#arthurmorganxreader

<3

hi!♥ i hope this is what u wanted.... im not good at writing fluff but i really tried my best!! as always there might be a lot of mistakes oops.

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It was supposed to be a simple job—quick, clean, no trouble. And it was, save for the fever that had clung to you all day before. But you, stubborn little mule that you were, always so damn determined to prove yourself just as useful as the men, had pushed through the blurred, doubled vision and rode out for the robbery.

Everything had gone as planned. You’d played your part, kept your head high and steady, even as that pounding in your skull gnawed at your senses and had your jaw clenching against the pain.

Victory had been within reach.

But you sure as hell hadn’t noticed the storm rolling in, not until the skies cracked open and drowned the plains in a downpour. The dry earth turned slick, treacherous under the weight of the rain, and Dutch had barked the order to split—better scattered than a whole pack of outlaws riding back together after spilling blood across the land.

Instinct, or maybe something deeper, had Arthur riding north with you. He’d noticed the flush on your cheeks, a heat that had nothing to do with excitement, and the way your eyes burned too bright, like fever-lit lanterns flickering against the storm.

The trail had turned to sludge beneath the relentless rain, each step of your horse more uncertain than the last. The path blurred—double, then triple—until, without warning, the world tilted, and you were falling.

Your body hit the ground, swallowed by the mud, clothes clinging heavy and soaked through to the skin. You burned—hot and fast—your breath coming quick and shallow, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

Arthur was off his horse in an instant.

His gut twisted, seized by something raw, something cold, as he dropped to his knees beside you. A thousand terrible things flashed through his mind, each one worse than the last.

"Dammit…" His voice was low, rough, choked by worry.

Your lashes fluttered weakly, the world around you thick and sluggish, spinning in and out of focus. Time had lost all meaning. The only thing you truly felt was the steady, pounding ache in your skull—a cruel, throbbing proof that you were still alive.

Your lips were dry, leeched of colour. Arthur reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle for hands so accustomed to violence, tilting your chin up just enough to see your face, to look into your eyes.

"You with me, woman? Can you hear me?"

His gaze locked onto yours—wild, desperate, like he’d ride through hell itself just to get you right again.

"Arthur..?"

Your voice was nothing more than a whisper—so faint, so fragile, that a deer in the distance would’ve spoken with more conviction.

Even with your blurred vision, you could still make out the face you’d cherished more than some civilizations worship the stars. That three-day beard—rugged, untamed—was closer than ever, the kind of rough silk you’d longed to touch a hundred times over, though that mercy had never been granted to you.

Arthur pressed his lips together, something twisting in his gut, a slow-burning rage born of seeing you like this. It was the kind of anger that could bring a whole army to its knees.

"I’m here, darlin’… What the hell happened to you?"

You tried to speak, but no sound made it past your lips. Before you could even attempt again, you felt a strong arm slide beneath your shoulders, another under your legs. And then—suddenly—you were against him, your head pressing into a broad chest marked by scars you’d never seen before.

He lifted you like you were nothing but a feather in arms that had only ever known how to take, never to give. The only response you could muster was a rough, aching whimper as the motion sent nausea twisting through your stomach.

"I know, girl, I know… Just hold on, alright, darlin’? Ain't lettin’ you die out here. Stay with me, you hear?"

You were still wrapped in his arms, encircled by a kind of gentleness you’d never have imagined from a man like him. He carried you toward his horse, mounting as best he could with you against him, then kicked the beast into motion, shielding you from the rain as much as he was able.

He rode hard, long enough for the muddy roads to turn unfamiliar—or maybe it was just your fevered haze keeping you from recognizing them. After what felt like an eternity, pressed tight against his chest, you felt yourself being lifted again.

Through your hazy vision, you caught sight of a rundown cabin, its wooden frame damp and sagging from years of wear. The scent of dust clung to the air, tickling your nose enough to make you sneeze. Arthur laid you down on a makeshift bed, the sheets rough and questionably clean, though you were too far gone to care.

Minutes passed—maybe more—your eyes fighting to stay open as the flicker of firelight stretched long shadows over the cabin walls. Arthur had gotten a fire going, its glow dancing across his face as he knelt beside you, hesitant fingers brushing against your forehead.

The touch sent you reeling.

"You’re burnin’ up…" he muttered, pulling off your rain-soaked poncho.

Your breath came slow, uneven, and when he started undoing the buttons of your shirt—his movements too careful, too respectful—it made you pause. His blues flickered away, not wanting to make you uneasy, though his fingers struggled with the buttons all the same.

You must’ve drifted, because the next thing you knew, he had a cloth—damp and cool—wiping the sweat from your skin.

"Ain’t much of a doctor," he murmured.

"You're doin’ alright, cowboy." You managed, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips as you watched Arthur turn away to prepare some kind of herbal brew—probably something he’d seen Hosea use before.

Time felt distorted, stretched thin by fever and the sight of Arthur so damn close. He took a step toward you, closing the space between you both, before pressing a cup against your parched lips.

"Drink, woman."

"Ugh." You groaned, taking a sip—and instantly regretted it. A grimace twisted your face as you swallowed. "Arthur, that’s goddamn awful."

"That so?" He raised a brow, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Well, reckon dyin’s worse. ’Specially if I gotta be the one to put you in the ground ’cause you won’t listen. Drink. You need it."

There wasn’t much arguing with that tone, nor the way his voice carried the weight of something final. You took another sip, this time without protest.

The cabin fell into quiet save for the rain hammering against the roof and the soft crackling of the fire. Arthur remained beside you, kneeling close, offering whatever warmth he could. He wiped the sweat from your brow with steady hands, bending to your every need without a single complaint. He held firm, but there was something raw in his silence—an ache he wouldn’t voice, a torment buried deep in the pit of his gut.

"You best pull through, woman," he muttered, voice gruff.

You didn’t answer with words, only squeezed his hand where it still cradled yours. Arthur had let his mind wander to places he never should’ve let it go—to the thought of burying you, of watching the dirt swallow you whole. It drove something sharp into his chest, something real painful, and his fingers ghosted over yours as if you might break right there in his grasp. His face was tight with something unspoken, something he’d never let himself feel before.

"Arthur…" you whispered, shifting slightly beneath the heavy blankets wrapped around you.

"M’right here."

His grip tightened, grounding you.

"You got a hell of a fever, idiot… Why the hell didn’t you stay at camp?"

You coughed, a flush creeping up your cheeks—not from the fever, but from something more shameful. The firelight only deepened the colour.

"I… just wanted to be useful. And… to impress you."

Arthur clicked his tongue, visibly torn between frustration and something else—something softer—before he exhaled long and slow.

"That’s dumb."

That was the last thing you heard before the fever dragged you under again, into a restless sleep.

You tossed and turned, soft whimpers slipping past your lips, every shift of your body a fresh jolt of pain. Once, you stirred just enough to catch a glimpse of Arthur—slumped in a chair, arms crossed, chin dipped forward as sleep caught up with him. And then, just like that, you were gone again.

For once, there were no dreams—only sickness, only survival.

By the time dawn finally crept through the cracks in the cabin walls, it cast the room in pale gold. Soft beams of light stretched across the floor, catching on Arthur’s still form. His hat sat low, covering most of his face, but what little was visible looked almost… peaceful. The sun kissed the hard lines of his features, making him look less like some untouchable legend and more like a man.

With the careful movements of a body still aching, you propped yourself up on your elbows, then dared to try slipping out of bed.

A deep, tired growl cut through the quiet, stopping you in your tracks.

"Wouldn’t do that if I were you."

Arthur’s voice was rough, thick with sleep, but his eyes—half-lidded, sharp—were already locked onto you.

"Did you stay up watcin' over me all night?"

"I wouldn't go makin’ a fuss ‘bout it if I were you." His voice was low, rough, like a man speaking more to himself than to the world.

He stretched, not with grace but with the quiet authority of a man who owned the space he stood in. Then he rose to his feet, his shadow stretching long in the early light.

"You'll be alright, just gotta take it easy these next few days." He leaned down, pressing a calloused palm to your forehead, the heat of your fever pulsing against his touch. "You feelin’ any better?"

"Yeah."

"Good." You swore you felt the ghost of his finger trailing over your skin. "I’d hate to be haulin’ you around all day, dumbass."

"Arthur." You forced the name past the tightness in your throat. You felt a little stronger, but nowhere near free of the sickness that still had its claws in you.

He turned, brow raised, the golden light playing across his face, softening him in a way you’d never imagined.

"I reckon," you swallowed, heart pounding, "a little human warmth's worth more than a pile of blankets."

A flicker of something crossed his eyes—shock, hesitation—before a slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips.

"You’re a damn pain in the ass when you're sick, darling."

"So..?"

He didn’t hesitate this time. With one step, he closed the space between you, lowering himself beside you on the bed. The so-called safe distance shattered as his arm slid around your waist, pulling you to him. Your stomach flipped at the warmth of his touch. He looked away, pretending to take in the room, but suddenly, he felt more fragile, more human, than ever before.

"Arthur," you whispered again, voice weak.

"Mhhm..?" His grip on your waist never loosened.

"Thank you."

You felt his fingers tighten against you. And before you could think, before you could talk yourself out of it, you lifted your face and pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his lips.

Silence.

You had no idea why you did it. But now you both lay there, stiff, unmoving, as Arthur stared at you, eyes wide. A thousand sensations crashed through you, and when he finally broke the quiet, his voice was nothing more than a whisper.

"You goddamn fool."

"I'm sorry," you blurted, regret already sinking its teeth in.

"Christ, don’t be," he muttered.

And in that instant, you saw something rare flicker across his face—something tender, something delicate. The red creeping up his cheeks, painting his ears, his throat. Something had bloomed between you, fragile, waiting to be nurtured by two lost souls who’d only ever known how to take.

He shattered the distance between you again, lips pressing against yours—not rushed, not reckless, but desperate in the way a man starved of something good finally lets himself taste it. You were there, soft and warm, slipping between his fingers like something precious.

"Maybe I’m the fool in all this," he murmured against your lips, his breath mixing with yours, unwilling to pull away.

The fever in your skull felt almost sweet, for just a moment.

"Then that makes two of us."

"No, no, darling, it ain't that."

His gaze flickered away, his large hand scraping over his beard, restless. Then, voice rougher, almost hesitant, he muttered,

"Shit, woman. If I start wantin’ you—wantin’ this—there ain’t no going back."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with meaning. And then, without a word, you leaned in, pressing a kiss against the heat of his flushed cheek.

"You goddamn fool," you murmured, mimicking him. "I don’t want to go back."

Arthur finally exhaled, a breath that felt like surrender. He leaned in, forehead pressing against yours, the tension in his face easing as though he was tasting freedom for the first time in years. He breathed you in, every soft exhale, like a man starved for something real.

"Good," he murmured, softer now, less rough edges, more warmth.

**MINORS DNI**

Part II

Pairing: NASCAR!Arthur Morgan x Spotter!Reader (fem reader)

Summary: Arthur Morgan is the up and coming NASCAR driver for the Cup Series, and you are his spotter, his eyes in the sky.

Warnings: Edging, cl!t stimulation, cum, nsfw, eventual smut

Word Count: 3.8k AO3 Link

As the crew’s spotter, you were their “eye in the sky” – or at least, as high in the sky as you could be atop the grandstands overlooking the speedway. All NASCAR spotters took their positions here on competition day, but for now, you were the one lone figure during this early morning, when the fog could still creep through the air without the sun burning through it. Not really the best conditions for a spotter but Dutch, the crew chief, was adamant on the entire Van der Linde crew practicing from dawn to dusk to prepare for the Cup Series.

Come hell or high water, we need to be prepared for every possible situation he said.

Much to everyone’s surprise, your team climbed to the upper echelons of NASCAR racing despite coming from mainly humble beginnings. With the 1 million dollar prize money and the crew’s reputation in the NASCAR world on the line, practicing for the upcoming race was of utmost importance to Dutch.

The issue was… the star of the show was late to practice. The crew’s driver, Arthur Morgan.

Your hands were shoved into your pockets, the zipper of your crew jacket inched all the way up to your chin. With the morning chill still in its wake, your nose and cheeks were flushed pink, and the only protection against the cool temperatures was the headset enclosing your ears, muffling the sounds of the outside world.

Suddenly, your ears were able to register the familiar sound of static coming from the head set. You pulled your right hand out of your pockets, unclenching the unconscious fist you made to fumble with the mouthpiece. You quickly adjusted the stem over your mouth, the foam just a millimeter from grazing your lips.

“H-Hello?” Your voice came out slightly hoarse as this was the first time you were putting your vocal cords to use today.

“Missed me?” Arthur’s voice rumbles through the channel. His signature southern drawl was tinged with slight static.

Speak of the devil. You approached the metal railing of the grandstands and couldn’t help but instinctively look down the speedway to find him yourself. If your headset was able to register the input of his voice, surely he was finally on the race tracks. As you leaned over the railing, your eyes scanned the asphalt… settling right on the outline of a figure that you knew had to be Arthur, sauntering slowly to his car– his baby girl he calls it. The pit crew was currently working on the car, servicing any of its parts that needed maintenance.

“You’re gonna get an earful from Dutch,” You warned him. The crew chief wouldn’t be too happy to hear that we were off schedule.

“But I already get plenty of that from you darlin,” He teased in a low voice. Arthur stood a couple of paces away from his race car. Despite how far away you were, you were able to make out his easy going countenance. You saw him standing with his weight shifted to the side, and his hands loosely grasping his waistband, the velcro collar of his NASCAR uniform relaxed and open to expose his throat.

You shook your head, but he managed to earn a smile from you. “How anyone puts up with you…” Your voice trailed off into the mouthpiece. You usually were able to deal with his antics, but it took some getting used to in the beginning. Dutch, perhaps a little less, but for him, it was like a father admonishing his son. He’d always forgive him. In the end, Arthur’s driving skills spoke for itself.

“That’s why I have you.” Despite the maybe half mile distance from you two, he spoke as if you were right there standing in front of him. “Take care of me today too, alright?” He spoke softly into the mic. Cockiness and arrogance gone without a trace from his voice. His middle and index finger were pressed against his earpiece as he tilted his head up towards you.

And you would. Without question. Once he was on the race tracks, it was just you and him. If you told him to do a somersault on the pavement, he would. One time, for fun, you told him to sing “Old McDonald Had a Farm,” and without skipping a beat, he bellowed out the song through the channel driving 200 mph. He sang the E’s and I’s zipping straight to your eardrums. That was the sort of trust between a driver and a spotter. You never hesitated.

But you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction. Not yet.

“Cute. Now get in the car, Morgan.”

He chuckled. “Yes ma’am.”

He turned his back towards you, but secretly, you wished you could watch him there forever, not strapped inside his car and hidden away from your vision. As a spotter, you were the closest to the driver but also the furthest.

Arthur’s easygoing stride quickened to a purposeful pace towards his car. He stopped to talk to the car chief and the engineer while handing off Arthur’s helmet to him. Most likely they were updating him as to what alterations and adjustments they made to his vehicle. There was no sound output on your side since Arthur would usually cut off the channel until he was inside the car. With a practiced motion, he slipped the helmet over his head, securing it snugly in place. You saw his hand clasp the top of the window frame and deftly swung his legs through to the inside of the racing vehicle, like putting thread through a needle.

Members of the pit crew moved quickly to make last minute checks on the car. With Arthur now in the driver’s seat, they helped pull the straps and click the buckles, securing him tightly into place.

You let a few more minutes pass by before you spoke into the mouthpiece again. Without his figure directly in your sight, speaking into the channel felt like you were probing your way blindly in the dark, searching for some sort of sign or signal.

“Morgan? Are you there?” You received only static as your response.

“Morgan?” You tried again. Did he forget to dial back into the channel? “Arthur–”

“Missin’ me already?” His husky voice entered your ears again. “Don’t worry. You know I can’t stay away.”

Damn him for making you feel the slightest bit worried. Sometimes he really liked to push his luck with you. “Just start driving,” You replied curtly, a frown on your face. You felt sympathy for him when Dutch would be on his ass about practice, but now you were starting to share the same feelings as the crew chief.

“Alright~ you know I’m just playin’ with cha” He spoke easily trying to diffuse the situation, as he always ends up doing with you. You could hear him revving up the engine now as it roars to life. “In position.”

You nodded and used your fingers to press the foam piece tight against your lips, making sure the morning wind had no chance to garble the transmission. No more games now.

“Clear all around.” You announce to Arthur, letting him know that there were no cars in his immediate vicinity.

“Copy,” He responds promptly, the humor clear out of his tone.

And at that, you watch his car from high above propel past the starting line at lightning speed. The next time after this, he would be driving in the Daytona Cup Series.

----------

It was only hours away from the big race. You could hear the roar of the crowd in the stands outside and the bustling of the other crews scrambling to get ready in their section of the expansive NASCAR garage. Your crew had their own section as well to tend to the maintenance of Arthur’s car. There could be absolutely no mistake tonight.

All of the crew members including you were standing in a team huddle formation, with Dutch maintaining position as the forefront and you and Arthur standing next to each other in the circle.

“Now son, I won’t deny that you’re the fastest driver out there” Dutch motioned to the direction of the race track. “But I’m tellin’ you, you can’t be too reckless. Understand? Keep a clear head and keep yourself tight on the inside track.”

You nodded your head in agreement with the crew chief, turning to look at Arthur. “O'Driscoll's driver will be at your bumper constantly during the race.” You knew the patterns of the rival NASCAR gangs extensively from both live races and previous tapes. The Pinkertons also ran the Van Der Linde crew for their money.

“They’ll drive to overtake you at any chance they can get. Pinkerton’s driver likes to play dirty too.” You warned him.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” Arthur says gruffly as he slowly rubs his hand across the back of his neck.

“If we win, drinks are on John,” Javier, the crew’s car chief and Dutch’s right hand man, comes up behind Arthur and claps a hand over his shoulder in friendly gesture. He grins over to John standing on Dutch’s left hand side and winks. John gives him a heated glare, clearly not looking pleased that he’ll be taking the tab for the entire crew’s drinking expenditures tonight.

Arthur’s eyes light up mischievously with this new information.

“Well, I’ll be~” His hands briefly disappear into his pockets to pull out his pair of black leather gloves. “Then I guess I can save some of that prize money for a rainy day.”

And with that, the tension that was unconsciously in the air for the entire crew dissipated as all of the members let out easygoing laughs and jokes.

“Alright, now y'all know what to do” Dutch reigns in the crew with his authoritative voice. “Do your jobs and clear out.”

He didn’t have to repeat himself. The crew immediately disperses and gets to work. Arthur takes his time though and slides his fingers snugly into his gloves. Even at the most important point of his career, he’ll still take his sweet time with the same demeanor as if he was just at practice.

You were beginning to follow suit with the others. Your place wasn’t here, but at the top of the grandstands. Your headset was already prepared and hooked around your neck.

Just as you were about to set off though, a booming voice freezes you in place.

“Hey. Where do you think you’re goin’?” Arthur asks pointedly.

It felt as if you were caught red-handed in a crime you didn’t commit. You awkwardly pointed your index finger up towards the top of the stadium, motioning with your eyes as well.

“Up towards the box… like I usually do…” Your voice wavers with uncertainty. Was there something wrong? You could sense a hint of annoyance in his tone.

“You run off without even a ‘good luck’ for me?” He frowns.

You immediately feel apologetic. “O-oh! Sorry. Good luck…” You respond half-heartedly by mistake. It was hard to muster up the enthusiasm when it felt as if you were being put under a harsh spotlight. It was strange. Through the radio transmission, you had no hesitation exchanging banter with Arthur during practice. But in person? That was a different story. There was no channel or static that could hide your expressions or body from him when the two of you were face to face.

“You upset with me or somethin’?”

“Upset?” Your eyes widen in wild confusion. “With what?”

Arthur grows frustrated as he tries to find the right words. He tightens the velcro that fastens around his wrist into place.

“Just– you been distant.”

“Morgan, what are you talking about? I see you practically everyday. The job kind of warrants it.” Your voice held steady, but you started getting nervous trying to deflect his questioning, your palms sweaty.

“That ain’t it.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m talkin’ outside of work.” He finally looks straight into your eyes this time, his eyes peering through you to find an answer. You felt like a butterfly pinned under a magnifying glass for observation. “Before we got big. You weren’t cold like this.”

You thickly swallow down your saliva. Maybe you did try to keep your distance from him. But you couldn’t help it. Arthur Morgan the NASCAR driver was a big star now. People knew his name even if you didn’t know much about the sport. He’s Dutch’s prize pony and workhorse at the same time. Not only did the crew’s success hinge on his performance on the racetrack, but on his public performance too. Press conferences, interviews, even late night shows, Dutch made sure he was there to set his image and establish his fame.

You remember one time when you watched Arthur on a screen backstage for a press conference after a big upset at a different circuit race. This took place back when the crew was still building up its reputation. He didn’t even need his own PR team. He had this laidback charm and easygoing grin that could pull his audience in.

Despite all those years as Arthurs’ spotter, you noticed fame didn’t get to his head. It was mainly just him getting busier.

That’s why you were scared to take more of his time. It was reserved for the crew and for his career as a NASCAR driver. He didn’t belong to you in the first place. Out in the stadium, up on the grandstands, you were just a voice in his head. But you still made sure to take your job as his spotter seriously. At least with the headset, you were able to hear the sound of his voice. Because it was a one way radio channel between just you and him. You could delude yourself into thinking he was yours, even for a little bit.

“Sorry…” You apologized again as you turned your head to the side, avoiding his eyes. You felt so stupid. “If I came off that way, I didn’t mean to.”

He crosses his arms across his chest. He was silent and grave as he kept you standing there, still not satisfied with your answer.

“I–” You were fumbling for any sort of explanation. It was tough with Arthur looking at you so intently. An involuntary blush was rising up your neck.

“I didn’t want to distract you.” You shut your eyes in embarrassment. There, was he happy now?

His eyes widened in surprise.

“Distract me?” It was his turn to be completely bewildered by your admission. “Darlin’ you’re in my ear 24/7.” He taps his earpiece lightly. “It’s tough not to be. What are you goin’ on about?”

You held your hands together, fidgeting with your fingers. You could talk about how just speaking with him makes you happy. Or the giddy feeling you get when he gives you his signature lazy, gentle smile just before he slides on his helmet. And that you want to be more than just his spotter. But usually before any of those thoughts come to fruition, he gets whisked off immediately to attend to more important matters for the sake of the crew.

You don’t want to just be the voice in his head anymore. You want to touch him.

You finally looked up to meet his gaze, but this time your eyes met his with astonishment.

“You…?” He asks you softly.

You clamped your fingers over your lips that had just betrayed you, feeling absolutely mortified. The heat in your face having risen to make your cheeks flush pink. Did you just…?

You held a hand up in defense, already thinking of a million excuses, most of which made no sense.

“That’s not– I wasn’t–” What had gotten into you? Just before the Daytona Cup Series too. Maybe the pressure of winning was getting to your head as well. “I didn’t– I didn’t mean to say that.”

You stood there withstanding Arthur’s unbearable silence, your head held low. This was the absolute worst moment you could let your feelings get the best of you. Arthur was at the height of his career, and all of the prize money was on the line for the crew. You were frightened that you could be responsible for jeopardizing that.

“Come with me.” He uncrossed his arms and extended his palm out to you. You didn’t have any time to read his expression. His frame was already turned away from you, but he kept his arm out, waiting for your hand.

Hearing the authority in his voice, you knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to refuse him. You stepped towards him and reached your hand to rest in his. Without hesitation, his fingers move to interlock with yours, and he pulls you along with him to who knows where. Heat and pleasure bloom in your chest as your gaze lays fixed on your hands clasped together, not even noticing that he was guiding you to a more secluded area of the garage pit.

The two of you ended up in a dimmed hallway, still accessible to the other NASCAR crews but not warranting enough attention to the presence of you both.

In that moment, you realized how close Arthur was to you as you saw his body looming over yours. He took slow, deliberate steps that forced you back to the wall of the corridor. As your backside collided with the hard surface, his large, bulky frame leaned in towards you, pinning you in place. He placed his hand against the wall as it was millimeters away from your head.

“What are you–” Your question was cut short. The breath was knocked out of you when you felt him step his leg forward to nestle his knee between your thighs.

Surprised at the sensation, your hands helplessly found purchase on his hips, holding on for dear life.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this to you?” He leans in towards your ear, breathing down your throat but his lips never quite land on skin. He brings his other hand to have his fingers slowly skim down your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake even with his gloves on.

You look at him with weak eyes, affection but also embarrassment clear on your face. He stares back at you darkly with lust and desire clear in his heated gaze.

“Every. Single. Time.”

You gasp as you feel his knee drive up towards your cunt, drawing tight circles against your clit. You hook your fingers in the loopholes of his crew uniform to hold yourself steady. Eyes turned glossy, you rolled your head against the wall to look towards the end of the hallway, crew and pit members still scrambling about to get ready for the race, but paying no mind to anything else despite the two of you being in such a public place.

“Just when I think I have you, you slip outta my fingers.” He says gruffly.

You close your eyes to bask in the deep rumble of his voice, resonating through your bones. You instinctively arch your back at the sound, seeking more pleasure as you raise your hips.

“And that cute voice of yours in my ear.” A guttural groan escapes his lips. “Always imagining how I can mess you up.”

His hand hovers down the silhouette of your waist, over your hips, to cup over your ass, lifting it up to give him more leeway in driving his knee up your entrance. You were mesmerized by this point, your cheeks tinted pink as you licked your lips growing dry from the short breaths you were taking. In the deepest crevices in your mind, you wanted him so desperately, and your wish was coming true. You tilted your chin up towards him as the back of your head rested against the wall, meeting his gaze. There was no turning back now with your feelings laid bare.

Arthur was creating delicious friction between your clit and his leg, soaking your panties with your cum and even leaving a stain on the fabric covering his knee. He groans at the sight, but keeps rubbing you until you supposed the stain was large and wet enough to satisfy him. Fortunately his uniform was black with red accents, so any questions asked could be easily explained with his trademark charm and grin.

“Arthur.” You begged him, eyes pleading. You dug your fingers into his hips to compensate for the orgasm creeping down your belly straight to your cunt, threatening to consume you.

“Pissed me off when you’d just run off without as much as a word.” His voice was rough as he was getting off on your own pleasure. He gives an appreciative tug at your ass. “But now I know you’re my own personal pussy. Isn’t that right?”

You laugh. “Brute.” You teased him, even when you were at his mercy.

He chuckles softly. “After all of this is done and through…” He splays his hand along your jawline and presses his thumb against your lips, demanding entrance. You part them open obediently, and you felt his finger prod deeply to play around with your tongue.

“You have three minutes to get down from the top once the last car crosses the finish line. Three minutes. Anything over and you’re in trouble. Understand me?” His grip on your jaw was firm as his breath washes over your face.

With his thumb still in your mouth, you could only nod your head in response. Your body shuddered at the idea of even just being a couple seconds late and what he would do to you.

“Good girl.” He wasn’t talking about the car this time. You couldn’t help but whimper at the sudden praise. He draws his thumb out of your mouth, bringing it to his lips to take a quick swipe at your saliva, as if he was getting the last remnants of his meal off his finger.

He draws his knee back too, leaving your core feeling weak and empty. You didn’t want him to stop, but it was just moments away from the race. Dutch would be furious if he wasn’t ready by his car, set to go. He glances down at your headset hung around your neck and lifts them up to enclose the ear muffs over your ears.

“Talk to you soon.” He winks at you and taps his earpiece, clearly rejuvenated enough to win the Cup Series. He backs away, keeping his longing eyes on you before he spins on his heel, walking away to meet up with the car crew.

(Arthur Morgan x Reader?) (eventual Charles Smith x Reader?)  (Just some super duper friendships? Not sure, not super great at tagging yet lmao but also not sure what I want to do with all these people relationship wise)

Word Count: 730

A/N: Hey, guys! This was going to be a oneshot but I decided to cut it short and maybe make it a series? Would y’all be interested? I mean I’ll probably just keep writing it anyway but I’m curious if y’all care or not (cowboy emoji)

You were sat at the train station in Annesberg, the wooden planks that made up the seat biting into your butt cheeks a bit. Your elbow was leaning against the arm rest you were next to, propping your head up. Your eyes were heavy from crying, and you had a throbbing headache that stayed towards the front of your skull. You had been secretly saving your money up since Blackwater, had planned on giving a chunk of it to Dutch for the gang as a.. parting gift? Your eyebrows knitted together as you thought of your old plan, a frown dragging your mouth down further. You had hoped to give Dutch a bit, hoping he would let you leave peacefully, and you could hop on a train and stay with your cousin and his family out west. You had been writing him, and he said you could. He had plenty of land that “you could even build a house on the other end if you want to! Have your own section of it, Y/N.” It was that part that he had promised that kept you hopeful. 

*

You bet your ass since I couldn’t sleep I would make shitty headcanons :))))

*

Arthur Morgan x gender neutral!reader

*

•Arthur is literally the BIGGEST fluff ball ever, he may hide it with his tough exterior but this man loves his cuddling time with his S/O just as much as anybody else.

•Spooning? He is always the big spoon, though sometimes he wants to be the little spoon, his pride is there to stop him before he says anything.

•You better believe this man has roaming hands. He. Can’t. Keep. His. Hands. To. Himself.

•seriously though, he will trail his hands all over you like it’s the first time he has ever felt you, complimenting every bit of you as he goes along.

•you want kisses? Arthur is all in. Nose kisses? Definitely. Forehead kisses? A must. Innocent make-out session? You betcha. Arthur loves to feel his S/O’s lips, he just doesn’t understand how they can be so soft and luscious???

•Arthur wouldn’t ever openly admit it to anyone in the gang but he does have preferred cuddling positions. He loves having his S/O curled against his chest with a hand in their hair and the other on their waist. Plus, easy access to kisses.

•Arthur isn’t much for PDA, so every night after a long day of not being able to express his love to his S/O? You better bet this man with shower them with compliments and kisses and love.

*

Pairing : Arthur Morgan x OC female character

ONE-SHOTS

(requested) sick!reader x arthur morgan : an outlaw's duty

"HELLCAT"

"In which he survives. In which they meet again and again and again. In which starcrossed lovers find redemption in a twisted way."

Rated : Explicit.... oops

Arthur Morgan x female OC.

"In which he survives. In which they meet again and again and again. In which starcrossed lovers find redemption in a twisted way."

hi! just wanted to let you know that english isn't my first language, there might be quite a few mistakes. ♥ whole story is already planned, i've got a few chapters ready! tysm for reading this if you are :( ♥ 

_ _ _ _

Strawberry, 1901.

The decrepit saloon was louder than usual, its worn wooden floor groaning under every step, every shifting weight. The man, seated at the far end of the bar with a dry gin in hand, scanned the room as if his life depended on it; the faint jingle of spurs barely perceptible to the untrained ear. He drank. He drank, and his shoulders remained tense. Paused. Scanned again—his gaze straight, sharp, unyielding... worn.

With a slow movement, he tilted his hat up. The saloon doors swung open, creaking, exhausted from a lifetime of fights and liquor, of sin and sweat-soaked bodies pressed against its curve. Thick fingers tapped against the bar—one... two... three. Oh my darlin', oh my darlin'... played faintly in the background. The piano was too sharp, out of tune.

The door swung open again. Another creak that made him clench his teeth; blue eyes snapped toward the source of light—and widened. He froze.

"Hellcat."

His voice carried just enough to make the woman stepping inside take notice. She tilted her head, amber eyes adjusting to the dim saloon light, and then—finally—lips, painted in hastily applied red, stretched into a smile he hadn't seen in years.

"Thought you were layin' low, same as me." He grunted, his broad frame pushing against the too-small barstool, making it groan.

"You weren't thinkin' nothin' at all, Morgan.."

Arthur's fingers drummed against the counter—dry, restless. Rose's voice cut through the murmurs of the saloon, sharp as the knife she used to skin her rabbit at sundown, dry as lips left too long under the desert sun, parched for water.

"I just didn't expect to see you here. Not... after all this time."

He swallowed. His voice was rough but steady—never wavering. A moth landed near his glass; he crushed it without a second thought. A dry chuckle rasped past cracked lips.

He barely looked at her.

The man's eyes, sharp as a wolf on the hunt, flickered down to the twin revolvers at her hips—the same damn ones she'd worn the night she up and disappeared. No note. No warning. Just gone. His gaze lifted again, blue locking onto amber.

"Still carryin' them old relics like a trophy?"

The question weighed heavy in his mouth, but rolled off hers like nothin' at all. He thought of that night, the way she'd walked away—no farewells, no second thoughts—leaving the gang, the camp, him behind. She thought of those pistols as nothing more than proof of her will, her strength.

She slid onto the barstool beside him, her steps smooth, blending into the saloon's hum of voices and clinking glasses. It was true—she'd left. Just like that. But she'd seen through Dutch's madness long before the others, a slip of a woman who never had much patience for prophets. She ordered a whiskey. The glass landed beside his gin, close enough that their hands almost brushed—just enough to feel the warmth of the other. She cleared her throat, long black hair cascading down her back, catching on the high chair. She reeked of confidence. Arrogant. Untouchable.

Arthur's gaze drifted past her, locking onto two men arguing near the back. Any excuse to not look at her. A few years ago, he'd hated her for leaving—traitor, slippin' away in the dead of night without a damn word. But after Dutch's madness, after everything... he reckoned she'd been the only sane one all along.

"Surprised you ain't locked up yet. Or hangin' from a rope." Her voice was smooth, lazy, whiskey glass now smudged with red lipstick. "Heard 'bout Blackwater, and I was states away."

Arthur's dry thumb ran over the worn leather of his satchel, the creases old, familiar. He smirked.

"Lawmen these days couldn't track a damn mangy coyote if it dropped dead in front of 'em."

She burst out laughing—a sharp, crystalline sound that cut through the saloon noise, lodged itself in his ears. She had that way about her, always had. Not 'cause of a skirt swapped for pants, not 'cause of the fine shirt that probably cost more than half the town made in a month. No, it was the way she carried herself. That hungry stare. That silk-spun hair. That something sharp, teasing, always caught on the curve of her lips.

"Guessin' you're here for the bounty on those three ex-Pinkertons turned raiders, Morgan." She knew. Of course she knew. She cast him a glance from the corner of her eye, slow and searing, and he went rigid, knocking back the rest of his gin in one hard swallow.

"They're holed up in an abandoned mine." Arthur's worn boot nudged her chair under the bar, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. "You left before Dutch lost his damn mind. Smart." The glass hit the counter with a dull thud—too rough, but that was the only way he knew how. His voice dropped, edged like a blade. "Fifty-fifty on the bounty. That is, if you ain't gone soft after all these years."

She arched a brow, nostril flaring just slightly. Arthur's jaw tensed as he watched her, throat bobbing with a slow swallow. He bit his tongue, waited. Then, finally, she gave a small nod. Wordless, he reached into his satchel, fishing out a half-crumpled bounty poster, nearly lost beneath the junk he carried. No care in his movements, he flattened it out with a rough hand and shoved it toward her, knocking against the half-full whiskey glass, smudged with red lipstick stains he couldn't bring himself to look at without sneering.

"There's dynamite rigged up 'round that mine," he muttered, voice dry as gunpowder. "Better watch that pretty little face of yours. I ain't scrapin' up pieces of you just to give you a proper grave."

She tilted her head, sizing him up, before a slow smirk unfurled across her lips. "Fifty-fifty and your hat."

"Deal."

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, but before he could move, Rose swiped his hat clean off his head and settled it onto her own. The old thing, cracked and worn with time, sat like a damn crown against her dark hair. His fingers twitched, curled into a fist. He tossed a coin onto the counter, enough to cover both their drinks. "Got a shitty room above the saloon. Meet me 'fore sundown."

She didn't answer, just adjusted the brim of his hat like she'd been born wearing it. He exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath, too low to be heard over the saloon's din. Oh My Darling wheezed from the out-of-tune piano.

"Shoulda known you'd still be a damn thief."

He walked off, shoving a man too drunk for midday against the railing, the wood groaning under the sudden weight. His fingers brushed over the twin revolvers strapped to his belt before he climbed the stairs back to his room. Just a few hours of rest before another damn job. He could feel those honey-colored eyes burning into his back as he left, but he didn't turn around. Didn't say a thing.

Rose and Arthur had never been close, not when she was still running with the gang. Maybe they'd talked once or twice by a campfire, ridden out together on a few lousy jobs. Maybe, in passing, she'd told him about her dreams, her dime novels filled with love and tragedy. Maybe he'd told her about Mary, voice rough, gaze lingering just a little too long. Maybe, one night, they'd fucked in some run-down saloon after a few too many glasses of whiskey, and for a fleeting moment, he'd felt alive again, his fingers burning against soft skin. Maybe he'd started bringing back extra cans of peaches, just in case. Maybe he'd caught himself, like a fool, sketching the sharp lines of her face in the pages of his journal.

Maybe.

Arthur Morgan x female OC.

"In which he survives. In which they meet again and again and again. In which starcrossed lovers find redemption in a twisted way."

----

A few months before Blackwater.

The twilight settled in slow, like an old friend who knew no hurry, falling with the rhythm of a thousand days before it, just like it always did, when the stardust became a mass of stone, and oceans and mountains found their place. The sky stretched out wide, draped in shades of orange and purple, like a canvas of old, witness to a greatness man would never understand, a sky that some loved, and some, like Arthur, hated. Not 'cause the beauty couldn't reach his hardened heart, but ‘cause it reminded him that his small, narrow life was just a grain of dust, a forgotten speck, and the things he did, well, they’d be remembered with horror, never with kindness. Him and the others? Just compost for a land searching for a life that never ends, their marks lost in the winds of time, while others walked the same earth, braving the same dangers. Maybe they'd get the chance to right their wrongs, to build something better.

The summer had come, as it always did, hot, with nights shorter than any before it; the sun blessing the fields, burning its golden touch over the pasture, bringing life to the ground. The horses, tied up somewhere, grazed lazily on the chewed-up grass, their backs gleaming in the last light of the day. The camp hummed with life—laughs, chatter, some light and easy, some serious, some heavy as the weight of the world, depending on who was speaking and who was listening.

A soft breeze stirred the dry leaves around the trees, the smoke from the fire curling up, disappearing into the air like the secrets of the night. The crackle of the flames mixed with the sounds of life—the low murmurs of voices, the cracks and pops from the fire. All the while, Arthur’s tired eyes caught the sight of a white mare coming in slow and easy from the distance. Rose, sitting high, moving a little slower than usual, weariness clinging to her like dust to the wind.

A few hours earlier, they’d been sent out on a stagecoach job, one that’d gone as smooth as the river running through a canyon at sunrise. Dutch, always the showman, had already set his sights on celebrating, his grin wide as the desert sky.

But Rose, she didn’t come back with the rest of them. No, she kept her distance, always the mystery that left folks wondering. When questioned, her brows arched sharp as a hawk’s talon, and her silence carried a weight that spoke louder than any words could. She’d been with the gang for only a handful of months, but already, she had the kind of mouth that could cut through steel, though her aim with a gun was nothing short of deadly. At first, Arthur couldn’t stand the way she always doubted Dutch’s every word, like a storm cloud waiting to burst. Yet, somehow, through the grit and the grind of it all, they found a balance. Him, loyal to a fault, like a hound that don’t know how to quit; her, reining in the wild, finding words that weren’t always as sharp as her pistol. And in the quiet, they’d shared a few around the fire, where the tension slowly turned into something like understanding, something fragile, held together by the thinnest of threads.

"Not too friendly, huh? Ain’t even left ya a spot?" he called out, his voice cutting the air like a knife, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as she drew closer to the rest of the crew.

"I don’t need no seat," she shot back, her gaze colder than the mountains at first light, and though her lips barely lifted in a smile, Arthur could swear it sent a shiver down his spine.

The crackling of the fire was punctuated by the strum of Javier’s guitar, the notes dancing through the air like a breeze on a hot afternoon. Laughter from Karen and Tilly mingled with every chord, their joy swirling with the flicker of the flames, while Hosea watched them with a knowing smile, amusement twinkling in his eyes. Arthur shifted, making just enough room beside him for Rose, his movement subtle, keeping a careful distance—a space between them that was close but not too close. A soft wind caught in her long black hair, pulling it back like silk threads, and Arthur couldn’t help but follow the sway of it, caught in the gentle pull of the moment. Her boots scraped against the sandy earth, the sound a whisper of what was coming, and then she settled beside him.

The palpable discomfort between them was nothing compared to Hosea's watchful eyes, which had shifted back to the two outlaws, avoiding each other's gaze like they feared the stirring it might cause deep in their guts. In the distance, Bill drank straight from the bottle, arm slung around Sean's shoulders, his slurred voice telling an exaggerated tale of a gunfight, where he was the hero saving poor souls. Arthur tapped his holster three times, clearing his throat. The bottle that had been resting, upright and stiff, at his feet was handed over to Rose without him daring to look at her—not out of fear, but because the way the flames danced before him had a far more captivating pull.

“You did good today,” he finally broke the silence between them.

"I could return the compliment."

A smile.

"I got more experience than you, woman, and I sure as hell don’t need no compliments to feel alive."

"I don’t need ‘em either, you just wanted to please me for no reason." she shot back, and he rolled his eyes.

In the distance, John and Abigail exchanged quiet glances that Arthur couldn’t help but notice; nothing escaped the eyes of a man, not unless it was his own inner storms.

"But still, little cat, I suggest you don’t question Dutch’s orders again," he warned her, his voice tighter now, more serious.

"Fine, I just don’t always agree with the way he sees things, or how he acts... Is that a crime?" she retorted, her voice soft, as the conversation became little more than a fading memory between them.

"You ain’t been with us long enough to be questioning him," he grumbled, his face as hard as leather, though deep down, he couldn’t help but agree with what she said.

"I got the right when my life and others’ lives are at risk."

Arthur raised his right hand, motioning for her to lower her fevered voice, which had risen just a touch too high. He knew well that the so-called discretion in camp was little more than a thin veil.

"You got the right to keep your damn mouth shut, if you want to hold your place here," he replied, feeling those amber eyes lock onto his profile, like a hawk spotting its prey.

She froze for a moment—not hurt, but gathering her words, like a slow draw of a rifle before the shot.

"Maybe I ain't fit to be here; if I gotta keep quiet and turn a blind eye. But I reckon that ain't what you're hopin' to hear, is it?" Her words came out sharp and bitter, like a sting from a rattlesnake.

"No, I'm sayin' it so you can hold onto your spot, so you can stay. So cut the damn crap," he said, his voice firm as the leather he'd worn for years.

"I reckon it'd be easier for you if I left, wouldn't it? The share of the loot'd sure be bigger for you." She shot back, and the air between them softened, though the fire still burned beneath. Arthur glanced sideways at her, the silence stretching thin like the distance between them.

The bottle, still in hand, a silent witness to the tension hotter than the midday sun, was drained in one quick pull by Rose. She passed it to him without a word, and he grabbed it, muttering under his breath as he took a swig, his teeth gnawing at the irritation that was rising in him. She nudged him with her elbow, just a touch—deliberate, like a warning shot. Then, her voice drifted through the smoke, wrapping around the air like a noose.

"You’re smilin', ain't ya, idiot?"

He raised an eyebrow, finally facing the woman who always seemed to be one step ahead of him, testing his patience like a horse that didn’t want to be tamed.

"I got a cramp," he muttered, barely meeting her gaze.

"A cramp?" Her amber eyes never left his, like two searching lanterns in the dark.

"Maybe," he grunted, the word rougher than a worn-out boot.

She let out a laugh.

"You're just happy with the loot and not catching a bullet, you idiot."

"Even idiots can get lucky, can't they?" he shot back, his gaze not wavering this time. For once, he held her eyes, the camp fading into the distance as he did. He could almost feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, a tempting touch, if only he focused hard enough, but Dutch interrupted with a grand gesture, raising his glass high as he began to prepare a speech that made Rose roll her eyes.

"My friends! My brothers and sisters! Tonight, we drink and drink again, we laugh, and we celebrate! We are free, freer than we've ever been, and no one—no one—will ever cage us!"

Arthur stood up, fidgeting nervously, the distance between him and Rose suddenly too close. The life around him rushed in, and the whole camp would bear witness to whatever tension hung in the air if he didn’t move. He made his way to his tent later that night, but not without casting a long, lingering look at Rose, who met it with an intensity that could have made a whore blush. He turned quickly, burying the moment under the pretense of sleep he knew wouldn’t come.

A few days later—maybe three, even—some of the gang had given in to the vices of a nearby saloon. Javier, Dutch, Bill, Lenny, Micah, and Rose had let themselves be lured into a night where chaos was bound to reign supreme. The saloon doors swung open with a sharp, drawn-out creak, a sound Arthur paid no mind to, letting the night air roll in, thick with dust and the scent of horses.

The men inside looked relieved, grateful for a night’s reprieve in the haze of whiskey and tobacco, the air humming with the racket of lively conversation.

"Now, let’s enjoy ourselves tonight. We earned it, didn’t we?" Dutch clapped a firm hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

"I suppose." Arthur’s reply was flat, his eyes already drawn elsewhere—to Rose, seated across the room.

She had already drained her glass, long fingers tapping idly against the wood as she waited for it to be refilled. Her jacket had been tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, leaving a crimson-red blouse in its place, slightly undone at the collar after a long day on horseback. Across the table, Lenny, ever impatient, slammed down a fresh bottle of whiskey with a sharp thud, that same grin tugging at his lips—the kind that only ever showed itself when liquor was involved.

"Come on, Rose, you ain’t gonna tell me you’re gonna sulk all night! Have a drink with us." Lenny coaxed, sliding a glass her way.

She snatched it up in one swift motion. "I ain’t sulking. Just waiting for the right moment."

Javier let out a sharp whistle—a sound that grated on Arthur’s ears. Leaning over the table, Javier flashed Rose a grin, the kind that had likely won him more than his fair share of admirers.

"The right moment for what, querida? To finally dance with me?"

The saloon was the kind of place where whiskey and disillusion swirled together in the same glass, only to be spilled—or spat out—by morning, stripped of all dignity.

"You wish," she scoffed, taking a slow sip of her drink, letting the burn settle in her chest.

Arthur, having just dropped into his seat, couldn’t hold back the rough chuckle that rumbled from his throat at the exchange. The drinks flowed fast, glasses emptying and filling in a relentless cycle. Laughter grew louder, voices rising as the whiskey seeped deeper, burning its way through them all.

Arthur let it smooth the edges of his own mood, feeling the warmth settle in his bones. Across the dim light of the saloon, he watched Rose idly twirl a loose strand of hair around her finger, her silhouette flickering against the glow of lantern light, slipping just out of reach.

Laughter spilled into the thick saloon air, weaving through the haze of tobacco and spilled whiskey. No one paid them any mind—just another rowdy bunch in a place that had seen its fair share of lost souls. The first bottle had been drained dry, and another soon followed, passed between rough hands before it, too, met its fate. The liquor had crept up on them all, seeping into their bones, loosening tongues, setting fire to tired minds.

Arthur let himself be swept along, lured by the bottle’s charm. His vision blurred, the world taking on a soft, incongruous haze. His mouth felt dry, yet his laughter—unexpected, reckless—rumbled out at every crude joke slung across the table.

Micah, a late addition to their little gathering, cast Arthur a sidelong glance before twisting his mouth into something that might’ve been a grin, though on him, it looked more like a sneer. His bourbon glass sat ugly in his grip, half-forgotten.

"Well, I’ll be damned. Ain’t often I see you drinkin’ with company, cowpoke. Usually, you’re just sittin’ in some corner, sulkin’ like a sad old dog." His voice dragged like spurs against gravel.

Arthur didn’t bother looking up from his half-empty glass, just drummed his fingers lazily against the rim.

"And yet, somehow, you still managed to ruin my drink," he replied, voice flat—not tired, just laced with the quiet disdain he reserved for men like Micah.

Micah’s grin stretched wider, grotesque in the dim light, like something unnatural twisting a man’s face.

Then, from the far side of the saloon, where a small stage stood in the shadows, the music shifted—slower now, softer, drawn out like honey dripping from a spoon. A singer stepped up onto the stage, her presence commanding the sudden hush that settled over the room.

Without Arthur even noticing, Rose had claimed the empty chair beside him. Most of the gang had scattered, off to their own mischief across the saloon, leaving behind only the scrape of boots on wooden floors and the ghost of laughter drifting through the whiskey-heavy air. Under the table, their knees brushed now and then, and that lingering space between them—once carved by distance, by silence—began to close.

Her laughter, light as birdsong, curled in his ear, a melody sweeter than any tune played in this dusty joint. It lulled him, settled somewhere deep in his bones, where the liquor had already worked its way in. She was just as far gone as he was, folding into Javier’s every joke like it was the finest damn comedy ever spun, when in truth, the man spoke nothing but nonsense.

Then, suddenly, Arthur felt it—a heat ghosting across his scarred cheek, the weight of a gaze pressed too long against his skin. He turned, just slightly, and met her eyes.

Amber, glassy with drink, burning with flickering embers and a thousand unreadable shades. She didn’t look away. Not once. Not even when the moment stretched too long, long enough that if it weren’t for the whiskey in his blood, Arthur might’ve gone red himself.

"What?" His nose wrinkled slightly as he cleared his throat.

"You look too damn serious for a man who's supposed to be enjoying himself." Her head tilted, exposing the delicate line of her throat, the soft pulse running beneath her skin.

"Never been much good at havin’ fun with someone starin’ at me like that." He sniffed, gaze darting away.

Her lips curled, slow, dangerous—a smile that could bring a man to ruin.

"Maybe you just need a little help, then," she murmured.

And just like that, the space between them vanished. He caught the scent of whiskey clinging to her breath, warm, intoxicating.

"Or maybe," he muttered, "you just need to quit starin’, fool."

Rose’s only answer was to push back from her chair—sudden, a little too quick. Arthur’s hand shot out instinctively, catching her waist before she could stumble. She laughed, unfazed, then reached forward, her palm cutting through the air, waiting.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, watching her sway ever so slightly, unsteady, tipsy, and bright with mischief.

"C’mon, cowboy," she grinned, eyes alight. "Dance with me."

The singer’s voice, drifting from the far end of the saloon, suddenly rang a little too loud inside his whiskey-clouded skull. Arthur must've looked damn near startled as he tried to find words, his lips parting, shutting, then parting again.

“Hell no, idiot,” he growled.

“That ain’t a question, dumbass.”

Before he could put up a real fight, his own hand—shaking slightly from drink—was seized by Rose’s smaller one, and she was already dragging him toward the makeshift dance floor. Folks were already at it, swaying and stumbling, maybe just as drunk as they were—hell, he didn’t care. The floorboards creaked under their boots, but the sound drowned beneath the fire of life burning through the saloon, swallowed by the reckless steps of other dancers.

By now, curious eyes from the gang had turned toward them, watching, likely amused at what they figured was another whiskey-fueled mistake. Arthur stayed stiff at first, unmoving, half-heartedly trying to follow as Rose twirled him this way and that. She didn’t know a damn thing about dancing, and yet, she was dragging him along into this ridiculous little adventure of hers.

Then she laughed—loud and unrestrained, the sound slicing right through the noise.

“You’re stiff as a board, Arthur! Loosen up a little!” Her teasing voice cut through the ruckus, her grip tightening around his hand.

He arched a brow, hesitation clawing at his whiskey-fogged mind. But then, something gave. Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe it was the damn woman before him, smelling sweet as sin, her gaze more dangerous than any bullet he'd ever taken.

So he pulled her—hard and sudden.

Rose spun, her long hair slicing through the air like a dark river, and for a moment, she nearly lost her footing. Arthur caught her faster than he meant to, steadier than he thought he could.

And without thinking—without admitting to himself what it meant—he leaned in, breath thick with whiskey, voice low against the shell of her ear.

“Still stiff?” The smirk in his tone was damn near visible.

And in that instant, he swore he felt her shiver.

“Idiot. Dance.”

Her voice wavered just enough to betray her, and Arthur grinned like a devil who knew he'd just won a hand he wasn’t even playing.

And for long, reckless minutes, they carried on, two bodies swaying in tandem, catching the rhythm of the saloon like tumbleweeds caught in the wind. Arthur played along, and Rose—hell, she threw him a smile warmer than any sunrise he’d ever known.

They danced, taking up space like they owned the damn floor, laughing every time one of them tripped over the other’s boots. They bumped shoulders, knocked into other dancers, paying no mind to the sideways glances or the murmurs. Let them watch. Let them whisper. The world had shrunk down to just the two of them, lost in the music and the burn of whiskey running hot in their veins.

“Where in the hell did you learn to dance like that, Arthur?” she asked, a step bringing her closer.

“Like this?” he echoed, right as she damn near stumbled again, her feet as heavy as her tongue from all they’d been drinking.

“Why, sir, your steps are so damn graceful, I’d swear you been dancin’ since the cradle!” she teased, near losing her balance again. She wasn't making any sense.

It wasn’t long before Arthur took note—she was swaying a little too much, colour drained from her face. Maybe he’d spun her around too many times. So, with an unspoken agreement, they let the dance fade, slipping back into their seats amongst the last few lingering souls.

No one said a damn thing about how they’d carried on, how they’d laughed like they were the only two left in the world. Maybe there wasn’t nothing strange about it. Or maybe Arthur was just too far gone to notice the looks thrown their way, the ones just as drunk as he was.

Lenny wandered off, hunting down another bottle, leaving the two of them in the hush of the table’s edge. Then, like the roll of distant thunder, it happened—her knee pressed against his, firm and certain. Maybe she was just drifting off, too tired, too spent. Arthur swallowed, thick and slow, turning his head just in time to catch her watching him.

And that was it.

His jaw tensed, teeth grinding, something keeping him right there, nailed to his seat, locked in the pull of those whiskey-colored eyes.

Blue, lost in amber.

And neither one dared to look away.

And in that moment, nothing else exists but them—just them. The world outside fades, swallowed by the thundering pulse in his skull, beating out life and death in equal measure, ready to split him open. The air thickens, heavy with something ruinous, something more all-consuming than any fire he’s ever known. The kind of thing a man don’t walk away from.

His chest feels crushed under the weight of it—the need, the hunger, a predator’s craving, deadly and unrelenting. It ain’t about nothing else now, not about sense or reason, just about wanting—needing—to breathe the air she breathes.

And suddenly, he sees her like he never has before. A siren, a temptress, a wicked thing spun from moonlight and sin, luring him into her snare with no intention of ever setting him free. A spellwork stitched into his very bones, something that’ll cling to him until death takes him in its arms.

Something breaks.

Without thinking, Rose leans in, them amber eyes locked onto his, steady and sure. And Arthur—hell, he don’t move, don’t shy away, don’t brace for the wreckage coming. He waits. Waits to be claimed, waits for the touch he craves more than life itself.

The first kiss is violent.

It’s fire and recklessness, graceless and desperate, the clash of two worlds too damn hungry to do anything but devour. Flesh meets flesh, mouths crash together, a hunger left starving for too long. It’s all whiskey and dust, but beneath it all, it’s her—it’s Rose, moving against his lips like some kind of worship.

Then it’s a free fall.

They stumble up the saloon stairs, blind and wanting, hands roaming, mouths claiming, wild things fighting to tame one another.

By the time they find a room, there ain’t no patience left. The second the door shuts behind them, Arthur has her pressed against it, bolting it shut as her laughter melts against his lips.

“Told you,” she pants between stolen breaths, teasing, smug, “you needed a little help.”

“Shut up,” he growls against the curve of her throat, sinking his teeth in, sucking the skin until she gasps, until she’s his, until there ain’t nothing left but her taste on his tongue.

And then he kisses her again.

It took a few insistent moves, a few desperate pulls, for their bare skin to meet, where the built-up tension erupted in a crash of bodies, marked skin, and muffled sighs. No restraint, no control as Rose mounted him in an impulsive urgency. They hadn’t taken the time to savor the moment, not when she’d impaled herself on his hard, wanting length; not when anger and desire twisted together in a chaotic dance. Each time she dropped onto him, she whispered the damned name between her red lips, kissed again and again by the hunger of it. Fevered and relentless, she rode him until the chaos mixed with the pleasures of ecstasy, until the stars tangled in her closed lashes beneath the weight of the explosion.

The world vanished in a single night; nothing would ever be the same again. And as their bodies lay scattered, limbs entangled, Arthur pulled himself back from the heavens he’d touched and turned to look at her. He studied her with quiet, intimate eyes before he stood and dressed in silence.

"It was nothin’, and it meant nothin’. Don’t go gettin' ideas," he said without even looking at her.

Rose didn’t answer, her eyes damp, pressed against his back as he stood at the doorway. The moment he left, nothing was the same between them anymore.

Arthur Morgan x Reader

You quietly used the washing board, scrubbing despite the pain in your arms, a small scowl on your face. Tilly looked your way from the other washing board, hesitating a bit before she spoke out “you know, I’m sure you’ll be back out there again, ‘soon as you’ve healed up a bit” she threw a gentle smile your way and you couldn’t help but softly smile at her attempt to cheer you up. You lifted your head to look at her, sighing before going back to scrubbing on the washing board.

“I just don’t think it’s fair… I’m already healed, it was just a gunshot wound…” you mumbled the last part with a hint of bitterness. About two weeks ago you’d gotten a lead on a stagecoach going through the area at night, carrying some rich idiots, it was perfect. Well, that’s what you thought, it was supposed to only have one guard beside the coach driver, so you went alone. It was meant to be a quick job, and supposed to give a lot of cash to the camp. Turns out it was loaded with security, and the take was barely worth it, you’d been promised at least 200 dollars in cash but it was barely 50.

“Oh I know, but still, at least you’re back for a while now” Tilly said in a sweet voice, she was always so kind to you and the others. Well, maybe except for Bill and Micah, but they were asking for it with how rude they were. 

“Thanks Tilly” you smiled softly at her before hanging up the wet clothes to dry, since you were done washing them “I just kind of miss it out there, ya know? Of course I miss the camp when I’m gone too, but out there it’s…” you sighed as you couldn’t find the right word to say “I don’t know” you dried your wet hands on your pants.

“I get it, ya don’t like doing the chores and you enjoy being out there, seein’ things” Tilly shrugged as she continued to wash

“oh I didn’t mean it like that Tilly, I-”

“I know” she smiled at you “don’t worry, takin’ no offense. But if you think you’re ready then why not ask Dutch?” Tilly nodded towards Dutch’s tent and you thought for a second before going towards it.

Nearing the tent you could hear Dutch, Hosea, and a voice you knew only too well, Arthur, talking quietly.

“We gotta move Dutch, they found me ‘n Jack while we was out fishing! Can’t stay here any longer”

“I heard you when you said it after you got back, and I hear what you’re saying Arthur, but we don’t know where to go… and you’re sure you weren’t followed when you got back here?” You heard Dutch’s hoarse voice.

“Of course not Dutch, already told ya, but-” up until now you had simply been listening, you didn’t mean to pry but this sounded serious.

“I think we have company gentlemen” you heard Hosea interrupt Arthur, all of the men looking at Hosea before turning their gaze to you, who stood at the edge of Dutch’s tent. You awkwardly waved.

“(Y/N), my dear, what is it?” Dutch asked as he looked over you with a tiny hint of concern.

“Well I-... it can wait? I can come back later, I don’t wanna interrupt” you turned around to leave “ya ain’t interrupting!” Arthur said almost too quickly, not wanting you to leave. You stopped and turned around, blushing a bit at how quickly he got those words out, but it put a smile on your face nonetheless. Both Hosea and Dutch looked at Arthur with pure amusement in their eyes, finding it amusing how he acted around you, before looking back at you once you began speaking “Well, I wanna go back out there Dutch, I’ve been here almost two weeks. I’ve done as told and rested up and healed, and I think I’m ready to go back out there” you said softly as Dutch nodded gently, hearing what you said and processing it.

“Alright, if you think you’re ready, I trust you” you grinned big at Dutch’s words and quickly left to pack your things to get ready to go back out there. You had barely noticed Arthur quickly following you.

“Ya sure you’re ready? I mean it was a pretty bad-”

“Arthur how many times have you been shot?” You asked in a calm voice, turning around to face him. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before speaking “that ain't the point, (Y/N)... ya need to heal up some more at least-”

“Arthur, I’m ready” you approached him, gently cupping his cheek as his hands found their usual place on your hips “I know you worry, and I think I know one of the things you worry about” you lowered your voice, your eyes never leaving his, even as he looked ashamed down. You forced him to look back up at you “I am not Mary Linton” you almost whispered to him “I will always come back to you…” 

Arthur gently nodded, sighing as he rested his forehead against yours “I know, just-” he stopped himself, quietly thinking of what to say, but you got ahead of him “I know” you smiled softly at him and he returned it “just… come back to me darlin’... you make me act a fool sometimes but… I-... just come back to me…” he gently stroked a stray piece of hair behind your ear.