomed on top of you, taking his time. His biceps contracted, each hand places on the mattress on either side of your body, pinning you down to it. He needs you so desperately, he's drawn to you like bees to honey; like a siren, your body calls to him, hypnotizes him.

He lays you down gently as he kisses you softly, whispering sweet nothings on your neck, “My darlinʼ, oh my all...”

He's so entranced by you, hungry like a starved and thirsty Jesus in the desert, he desires you with sin and a heart full of love.

His mouth moves from your neck to your shoulders, and slowly, painfully almost, to your chest, your stomach, all the way down to your core.

“Be with me, please, my dear...”

You nodded, of course.

You let him spread you wide and prepare to let him in.

He put so much care into it, in making you feel so good, in making sure you were oh so ready to take him fully, so he could feel complete again after a day that drained him in every sense, emptied him to the bottom and made him a walking corpse with the only thought of you in his mind.

Once you appear satisfied enough, he lowers his body on yours and holds you close, nuzzling in your neck, leaving a wet trail with his tongue that covered your skin in goosebumps.

He looks at you, a question in his eyes:

“Can I?”

With your hands you pull him close, giving him the signal to proceed.

And so he follows, becoming a single thing with you, consuming the night.

hello guysss, im alive (incredible yes). i needed a LONG pause due to like, an absolute mess (i escape my toxic household wow) and now im restarting my whole life all over again which is pretty fucking exhausting. anyway here's this cute random suggestive drabble i wrote with both arthur morgan and nanami kento in mind even though i was writing it for the former one, so it's a little out of character for arthur lmao.

a big thank you to my beta reader and editor @yourlocallygrowngay who also provides us with this absolutely delicious meal of a picture (which inspired this beautiful scenario).

and as always, the song fitting my writing. bc im so fucking to this song.

[queer-irritator]

Impure Thoughts (Arthur Morgan x Fem! Reader)

Prompt: It’s a boiling hot day and the reader wears next to nothing.

Content warnings: Adult language, smut

Takes place in Clemen’s Point. Fem reader physique, neutral pronouns. Continuation of Bloody Knuckles, but not necessary to read it first.

Despite how cold the nights can get on the lake, the days can be brutally hot. Unfortunately today was boiling hot, and sticky from humidity. Days like this make you want to do nothing all day. Not to mention, the clothing options in stores all had far too much fabric. That’s why you’ve taken to making some undergarments of your own. You took an older pair of drawers and cut off about ¾ of the pant leg. You were currently finishing up hemming the bloomers, keeping the signature ruffles on the edge. You also added another layer of lining to make your new shorts more opaque. You cut off any loose threads, closed your tent flaps and tried them on. You sure weren’t used to seeing so much of your thighs exposed… but, then everyone else around camp walked around in their underwear. This was just shorter. You took a deep breath and assured yourself it would be fine. The camp was like family, no one would care what you wore. You exited your tent and tied up the flaps. 

“Oooh, you got some short shorts there, (y/n)!” Tilly was the first to see your new garment.

You turned around to face her, “I know… but it's just so damn hot. Does it look bad?” You asked her. 

“No, not at all! I just think you might have some of the boy’s eyes on ya.” Tilly let out a giggle. 

You blushed lightly. There was only one person here you’d want to look at you in that manner. You shifted your stance awkwardly, “You think so? I think of most of them like family.” 

“Yeah,” Tilly agreed with you, “But men will be men… especially the ones that haven’t seen that much skin in years.” 

You chuckled a little, “I’ll just give ‘em a good slap across the face.” 

Tilly laughed with you, “There you go!” She headed off to work on some laundry. 

You glanced around to see who was in camp at the moment. You started to feel a little self-conscious. You took a deep breath and reminded yourself of the countless times you’ve seen the men walk around without a shirt when it gets this hot out. You tugged on your sleeveless chemise slightly. You were just going to go about your normal routine, which started with filling wash basins. You bent down to pick up an empty bucket and felt the back of your shorts ride up slightly, exposing the bottom of your ass cheeks slightly. Standing up straight again helped the cloth cover yourself again. This is something you’ll have to get used to. 

You made your way across camp, carrying the empty pail. You definitely felt more eyes on you than normal. As you passed Dutch’s tent you saw him do a double take at you out of the corner of your eye. 

“Excuse me, (y/n), but are you TRYING to give the men in this camp a heart attack?” Dutch’s voice boomed throughout the camp. 

You stopped and turned toward him, “If the men can’t control their own thoughts then that’s their fault. It’s hotter than hell out here, Dutch. You don’t say anything when Charles or Sean parade around without a shirt.” You protested his sexism. 

Dutch sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “I do not have time to argue with you right now.” 

“Well, I do.” You stated, placing the pail down and crossing your arms.

Dutch was searching his brain as to why he had agreed to take you in, “Just… ONLY on hot days, understood?” He gave in, having too much on his mind to stand and argue.

“Yes, sir.” You said, laced with as much sarcasm as you could muster. You picked up your pail and headed to the lake to fill it up. 

Arthur was listening to Charles tell him about a lead on a stagecoach carrying a lot of money when he spotted you on the shore of the lake, bent over and filling up a pail. He could see the distinction between your upper thighs and the roundness of your ass. He shifted his feet as he could feel blood starting to head south. 

“Arthur? Are you listening to me?” Charles snapped Arthut out of his filthy thoughts.

“Yes, I am! Go on…” He lied.

Charles turned his head to see you walking back towards camp, immediately noticing your new bottoms. Seeing the full bucket in your hand, he could imagine exactly what was holding Arthur’s attention.

“Unbelievable…” He looked back to Arthur and shook his head slightly, “Come talk to me when you're done thinking with your pisser.” Charles said as he walked away. 

“I- I wasn’t thinking with my- !” Arthur turned to call at Charles but he was out of earshot by now. He let out a sigh. Why the hell were you walking around like that? God only knows what the other men were thinking about when they saw you. He walked over to Pearson’s wagon where you were emptying the pail of water into a wash basin. 

You heard his footsteps approaching you and you turned your head to greet him, “Hey Arthur.”

“Don’t you ‘Hey Arthur’ me… what the hell are you wearing?” He questioned you. You bent down to place the now empty pail on the floor, “Somethin’ I made because it’s so damn hot.” You replied to him.

He clenched his jaw as he felt his cock jump in his pants. Getting to see you bent over up close was nothing compared to earlier. 

“You can’t just walk around like that.” Arthur told you as he ran a hand down his face.

“And why not?” You turned to look at him, getting fed up with all the men telling you what to do. 

“‘Cause… the men ‘round here are gonna get… impure thoughts.” Arthur lowered his voice for the last part of his sentence. 

You sighed and had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, “Frankly, Arthur, I don’t give a shit.” 

“Well…” He was trying to think of a way to convince you to cover up without outing his jealousy. “Ya just need to cover up…” He spit out, “I’ll find ya something.” He put a hand on your upper back and led you to his tent and let down the covers for privacy the second you both were inside. 

You sighed and leaned on his cot, arms crossed across your chest in defiance. You looked around his space, it had a lot more space than your tent. His wasn’t even a tent, it was a tarp over the overhang of his wagon. He had a flower, a carton of cigarettes, and a photo on a crate near his bed. 

“Here.” Arthur handed you a pair of pants he’d been digging in a chest of clothes to find. 

You took the pants and immediately set them down on his cot next to you, “I’m not gonna change, Arthur. It’s too hot.” 

You met his gaze as he sighed and noticed a flush over his cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his face and chest. He even had a few more buttons of his shirt undone today. Your eyes continued down his body until you noticed an unusually large bulge in his pants. It made sense now as to why he was so desperate to get you to cover yourself.

“Arthur?” You called to the flustered man, looking strictly at your face. 

“Yeah?” His throat sounded a little dry.

“Are you the man in camp having “impure” thoughts about me?” You decided to tease him.

“No, I’m just trying to look out for you is all.” He deflected, now avoiding looking at you entirely. 

You pushed yourself off his cot and took a few steps closer to him. You placed a hand on the side of his face gently and turned his heat to meet your eyes once again. 

“That’s too bad. Because you’d be the only person I’d want to be havin’ those thoughts ‘bout me.” You rubbed your thumb against his cheek softly. 

“...Really?” He took a moment to respond to you, unsure if what he had just heard was correct. 

You nodded at him, “Mhm… You gonna kiss me, Arthur Morgan, or do I have to?” You teased him. 

Arthur placed his hands on your waist and closed the space in between you and gently kissed you. 

You closed your eyes and sighed happily into the kiss, you moved your hand to the back of his neck and deepened the kiss and parted your mouth slightly.

Arthur slid his tongue into your mouth and tugged your body closer until it was flush with his. You could feel the pressure of his clothed erection against you which caused your face to flush. You reluctantly broke the kiss and instructed Arthur to sit on his cot. He obeyed and sat so that his back was resting against the wagon. You climbed on top of his lap, legs on either side of him and kissed him again, your hands on either side of his face. Arthur’s hands found their way to your ass and he began to knead your flesh. 

This caused you to moan into his mouth and grind your hips down on to his strained erection. Arthur’s grip on your ass tightened and he began to plant kisses down your neck. You moved your hands down and unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and explored his torso with your hands. 

One of Arthur’s hands left your ass and slipped in the front of your shorts and found your clit with ease. 

You gasped at the feeling of his hand in your pants, it was like all your fantasies were coming true in this single moment. You fumbled with the buckle to his gun holster and then groaned in annoyance when you found he had another belt buckle to get through. 

“Too many fucking buckles.” You whispered, more to yourself than to Arthur, but it earned you a chuckle from the beautiful man beneath you. You worked on his belt buckle while Arthur’s fingers began to rub you in lazy circles. 

You leaned your forehead on his shoulder and moaned softly at the sensation. You wanted to make him feel just as good, so you got his belt off and ripped open his pants and shoved your hand down them and found his cock. He was definitely gifted, just the right length and the most girth you’ve ever felt. He let out a groan of pleasure, he spread around the wetness you were producing and easily slid two fingers inside you. It was like a competition of who could make the other person feel the best. 

You moaned, louder than you mean to, when you felt his fingers inside you. You began to kiss him sloppily, and open-mouthed as you grinded down on his digits. You also began to stroke his length, earning a muffled moan from Arthur. 

You broke the kiss and straightened your back, causing Arthur’s fingers to hit your g-spot. You moaned and started to move your hips faster, speeding up your strokes as well. 

“Yes, please, Arthur, right there!” You could feel yourself getting closer to your release. You started to apply more pressure to the head of Arthur’s cock on each stroke. You could feel his body start to tense up. 

“Gonna make me cum with all your dirty talkin’” Arthur grunted.

“Can’t help it. You feel so good.” You blubbered, starting to feel incoherent from all the pleasure.

Arthur used his thumb to rub your clit at the same time. You used your free hand to clasp onto his shoulder as your orgasm peaked and washed over you. 

“Holy shit.” You moaned as you rode yourself through the pleasure. 

You unknowingly had tightening your grip on Arthur’s member and he began to thrust his hips up in time with your strokes. Arthur moved both his hands to a death grip onto your waist as he moaned with his own climax. 

“So fuckin’ good, darlin’.” He praised you as he used one hand to move some hair that was sticking to your face with sweat. His cum had splattered onto his own naked torso and onto your white chemise. 

You sighed in contentment and leaned all your weight against Arthur, feeling exhausted. 

Arthur stroked your head and mumbled all sorts of nonsense at you. 

“Don’t know how long I’ve been wanting that… Better than I could have imagined too.” He kissed your head.

His words made you smile, “Well, now I’m yours so we can do it whenever you want.” You told him, your subtle way of confessing your feelings. 

“Sounds perfect.” He switched from stroking your hair to rubbing your back, “But I’m the only one who gets to see you in these, okay?” He said, a hand resting on your ass. You blushed and nodded, “Alright.” You assured him as you straightened up and slid off his lap. 

“Give me the goddamn pants.” You finally gave in. 

Arthur gave you a smile as he gave you the pants that were next to him and you slid them on. 

“Looks like you need a shirt too.” He observed, a stripe of cum was already drying on your shirt. 

“Mmh, everyone’s definitely gonna know something’s up when I come out in your clothes.” You took off your shirt and grabbed one of Arthur’s button ups and put it on. 

Arthur shrugged slightly, “Pretty sure the whole damn town knew I was sweet on ya.” He cleaned up himself and buttoned his shirt and pants, followed by his belt and gun holster. 

You smiled at him, “I could say the same thing.” You said, giving him a kiss.

[sir-walton-goggins]

Make Me Feel Human

A short fic about making Arthur Morgan feel loved because, oh boy does he need it. Gn reader, no use of y/n. Pure, unadulterated fluff.

------

The best thing about going on a food run with Arthur was that at least you could finally be alone together. You two always came back with plenty of meat and two big, dumb smiles on your faces.

Taking a break from hunting, you guys retired in the tent you had prepared to fool around a bit.

Arthur took your hand and led you inside, sitting you on his lap before kissing you, over and over and over. Small kisses peppered all over your features, then slow, passionate kisses turned into a full on making out session. He loved kissing you so much he would've stayed there all night doing just that. The small breaths you took in between kisses, the happy sighs that exited your nostrils, the small moans of enjoyment you made were music to his ears. He just missed you constantly and wished he got to do that more often. So he had to make it count when a chance like this presented itself.

You gently cupped his jaw as you introduced the tip of your tongue into his mouth, expecting him to suck it as he usually did, but this time he surprised you: he slid part of his tongue inside, making you jolt with surprise. You gladly followed his lead, enjoying this new development in how comfortable and bold he was becoming with you. At the beginning, he was almost afraid to touch you. Now, Arthur kissed you like he was hungry, his low pitched moans making your stomach burn with desire. You wished he was more vocal in these situations because you loved his voice, especially when he spoke softly. He only did that with you, so not nearly enough. You ran a hand through his long hair, and he hummed in approval. He loved it when you touched his hair: when he needed to unwind at night, he would gingerly ask to lay on your lap so you could play with his golden locks.

He trailed off your lips for a moment, leaving kisses on your chin and jaw before stopping to admire you. You smiled and tucked a shorter strand of hair behind his ear.

“What?” he chuckled, sensing you had something to say. He knew you well.

“You’re just so handsome.” You trailed your fingers along his shaved cheek. Arthur knew you liked him best when he was smooth shaven and his coarse facial hair wasn’t mercilessly poking at your sensitive skin, so he happily obliged if it meant you would kiss him more.

“Nah” he scoffed, “the only beautiful person in here is you.” And he was back on your lips, but you pushed him back playfully. The cowboy looked at you in confusion, his blue eyes searching yours.

“Are you saying I have bad taste, Morgan?” you provoked him, attempting to look outraged but unable to wipe that sarcastic smirk off your face.

Arthur struggled to answer, visibly torn between stating his alleged ugliness once more and insulting your taste.

“Well, when you put it like that…”

You leaned in again, hovering your lips on his and watching his eyes flutter shut. How beautiful he looked when you were about to kiss him, his features finally relaxed and his eyebrows slightly tilted upwards. He caught you off-guard when he suddenly closed the space between your mouths, sucking fervently on your bottom lip and sinking into you with his whole body. You could feel his heart racing against your chest now, pumped from all the love he felt for you.

“What is it you like ‘bout me anyways?” he murmured softly against your lips. His cheeks were as red as freshly picked cherries and you couldn’t tell if he was blushing of if he was just hot.

“I… like… your eyes,” you laid your lips on his eyelids in between words and Arthur sighed blissfully.

“Your nose,” you pecked the tip of his nose and he smirked, amused by your little game.

“Your chin,” you focused on the hollow just underneath his bottom lip, making him release a shaky breath.

“Your scars,��, the two pink marks on his chin were given your attention too, along with the few small cuts around his lips, under his eye and across the bridge of his nose.

“Your wrinkles.” He kept his eyes closed as you kissed every place where his tanned skin folded: the sides of his nose, his forehead and his temples.

“Everything about you is beautiful to me. You don’t even have to try, Arthur.”

Arthur thought he was going to cry. Nobody had ever made him feel like you did, so loved, so cared for and… well, not as ugly as he saw himself. Your eyes, your voice… there was no way you didn’t mean what you said, and he had a talent for recognizing bullshit. He felt his eyes glazing over and blinked quickly to fight back some tears. He didn’t know how to react to praise, as he was usually the one doing it.

Sensing his internal turmoil, you hugged him tight. He hid his face in the crook of your neck and let a lonely tear roll down his cheek.

“Thank you” he whispered against your shoulder.

“For what?”

“For making me feel human.”

[1-800-apricot]

imagine dancing with arthur morgan

Thinking about dancing with Arthur Morgan late at night. The night had now aged and people had found their way to bed. But you and Arthur remained awake. Perhaps his senses had been dulled by a couple swallows of bourbon. And perhaps your own mind had been lightened by the impending sleepiness. 

It was a rare instance of true emotional intimacy with Arthur Morgan. A man raised and trained for crime. A man who might’ve been a lover but rarely moved past practical romance. Yes there were instances that could be mistaken for the intimacy of deeply intertwined lovers. However, that was nothing more than fool’s gold. It shimmered like intimacy but it was not made up of it. 

Instead it is when Arthur’s breath was tinted with alcohol. Not enough to forget himself, but enough to free his mind of the duties that chained him down. This is when he loves deeply. When he bares his soul to you. Unguarded and vulnerable.

The dimming camp fire would cast a glow upon both your figures. Just enough to see an outline of each other's features. The darkness above and around offered a backdrop. Painted with blues, greens, and violets. Stars splattered across the large expanse of the heavens. No signs of life beyond drunken mumblings, crickets, and your own breathing. And just like that there was your stage. 

A place where you both could play whoever you wanted. He didn’t have to be an outlaw and you didn’t have to justify his actions. Instead there were only two lovers illuminated by a campfire and surrounded by darkness. He’d take your hand after minutes of silent contemplation and quiet conversation. The steps would be messy at first. Unsure and hesitant until confidence and comfort grew between you. 

There was no music to accompany the two as you moved in unison. However there were sweet nothings and whispered dreams to replace that. Words that were sweeter than any song and falser than any fairytale. This was part of loving Arthur Morgan. Forever speaking of  dreams that would never come to fruition. That ranch out west and cabin up north would never be built. 

Even as you two crafted a picture of it. Whispering your details of these places and lives. Sharing what all you’d do as he agreed and spoke of what he’d do in return. Embroidering details into what you imagined would be a tapestry of the future. It all seemed so lifelike. Arthur had always been a good artist. 

He didn’t always complete his art though. Sketching out how it’d look. Adding details as he went along. But that was all. There was no color. No completion. Only ideas of what could be. Knowing what it looked like but never truly understanding what could be.

This was the truth of loving Arthur Morgan. Where the truest intimacy he could give was tainted in bourbon. Not a soul to witness the loving kisses and devoted words. Silhouetted by a hazy glow as you two swayed back and forth. Forever living in fantasy. Forever dreading separating from the other as you both knew in the end you were doomed to return to reality. The fiction you created for your stage would remain just that. Fiction.