an ode to rdr

to the hearts and silver tongues of outlaws

[lonesomedovescry]

hellooo!! i am literally like dedicating today to just praising and sending these silly little messages to my favorite writers inbox and you are so definitely one of them . i write for rdr on my other account along with various other fandoms and can i just say that you are so talented and the way you describe everything in your works is so beautiful and raw, and i actually like come back and reread them ! like your works genuinely remind me that intimacy is such a beautiful and fragile thing, the way you portray arthur and charles is so accurate and just really precious all around.

i actually eat ur writing for breakfast lunch dinner and dessert and you’ve inspired me countlessly, never forget your talent and always remember there are people who love you!!! take care of yourself . ( ˘ω˘ )

me when i cry and throw up and roll around.

THIS IS SO SWEET PLS OMG!!! I apologize for not getting to this until now, i am a busy bee and have been actually working on my novel submission!

This will fuel me for the next million years so i truly appreciate you so much you incredible GEM!!

[lonesomedovescry]

dancin’s for fools. fools, drunkards, and those thick with love. this, arthur knew. years of riding and raiding alongside dutch taught him this, and years of being all three taught him enough about life that he should swearin’ all that nonsense off.

but tonight, in the honeyglow of the saloon’s lanterns, you took those learned lessons and burned them up with the slash of your grin. tonight, the fancy and proud trend of high-class piano work took a back seat to the singing strings and pounding stomps of bluegrass, and invited hosts of folk to dance with the spirit of God in this cramped little place.

and dance they did.

arthur had just stepped inside the crowded saloon with lenny, charles, and bill when you had nearly been thrown against his chest by the overly-passionate dancing partner you had taken up with. the split second in which you stared up at him with wide, apologetic eyes before you were whisked back to the twirl of folk was enough to keep his eyes on you for the remainder of the night.

now, fairly drunk and most certainly foolish, arthur watched you step from the dance floor with a hearty laugh and narrowly escape your partner’s pleas for more. heat and movement flushed your cheeks into a delightful glow and sweat curled the fine pieces of hair at your forehead.

a dull nervousness nibbles at his gut. how long had it been since he’d properly danced with a woman? fortunately, bluegrass dancing was all fire and intuition, and he had spades of both, yet the nerves in his stomach raced and tightened.

as the next song began, arthur set his beer on the table with a harsh clink and stood. his spurs sung with each step he made towards you as he dodged dancers and drunkards alike to get to you before anyone else could. meanwhile, you smile and slide payment to the bartender with a well practiced motion of politeness and bring the lip of a beer to your mouth. you had only taken a sip when arthur came to stand beside you and order a shot of whiskey.

“about time.” you said to him with the barest hint of a sly smile. “i’ve been meaning to give you an apology for almost barreling you over.”

arthur looks down at you, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with humor. “who says i wanted an apology?”

“every man slighted is another man owed.” you say with a casual bounce of your shoulders. “hard and quick lesson to learn.”

arthur could not tell if you were toying with him or not, or if there were men who truly thought in such a fashion. the idea seemed almost pathetic. pathetic enough, in fact, that he let out a gruff laugh. the sound of it sent your stomach in song. “you don’t owe me nothin.”

arthur nods as the bartender slides him a shot glass and knocks it back, the fire licking down his throat. you watch his thick throat bob like a cat watches a field mouse nibble grain and to arthur’s surprise and dismay, he finds that he likes it. so, lifted by the courage of whiskey, he watches you take a long drink of your beer in a similair fashion. when you set the glass back down, his mouth pulls into a boyish grin.

“but if you feel so obliged,” he says. “you could give me a dance.”

you make a show of considering him. he makes a show of looking as hopeful and as desperate as he can without making a fool out of himself. then, with a grin of your own, you take hold of his hand. all callouses and warmth. “come on then, cowboy.” you say with playful sigh. “let me show you how it’s done.”

the song that is playing is all fiddle and stomp. the two of you move like a flooding river together. his hands moving from yours to your waist to lift you high and spin, coming back to twirl you with the speed of fired bullet. your laugh shrieks through the music and sends a thrill up his spine.

in this moment, he is no longer an outlaw. no longer a killer. he is simply a moving flame dancing with another, pushed by the howling wind around him, drunk with joy and smoky liquor. in this moment, he is taken away from blood, and money, and plans he doesn’t understand.

in this moment, he is truly arthur morgan.

[lonesomedovescry]

the morning was watery and pale, and damp with the taste of wet earth and grasses. the world hadn’t woken up yet and was quiet with the held breath of a dream yet broken. it was this time of day exactly that arthur looked forward to the most, with its promise of solitude and a glimpse into a world he longed for — a world beyond civilization. he rose with the mourning doves, rode out into the grassy plains and savored the sounds of mourning doves and crying elk like one would savor a hard candy beneath the tongue.

he would stop at a stream each morning, plunging his hands in the icy water and sipping from cupped palms. in these moments he was the only man alive, and despite all his fears of death, he found that he liked it that way.

so when he saw you, he felt like he was seeing a forest nymph — something primordial and strange. you and him seemed to have the same rhythms each morning, as you found each other across the stream at the same time, hands and mouths frozen from river water. neither of you would say a word as you both basked in the sounds of nature around you. it was if you both knew that if either of you spoke, your shared illusion of a quiet world would dissipate like smoke in the wind.

each day arthur saw you he took in the details of your face in the silence. the freckles on your skin, the way you parted your hair. in his journal, these pieces of you were immortalized in lead strokes of pencil on paper. yet, there wasn’t a name he could say quietly underneath his breath. there wasn’t a word he could call you in his private writings.

that is, until he found your face printed on paper in valentine. the familiar lines of you indifference stared at him from the bounty poster that detailed your crimes of fraud and violence, your eyes daring retaliation the only sign of life. arthur’s lips quirked into a crooked smile as he tore the paper off the side of the train station and tucked it away into the pocket of his pants.

as he rode back towards camp, he felt as though the paper was burning a hole in his pocket — eager to be seen once again by his knowing eyes.

—

author’s note:

WE’RE BACKKKKK. missed you guys so much. i will be working to be more active and feed you the shorts you deserved

[lonesomedovescry]

Devil’s Backbone | An A. Morgan Fic

Prelude.

May 5th, 1897

Beneath deep silver light, a match was struck.

Its flame glowed and pulsed, a living thing, and ate away at the end of a thick cigar. Orange sparks deepened to the cherry red of ember. A sweet smelling smoke plumed from the end of the cigar and twisted into the air, then danced to the narrowed eyes of the man whose teeth held the cigar firm between his lips. Turqoise shone in the light of the match. Tired, stern. The light of the match was suddenly extinguished with a quick flick of his hand before the stick was abandoned somewhere in the grass.

Arthur inhaled, pulled the ember deeper into the cigar, and held the sweet smoke in his mouth as if rinsing something out. When he released it, the silver smoke left both his nostrils and lips, as if he were more dragon than man. The full, straight shape of his lips quirked at the thought as he was reminded of a tale read to him by Hosea — The Legends of King Arthur.

There was certainly no Kingdom for him, now. Only the dark, quiet wood and the silver of the moon, his mare Sunup munching quietly near him as he sat hidden in the shadows of the trees. Dutch had sent him to scout for any sign of O’Driscoll activity in attempts to find their camp so that the hopeful plan growing in Dutch’s mind could come to fruition. What it entailed, Arthur wasn’t sure, nor did he particularly care. He’d learned years ago not to ask too many questions lest dig a thorn of doubt into the muscle of Dutch’s heart.

Arthur inhaled the sweet cigar smoke again and savored the taste. Inhale, exhale. Again. And again. The forested night brought with it the sound of crickets and owls, lulling Arthur’s tired mind to a sweet slowness, and soon enough the cigar came to a burnt nub against Arthur’s calloused finger tips. Just as he flicked it to the ground and toed the dying ember with his boot, the sound of a cantering horse came from the main road behind him, and he pressed himself against the thick trunk of a tree.

A lone rider moved beneath the shadow of the canopy. In snatches of moonlight Arthur caught the slight shape of a woman with long, dark hair. As she pulled her steed into a halt in a watery patch of moonlight, Arthur’s attention was drawn to her eyes, which were wide and frightened like a hunted doe. Dark smudges spread about her fine-boned face and spread like a disease to a soiled part of her pale blouse. The stain glistened against the fabric, having soaked the material through.

Over flank of the horse, the limp frame of a man still in working overalls. His body hung with the eery finality that came with a corpse, the power of a sleeping thing no longer protecting itself. The pungent, earthy tang of blood carried to Arthur on a whisper of a breeze. Arthur watched the woman as her head swung from side to side, then with a press of her right leg, turned her horse into the wall of forest opposite him.

The brush rustled and twigs snapped beneath hooves. Then woman, man, and horse were swallowed whole by the trees.

Arthur knew he ought to leave well enough alone. That woman was not the first to hide a body, nor the first to stain her flesh with the lifeblood of her husband. Hopefully, she would be quick enough to avoid O’Driscall “pleasantries”, and if not… There was nothing that could be done, nor should be done by his hand.

After allowing himself to breathe deeply again Arthur found himself listening for the woman, and was able to make out the quiet scrape of turning earth and the heave of her tired breath: a familiar, wet rattle. The sound scratched Arthur’s mind with an unpleasant sting. Memories of his mother clouded his mind: her waxy, perspiring skin, her cracked lips sucking down air that her sick lungs so desperately needed, and the dull exhaustion and grief that clouded her gaze.

“God damnit.” Arthur growled. Before he could stop himself, Arthur pushed his weight from the tree he had hidden behind, and began to move quietly through the woods, using the sounds of the woman’s labored breathing as his guide.

He found the woman in a light drenched clearing clawing at the ground with an almost animalistic desperation. Clumps of clay-rich dirt flew over her trembling shoulders as she took handful after handful of earth that landed carelessly on the brutalized face of the corpse just behind her. In the pale light, Arthur could only make out pulped flesh and aged gore in a pit that may have once been a face, and felt a chill snake down his spine.

Arthur stepped out from the shadows and into the clearing. “There’s no sense in burying a body that no one will recognize.”

The woman leapt from her feet with such a speed that even Arthur’s hand didn’t get a chance to twitch toward his pistol before she angled an iron poker towards him with two, white knuckled hands. Despite the severity in which she trembled, she looked absolutely feral, with her eyes blown wide and her teeth bared in a snarl. “Who the hell are you?” She hissed.

Arthur raised his hands in surrender. “Just someone passin through. I don’t mean no harm.”

“Bullshit,” she replied, voice thick with venom. “No man follows a woman for nothin.”

Arthur took a step forward, slow and gentle, as if approaching a spooked horse. The corner of his mouth quirked into a crooked smile. He now stood just on the other side of the corpse. “You need to get out of here.”

“I said get away from me!” The woman shrieked and sent a brutal swing of the iron towards Arthur. The shrillness of it echoed through the quiet wood and sent critters scampering through the brush.

Arthur cursed under his breath and jumped back, only to narrowly avoid another swipe of the iron with a twist. “Will you quit it?” He snarled. Gentleness turned sharp with irritation as he watched her prep for another swing and pummel it forward. Arthur reached out and caught the bar in his hand, iron biting against callouses, and held it with an ease that came with carefully honed strength. “I’m not the most dangerous thing in these woods.”

It was as if God had his ear hard-pressed into their conversation, for it was only a second after these words left his mouth that a gunshot rang through the air and the woman let out a pained yelp and fell to the ground. In a slow, unforgiving moment before she collapsed to the recently turned soil, he saw ribbons of torn flesh bloom from her cheek.

“Get em’!” A thickly accented voice shouted from the dark. At once, a handful of men leapt from the dark with guns in hand, and Arthur had only a second of limb-numbing rage before he threw himself behind a large boulder and drew out his own weapon. On the ground before him, the woman cradled a hand to her cheek, clutching the torn flesh in which the bullet had carved a chunk out of her face. Blood pooled beneath her fingers and began to drip slowly down her neck. Her eyes remained squeezed shut as gunfire began to bark through the air, sending her bay mount galloping away with a frightened cry into the dark wilderness.

Arthur scowled as he tightened his hold on his pistol and began firing back into the clearing. Metal found flesh and bone with a familiar efficiency, and the familiar strange satisfaction came as bodies fell with a slump time after time. He began to lose himself in the familiar dance of shooting living targets — finding each vulnerability and sending a bullet square into its center with a simple press of his finger.

A long whistle pierced the air, and the gun fire dropped. “Morgan!” The accented voice called, harsh with an Irish brogue. “Come on out, lad. We only want to talk. In fact, we have a message for your dear old Dutch if you care to listen.”

Arthur leaned just enough to the side of the boulder to see a blonde-haired man standing in the clearing. A wide, jackal like grin was pulled on his pale lips. The immaculate cleanliness of his clothes, simple dark trousers and a neatly tucked white button up behind leather suspenders, struck Arthur with an immediate sense of apprehension. It reminded him of Dutch, and for this reason, he felt a sudden pulse of fear.

The man caught Arthur’s eye and tilted his head to the side. “Come on, man. We killed the girl, yes, but it was only a matter of inconvenience. Wrong place, wrong time you see. We don’t mean any harm.”

The silver light of the moon turned this man’s pale features aglow with a primordial light. Arthur might’ve thought it was angelic, were it not for the emptiness in his gaze. What made a soul had clearly not passed onto him. As Arthur slowly stood he was sure to keep eye contact with the man and not allow it to slip to the woman, who took a sharp intake of breath as Arthur stepped over her.

The man smiled as he took Arthur in. Wrinkles pinched at the corner of his pale eyes in the only indication of how old he was. The rest of his pale face was as smooth and as unmarked as a bowl of cream. “Good lad. Now, if I may introduce myself.” The gun in his right hand, an intricately carved silver pistol, was deposited into his holster. “Shamus Kelley.” Then as if he was a perfectly ordinary stranger in perfectly ordinary circumstances, he extended his hand.

Arthur merely glanced down at it. “What’s your message?” He asked coldly.

Shamus didn’t miss a beat and withdrew his hand. It lay like a resting dog on his holster. “He requests a private meeting on June 17th, at sundown. The location will be revealed to you in a letter in Blackwater. No guns, only three bodies allowed to enter.”

Behind him, Arthur could feel the woman shifting on the ground.

She was trying to crawl away.

Arthur took a step back and found the fabric of her skirt with the heel of his boot and dug his weight into the ground. At once, she stopped moving.

“You need a firing squad for a simple message?” Arthur asked. “Or does Colm need some blood to satiate himself?”

Shamus’s grin widened to a point where it seemed to stretch his skin tight over his skull. “You’re a dangerous man, Arthur. We were just muzzling Dutch’s favorite hound.”

Arthur feigned resigned interest, although a hot rush of anger shot through him. Around them, O’Driscoll boys watched the two of them with almost ravenous apprehension as they fiddled with blade and gun like. Arthur had a passing fantasy of blowing a hole through every one of their skulls. Instead, he allowed a chuckle to escape his wind chapped lips. “Well,” he began, keeping his voice as steady as he could despite his rising adrenaline. “It’s a shame you didn’t.”

With a flash of movement Arthur sent a fist flying into Shamus’s sharp jaw. It practically bent beneath his knuckles, flimsy and thin, and Shamus stumbled backwards, shocked, and before he had a chance to bark an order he was yelping in pain from one of Arthur’s bullets lancing through his shin. The men around him stood in stunned silence for a few aching moments before they turned the barrels of their guns towards Arthur — but he and the woman were already gone and tearing through the forest.

Arthur clasped the woman’s small, cold arm with as much care as he could provide as he pulled her through the woods and towards his mare. He moved under thick branches, around dense brush. Anything to spare them even a half of a second. The woman followed, thankfully, without asking any questions, although, she began to breathe raggedly as they continued to sprint through the brush. In a patch of moonlight, Arthur saw her spit a wad of bloody saliva onto the ground.

Sunup was exactly where he had left her, much to his relief. Arthur leapt onto the saddle and offered an arm to the woman. “Get on.” Arthur ordered.

“Where are you taking me?” She asked while pulling herself atop the horse with the help of Arthur’s strong arm. Her other hand clung to her dark skirts.

“Train station.” Arthur replied curtly before kicking his mare into a gallop just as the sound of pursuing horses came painstakingly close. The trees turned into a blur of deep blue and silver as they tore over the dirt path with the sounds of cursing and gunfire trailing behind them. The mare puffed air in deep, bursting breaths as Arthur pushed her farther and farther. He knew they could lose them, Sunup was the fastest he’d ever ridden. Behind him, the woman pressed herself tight against his back, and he felt her tremble against him as if she was about to fall apart.

He needed to get back to Dutch — he needed to tell someone, anyone, about Shamus. The almost ghost-like flesh with the cleanliness of a choir boy had made him sick to his stomach. How long had Colm kept him at his side? Surely not long enough. Dutch would’ve mentioned someone like him, someone who seemed a shell of a person, with a viciousness promised in neatly tucked shirts and a feral grin.

They came upon Valentine in what seemed to be a matter of minutes. Beneath him, his horse was puffing and gasping with exhaustion and as soon as he brought her to a nearby trough, she buried her nose into the water and took deep, long gulps. Muscles danced in her neck where adrenaline still pounded.

The night was beginning to lighten now — black was turning into blue. The mounted lamps of the train station cast a faint, golden glow on the two of them and faintly, the sounds of stirring farm animals broke through the silence of early morning. Arthur took this moment to finally take a full look of the woman now, and once he did, he felt his breath thicken in his throat.

Despite the haggardness and the torn flesh of her cheek, the woman who looked down at him as he dismounted was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Open, deep green eyes watched him with a wary intelligence. Her full lips tightened as he offered her his hand, and the length of her dark hair swayed as she took his hand and dismounted.

“Take that train as far as you can go.” Arthur said to her. “Clean up that cheek as soon as you can.” Each word came out clipped, unsure. Arthur dug into his saddle bag and withdrew a button-down shirt: neatly folded in a square of blue, striped fabric. “And change your blouse. You won’t get far past the law if they see you covered in blood.”

The woman took the shirt with a nod, and without another word she started for the stairs. Arthur stepped to the side and watched her, breath finally returning to his lungs.

Just as she came to the first step of the train deck she looked over her shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she said. Her voice was even now, and oddly low. It found a spot in Arthur’s chest like a new, undiscovered part of his lungs — as if it was always meant to be there.

Arthur could only dip his head in reply, and stood watching as she began to pull his shirt over her blouse and disappear into the train station. Once she did, he turned to mount onto his saddle, and took his eyes to the brightening sky. The twinkling stars were beginning to die out. Dawn had come, at last.

“C’mon girl.” Arthur grumbled to his mare as he settled into the saddle. “We’ll take it nice and easy.”

A long, keening whistle came from the distance. Arthur’s blood ran cold. Along the horizon, fanned out in a straight line over the bleeding dawn, stood the O’ Driscolls. In the center, on a thick muscled quarter horse as pale as his rider, sat Shamus Kelley, who raised a solitary hand as if acknowledging an old friend.

Somehow Arthur knew that the gesture didn’t hold the intent of acknowledgment. It was a gesture of promise. Arthur glared at the man, knowing in his heart he would face that pale-faced bastard soon enough, and raised his hand in reply.

As Arthur turned toward Valentine and began making his way through the mud slewn streets, he felt Shamus’s eyes upon his back.

Only when he dissapeared behind the church did he feel any reprieve, and only when he lit another cigar and clasped it between his lips did he make his way back home to Dutch.

—

author’s note:

Hello! I am so sorry for my long absence. I was actually able to get a new job at a ranch, and have been working hard! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of my very first Arthur Morgan fic, and I will do my best to update as quickly as possible!

[altergoat02]

[lonesomedovescry]

hey if it's alright, can i ask for sum soft male reader n arthur? if that's alright w u ofc!

yes! ofc my friend. here is this 4 you.

—

Arthur’s father had done his best to whoop the gentleness out of Arthur as a boy. Boyhood dreams turned dark in the shadow of a drunken man, and vanished in each whip of leather and punch of knuckle against skin.

By the time the bastard died, Arthur didn’t feel anything. Or rather, wouldn’t. He was a boy then, and his time with Dutch had done nothing to soften the angry shell around his heart and mind.

He met you in Valentine, half-drunk and grumbling some nonsense about someone named Lenny. He had accidentally shouldered you out of his way, and rather than rear in aggression, you barked out a laugh — and the sound brought Arthur to cold stop just outside the swinging doors of the saloon.

“Somewhere to be, cowpoke?” You asked with a grin. The hat you wore deepened the night’s shadows on your face, and Arthur squinted to make out your features.

“M’need to find Lenny.” He ground out, though he didn’t sound so sure.

You smiled again, shaking your head. “C’mon then. Let’s help you out before you kill yourself.”

After that, Arthur had returned to Valentine without any reason at all, just to get a glimpse of your smile. The way kindness radiated off of you in a way that he had never seen in any man before, the way you’d shyly catch his eye and flush with an embarrassment that did nothing but confuse him.

The first time he’d come close enough to smell the scent of summer in your hair, he had nearly choked. There was a sweetness to you that almost made him feel ashamed of his callousness. There was a temptation about you that threatened to undo his carefully built wall.

His love for you was silent, but undeniable. During rides along the bluebells he would keep an even pace with you. When your boots were on the ground his hand found yours with a firm, yet quiet possessiveness. Not that you minded — it seemed you figured him right out.

And sometimes you frightened him. You confronted his fears and heartache by simply laughing along beside him, and threatened his strength by rolling over and throwing your arm across him in the night when you slept together. How could softness allow him to survive? How could softness allow him to remain whole?

[lonesomedovescry]

“What are you afraid of, Arthur?”

You asked him this by the licking gold of flame. The stray hairs framing your face were a memory of your tired hands, an accessory to your tired eyes, that watched him with a dull curiosity. He watched your tongue dart out to wet your lips and felt his insides stir. Arthur looked away from you and towards the sky, which was inky black and moonless except for the tiny ivory shard hiding among the stars.

“Nothin’.” Arthur replied with a hint of humor. His heart began to speed in his chest, his lie kicking its spurs into the muscle. “Fear isn’t for the foolish.”

You watched him, head tilted. You always did that when you were thinking, as if your thoughts weighed down one side of your brain. “You’re no fool, Morgan. And neither am I.”

“So does that mean you’re afraid?” Arthur asked as he finally brought his gaze back to you. Affection prickled at his chest like the thorns of a rose bush, and with it the chill of fear. You were so close to him. He could smell your rose petal soap and the kiss of coffee steam. He could feel the warmth of your leg barely an inch away from his.

Your lips stretched into an almost wicked smile. “Of some things, yes. And I’ll tell you what…” Your hand came sliding up his arm, leaving a path of fire beneath his clothes, before coming to rest on the curve between his thick neck and shoulder. “Most of them have something to do with you.”

You were a mirror. You were a temptation.

You were everything.

Arthur’s eyes darkened, and he looked down at you. “And what would those be?”

Your lips, so close to his. He felt like his heart was going to drum its way out of his chest.

“Give me a kiss and I’ll tell you.” You murmered, and the moment he did — you tasted coffee and the heat of liquor. The moment he did you felt like you were flying.

[lonesomedovescry]

meeting charles felt like meeting the god of the moon.

quiet, beautiful. he stood with a presence that oozed power — strung like a bow carefully carved for death. the dark shade of his eyes reflected your face, your features warped in his analytical gaze. he took you in the same way he took in the tracks of an animal. there wasn’t a single detail missed: no stray hair or crooked tooth spared.

it daunted you to be around him. when the two of you found yourselves alone together, you felt like you were a breath away from crumbling beneath the weight of his gaze. however, when he spoke to you with his voice as deep as tree roots, his godhood slipped.

in his tales of his childhood and the passing years you were able to steal a look at the man beneath the stoic mask. kind, passionate, with an intelligence that matched yours in a way that you found deeply satisfying. he spoke of constellations, the migration patterns of animals, and plants that could heal you in body and soul.

while meeting charles was like meeting the god of the moon, knowing him was like knowing the song of the earth. innately. deeply. and without doubt.

[lonesomedovescry]

Would you be interested in a full Arthur Morgan Fic?

YES

I prefer your shorts!!

Voting ended onApr 28, 2025

[lonesomedovescry]

Why did the grief taste like salt and iron?

You washed gritty bits of sand out of your mouth with a slug of whiskey. The burn warmed you from you deep in your stomach, spreading to your half-frozen toes. Your tent did little to nothing to spare you from the Grizzly chill, and your blankets cared just as much to keep you warm.

It had been months since the fallout of the San Denis Bank robbery. The camp fell into chaos and in your hurry to find Arthur yourself, you had lost everyone in camp as well as your lover. Your friends. Your family. They were as good as gone. Your search of Shady Belle proved fruitless, and your hunt for folks had turned you North.

Not a whisper. Not a word.

You stood up, back popping with satisfying cracks, and began to dress for another day’s ride. Off to strawberry, to sell the wolf pelts that lay rolled on the inside of your tent. The last buckle is fastened and you step out into the chill moisture of dawn, where a watercolor wash of blue tints the landscape.

You approach your mare with whispered words of greeting and feed her the remainder of your apples. You’d have to go to the grocery store while you were there as well. A twinge of pain as you remember the last time you were there with Arthur — he had bought you a new pair of boots. Deep brown leather, ornate stitching, and slightly pointed at the toe.

A small ‘A’ was branded onto both heels.

The ride to Strawberry was peaceful despite the distant roar of bears. Unlike the chaotic streets of San Denis you rarely had to concern yourself with the danger of passing people. It was the wolves and the mountain lions you had to be wary of, and it was easy enough to put a bullet between their eyes before they got too much meat off of you.

Men had a hunger for much more. In the wild, you can trust that the animals only want one thing.

You told Arthur as much on one of the evening rides to a nearby wildflower meadow the both of you were fond with. His grim agreement sent chills down your spine, the dark flickering of rage in his eyes, a look you so rarely had seen before.

You thought of his face as you stowed away your wares from the grocery store. The boyish sweetness he had somehow clung onto despite years of robbing and killing. The softness of his turquoise eyes whenever he looked at you, the shape of his sinful mouth. The scars that flecked his aging skin. Every fine line was perfectly where it should be.

He would laugh riotously when provoked. The sound of it had always brought water to your eyes.

“Hey, you!”

A voice snapped you at your of your daze. A haggard looking man strode down the narrow street, pock marked face flush with the kiss of liquor.

“You lookin’ for somebody?”

“Who’s asking?” You replied.

“Some gentlemen paid me to keep an eye out for you.” The man replied. “Told me to tell you all roads lead back to Valentine.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What’d this man look like?”

“Tall. Brown hair and beard. Blue eyes.” The man got a faraway look in his gaze, as if he was going back to that very moment. “Scar on his chin. Paid me quite a lot, told me to lay off the booze in the meantime so I wouldn’t miss ya, but I found ya didn’t I? Ole’ Itchy still sharp as a needle even a pint deep. I always had a —“

But you stopped listening, the roar of blood in your ears. He was talking about Arthur.

He was looking for you.

You have Itchy a quick thanks and freed your mare from the post before launching yourself into the saddle. A quick press of your heels and the mare was barreling forward and out of the streets of Strawberry, dust and curses of townsfolk on her tail.

You could’ve wept from the joy. You could’ve wept from the relief.

But you didn’t. You kept your face as hard as stone as you worked your mare as hard as you could, sweat lathering on her flank, hooves drumming a rhythm into the ground. The ground between Strawberry and Valentine was devoured and soon the smell of lanolin and manure came onto the wind.

The blur of the train station. The shape of the hillside church.

You ground the mare to a stop and tied her near a trough to let her cool down. Your heart was beating a mile a minute. Where could he be? You looked around you, eyes darting left and right, taking in everything yet nothing. You barely saw the faces of the people around you yet you knew none of them was Arthur. You’d know him if you had died.

“Y/N?”

That voice. You snapped around, heart in your throat.

“Arthur?” You called, still unseeing. Your voice was shaking as if afraid. Adrenaline was turning your blood to sugar water.

“Y/N!”

There, at the end of the street, racing past the saloon. His face was red and puckered by the sun, and his hair was much longer, but it was him. It was Arthur. You felt like flying suddenly — weightless. The closer he came to you, the more you couldn’t move.

When he was only a few paces away your knees buckled and you fell to the ground, knees hitting the dirt with a bark of pain, and then he was there with you. Warm hands grabbed the sides of your face and beheld you for his searching gaze. The desperation and relief in his features broke the damn inside you and you began to cry.

“Arthur.” You whimpered, and reached for him. Arthur laughed breathlessly and kissed you hard, teeth clashing. Again. And again. And again. He kissed your face, drew his arms to your waist and crashed your body against his. One large hand cradled the back of your head, the other on your waist, and for a moment you both sat together in the street and trembled in relief.

—-

YEARNING

[lonesomedovescry]

Hello, first time asking,,, you don't have to do this if you've already done this prompt but, could you maybe write something about Arthur and the reader on her period ? Mine came in late recently and I'm feeling WACK AS HELL 😭😭🥲

madam… dinner is served.

—

There was little to nothing on this Earth that could get under the skin of gunslinger Arthur Morgan. The grind of bones beneath his knuckles or the spitting of teeth became as secondary to him as the sound of an approaching train. Blood was simply blood to him, in every state, so the morning he wakes up to find blood leaching onto his long underwear he merely blinks.

You’re asleep on your side, having turned away from him in the heat of the night, and a large splotch of red painted the back of your bloomers. A sticky trickle of blood came down your legs, and came to pool on the fabric of the bedroll. Your cycle had come early and with a vengeance.

Arthur blinked the sleep from his eyes and rose to his feet before clumsily putting on a pair of pants. The usual gruff sounds of his waking filled the tent. The small coughs, deep sighs, and vague grumbling followed him when he dipped through the closed flap of the tent.

When he returned, a bucket of hot water and a cloth in hand, you were awake and mortified. “Arthur,” you said, face burning with shame. “I am so sorry.”

“For what?” Arthur asked, voice rough with morning. Confusion furrowed his brow.

As if the question embarrassed you even more, you desperately threw your hands forward to motion to the mess on your legs and the bedroll. It took Arthur a moment to realize what exactly you meant, mind still slow from sleep, but the moment is struck him his mouth tilted into a slight smile.

When he chuckled, you felt like melting into the floor.

“Now why would I care about something like that?” Arthur said. “I love a woman, not a child. And this is what women do.”

Arthur then dropped to his knees before you, settling the bucket to the side with a satisfying clink. While ont large had soaked a cloth in steaming water another came to your ankle, where this thumb began to stroke loving lines.

“Sit up.” He mumbled. Then, “Legs apart.”

And so began the careful process of wiping you clean, save for the moment he allowed you the privacy to strip from your soiled bloomers and clean your more intimate areas yourself to save yourself from feeling any more shame. By the time you were clean and dressed, all evidence of your cycle vanished beneath detailed and steady hands.

Those same hands later massaged your hips and delivered your coffee. Those same hands cupped the side of your face with a whispered goodbye as he was called yet again to Dutch’s side, leaving you soft with the heartache that came with being undeniably in love with an outlaw.

—

Soft and crying for him. He is so good and sweet and CARING

[lonesomedovescry]

Hiii, first ask kinda nervous 😓do you write for Kieran Duffy? If you do could you just do some romantic hcs for him? If not that is okay!! Just do whatever ur comfortable with 💝

I have BEEN WAITINGGGGGG to find my Kieren folk… HEHEHEHEH OKAY LETS GO!

I usually write for fem presenting readers so that’s what this will be!

______

Kieran who, after meeting you for the first time, suddenly finds an excuse to be wherever you are in camp. Whether he’s helping chop wood, bring in fresh water, or care for the horses, he has a funny habit of always being in your sight line. And it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with his stolen glances.

Kieran who leaves wildflowers laying on your pillow during the day, carefully gathered and bound, and relishes in the delighted expression on your face once you find it.

Kieran who before kissing you for the first time, lips inches away from yours asks in a shaky voice, “Is this alright?”

Kieran who speaks softly to you, his voiced lilted in a nervous quiver, no matter the circumstance. Pet names slip between words experimentally. ‘Sweetheart.’ ‘Honey.’ ‘Beautiful.’

Kieran who makes it a ritual to take strolls with you after breakfast each morning, words as chipper and bright as the break of dawn, and tell you of his life before his time with the gang.

Kieran who sees the gentleness in you and aches with longing.

Kieran who mumbles prayers of thanks beneath his breath each night before he falls asleep.

[lonesomedovescry]

i’ve always loved the idea of arthur and reader still sleeping cuddled up for years after leaving the gang bc they were so used to sleeping in a tiny cot 🥺

it’s funny how habits stick.

you wake up every morning practically laying on top of arthur, head on his chest and your arm and leg slung across him. his calloused hands rests on the curve of your neck and the drop of your waist, cradling you against him.

the open expanse of your bed is cold in the place where you had fallen asleep and the comforting sounds of his deep breathing coax you to drowse against him for a while. now that you could. now that arthur was all yours.

you can tell by the pace of his breathing that arthur is waking up. his strong chest rises quicker than before and draws in a powerful breath that releases in a deep sigh. you look up to see the light from your bedroom window setting his irises aglow.

as usual, as arthur has done for the past years you’ve been in love, he greets you good morning my running his thick fingers through the roots of your hair. you lean into his touch, practically purring, and pull yourself even closer to the warmth of his strong body.

his heart, beating strong and loud in his chest. he clears his throat and rolls you both onto your side so that he could face you.

“g’mornin darlin’.” he mutters to you, voice raspy.

___

VERY BRIEF BC I AM SOOOO BUSY BUT RAHHHHHHH

[lonesomedovescry]

Hi, dove!!

I absolutely love that prompt you got sent about Arthur baking and I adored the drabble that you wrote!!! <33

It got my mind churning with ideas and I was wondering if you'd mind if I wrote a oneshot or something inspired by it? I'll credit the original post, of course. If not, it's no problem! <3 I love your posts!

Please! Go ahead, it would be awesome! Can’t wait to see it!

[lonesomedovescry]

do you think arthur would like to bake?

like hear me out a second. obviously he's a pretty great artist, and that's one hobby that (in a perfect world with a happy ending, shhh) he could probably pursue at home with paints and notebooks and whatnot... wouldn't it be something to do something that simple with him? bread, at first. y'know, all that kneading. could really use some help with the physical labor, mr morgan... and then quick breads, the kind that use fruits and baking powders. little introductions of luxuries that never really occurred to him to create, because why would they? he wasn't made to make things— only oops, he's an artist. he has it in him.

also the idea of him braiding little bread accents for scored loaves is knocking me out. also also, tell me he wouldn't be the type to think about building one of those bigger bakers ovens. he strikes me as the type to always need a task, even if you technically have a perfectly good cast iron oven *right there.*

give the man a constructive hobby, that's what i mean. because (after he builds the house, bc if that was in john's nature it's definitely in his) he needs one.

your brain… your brain…. i have so many thoughts about this and this will be more of a thought drop rather than full blurb because hello??? oh em gee….

—

arthur, who after slipping the noose promised by micah and dutch with his sweetheart at his side, finds comfort and joy in building her a house with his blood and sweat. with a desire to build a small homestead in the grizzlies, he purchased a plot of land blooming with wildflowers and painted with lines of a flowing creek, where he spent hours resurrecting his monument to his love. a place where you could sleep without fear. a place where he could finally be free.

sweat slick and sore, he not only built the house itself (with the help of his friends of course) but he also built the fence that surrounded the property. and after that, he built a barn and a couple of pens. in his mind, the labor purified him. the sins of his past bled out from his pores through acts of pure devotion. he’d come in to the meal you prepared for him with a kiss and a mumbled thanks and quickly fall asleep the moment he had your warm body next to him.

with the labor born of devotion and bred for purification, his pure love of creation for the sake of creation helped keep him to himself. more detailed sketches in his journal, widdling wooden keepsakes. the love of creation never died within him, so as he watches you one fine morning delicately cutting flower shaped slices into a dough of bread before baking, the gears in his head begins grinding.

eventually, when the chores have been done and he ensures you have nothing to do but what you please, you find him in the kitchen. he’s covered in flour in a way that makes your heart clench with how endearing he is. he focuses as he carves out floral shapes into the bread the same as you did, blade hand steady and unwavering.

it seems that gunslinging steadiness has finally paid off.

[lonesomedovescry]

Oh my god please hear me out: Arthur. Pining.

Maybe it's just me but a man pining is everything. He's so resigned to the way being in love makes a fool out of him. He's whipped and he knows it and it drives him insane, but dear god, he cannot and would not ever trade away the way he feels. He says he would, maybe even believes he would, but he wouldn't. Not when holding and being held feels so sweet.

Your writing is everything by the way!!!

thank u sm for your kind words and more importantly thank you sm for this delicious FOOD OMG

arthur was born with heartache in his veins, unfortunately. yearning is as much part of his dna as the color of those turquoise eyes. falling in love was rare but rich in depth and heat. so much so that when he began to fall for you, it was as if he was choking on it.

he watches you in the mornings through the steam of his coffee, elbows on his knees as he rests by the fire, heavy with the weight of exhaustion from a long night’s ride. you brush your hair with a comb missing more than a few teeth and bind it into a braid with a frayed ribbon. the next time he finds himself in town, he replaces the comb and buys you a ribbon the exact shade of his eyes.

“oh, arthur.” you hum with pleasure when he shyly gives them to you. “these are beautiful. you really didn’t have to do that for me.”

your smile was damn near sweet enough to break his heart.

those around camp can see he’s lovesick despite his gruff attempts at nonchalance. they use your name like a weapon, watching with satisfaction as your mere mention drags his focus to you without hesitation. micah, damn him, taunts the man for his softness. arthur’s snarled reply denies any redemption offered by love, though he knew better.

by loving you, he was getting redemption he never deserved. if he had any sense in him he would put a thousand miles between himself and your darling eyes, yet there he was, tucking into your tent in the pitch of night, kicking off his boots and laying beside you in your bedroll.

you reached for him instinctively, still asleep, seeking his warmth. soon, you were curled against his chest and sighing at the smell of gunpowder and leather, and he was left holding you and succumbing to the sleep that always beckoned the moment he allowed himself to lay down.

[lonesomedovescry]

Finding flowers and putting them in Arthur’s hair cause he’s so beautiful 😭😭🩵

oh my god 😭😭 here is what played in my mind in this moment

______

“what’re you doin?” arthur asked quietly, voice rough with sun-drenched drowsiness as he lay in the flower spotted meadow with his head in your lap. the sounds of summer gave way to his deep timbre and the hush of the river fell onto your half deaf ears.

arthur’s hat lay beside you and currently acted as a bed to the bundle of flowers you had plucked from around you. deep purples, faint yellows and sweet pink petals lay carefully plucked and waiting as you began to tuck their stems carefully into arthur’s ashy brown hair.

“hush.” you replied scoldingly, though the curve of your lips spoke of nothing but bliss as you crowned him with the colors of the earth.

arthur opened one turquoise eye to look up at you, amused to see the sly grin that plastered itself onto your face, and let out a faint hum of satisfaction as he once again closed his eyes and allowed himself to fully surrender to the peaceful place he found himself in.

it was one of the first warm days of the summer and after a quick breakfast of coffee and venison, the two of you had ridden towards this little slice of heaven near horseshoe creek. the sounds of the camp vanished before the song of the wild and it was here that the two of you settled in pure enjoyment of the scene around you. arthur, given the chance to relax, had promptly settled his head into your lap and sprawled onto his back.

when all the flowers had found their place in his hair you took this moment of stillness to admire him. the strong lines of his face were sun-marked and scar flecked. fine wrinkles sprawled like sun beams around the corners of his eyes and his full mouth sat pressed in a perpetual pout that made you smile.

you brushed a thumb over the coarseness of his short beard, ran it over the strong shape of his jaw. it was incredible that he could not see how beautiful he was, how sweet despite his sins. the marks of years passed seemed as much of a stain to him as it was a means of worship for you and even as you studied him now you felt as though the years had strung the two of you together.

his eyes opened again, serious and beautiful. you felt your throat thicken up with the pure joy of meeting them.

“c’mere.” he muttered, hand traveling up to brush a stray piece of hair away from your face. then, his fingers hooked beneath your jaw and urged you down.

when your lips slotted against his, his mouth sweet with the taste of wild raspberries, you considered the absurdity of praying, and how your words of gratitude would not be enough thanks to whatever force had brought him to you.

—-

HAHWBWHWBWSNWHWJ guys im going to cry i love him so much. he is truly so…. SOOOOO….. ugh if i describe him again yall will get another 20k words.