Alrighty, cowpokes. Because I know a lot of my readers don’t use AO3 but have requested a masterlist of my requests, I have made one. Note that the titles followed by * are for smut in case you decide you do not want to read those ones (but I know all you thirsty Arthur hoes will 😉). Note that most of these are female reader, but generally the ones without smut are gender neutral. Happy reading!
Here’s a request I received on AO3. This one’s for you @batata-elegante 😉
So could you write a modern Arthur, where he got the key to Reader’s house recently. Then he found the reader（his girlfriend）has the habbit of sleeping in her birthdaysuit.her body is such a meal and he happily takes her. I just wanna give Arthur a treat 💞
Note: this one is nothing but pure smut!!!!! I need a drink now.
ok so i did a little bit of german shepherd research
german shepherd!arthur morgan who's head tilts whenever he hears your voice around camp. he likes the sound of your voice, and its obvious to anyone around him that he's obviously listening in on your conversations. in a modern au, he'd do this if you were on the phone so he could eavesdrop on what you're saying.
german shepherd!arthur morgan who's extremely loyal. once you've got him, you're stuck with him forever. it's a routine; every time he returns from camp for whatever reason he went out, he immediately checks to see if you're okay. if you're out somewhere, he'll wait for you until you return.
german shepherd!arthur morgan who's hyper in spurts, which is when he'll most likely take on a more intense task like robbing or stealing, and then crashes for a few hours before doing it all over again.
german shepherd!arthur morgan who doesn't wag his tail for much. except when he spots you at camp. he'll follow you around, very indiscreetly, his tail swaying. he likes knowing what you're doing and where you are.
german shepherd!arthur morgan who loves to rough house, but he knows he's too old for it. so occasionally, maybe when you two are away from camp, holed up in a tent or in a hotel, he'll manhandle you until you start tackling him. he lets you win because he likes to see you on top of him.
The door flew open. Arthur Morgan stood there, a defeated man.
His arms were completely occupied by two huge brown paper bags, practically overflowing with expensive and high quality groceries, his dress shirt was creased and unbuttoned at the top. Arthur Morgan was absolutely, irrevocably and unequivocally vanquished by his own hand.. and credit card.
He staggered over to the kitchen island and freed himself from the shackles of his purchases, leaning on the counter as the paper bags slumped pathetically, mimicking his mood. His biceps flexed uncomfortably under the forever tightening shirt. It was 4pm on the dot. You were arriving at 6pm.
Arthur exhaled warily, he wished he had at least given it some thought before letting his mouth shoot off and invite you over. He was completely and utterly infatuated with you. Seeing you around Dutch’s bar, laughing or sipping lazily at drinks, it seemed that everything you did was just flawless. As if you had a perfect feeling of belonging in the world.
Arthur reminisced, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite himself. You were talking to Sadie, laughing loudly. Arthur loved your laugh, the way your eyes squinted and you bared your teeth, it was almost freeing. The thought of it stirred a chuckle in his chest, it died fast enough realising he wasn’t involved at all and probably seemed like a creepy weirdo staring at you longingly, and now thinking about you, alone. In his apartment.
.☘︎ ݁˖ strangers to lovers headcanons with arthur morgan - mdni! (light smut)
Arthur Morgan, who first truly notices you when he catches you grooming his horse.
Arthur loves his horse more than most people, and he’s fiercely protective of the animal. For weeks, he’d seen you around camp – the quiet girl who didn't make a fuss – but it wasn't until he returned from a short hunting session with Charles to find you meticulously brushing the grime from his horse's coat that he actually saw you.
He stopped in his tracks, leaning against a nearby wagon, watching the way your small hands worked with such tenderness.
You hadn’t only been cleaning his horse. Rather, you were whispering to it, your voice a soft melody that seemed to calm even the most spirited beast. He watched the way you leaned in to kiss the horse's velvet nose, a genuine, sweet smile lighting up your face.
In that moment, the hardness in Arthur’s chest cracked just a little. He felt a strange, sudden pull toward you, a desire to be the recipient of that kind of gentleness.
He didn't say much then – just a gruff “Thank you, Miss” – but as he walked away, he found himself glancing back over his shoulder.
He couldn't stop thinking about the softness of your expression and the way you handled something he loved with such genuine care.
Arthur Morgan, who starts spotting you everywhere you go around camp.
Once he noticed you, it was as if a veil had been lifted. Suddenly, you were the center of his periphery.
Whether he was cleaning his rifle by the fire or chatting with Hosea, his eyes would instinctively drift toward you. He’d watch you helping Pearson with the stew, the way you laughed at something Mary-Beth said, or the way you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear while reading a book by the lantern light.
He began to find excuses to be near you. He’d linger by the horse picket longer than necessary, or he’d “happen” to be walking toward the coffee pot just as you were arriving.
Arthur loved the quietness of your presence: you didn't demand anything from him, and you didn't judge the blood on his knuckles or the weariness in his eyes.
You just smiled at him – a small, shy thing that made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He started noticing the little things: the scent of wild herbs that clung to your skin, the way your voice hitched when you were nervous, and the way you looked at him with a curiosity that felt like a warm blanket.
Truth be told, he was terrified of these feelings, but he was even more terrified of the thought of you disappearing from his sight.
Arthur Morgan, who begins bringing you wildflowers from the fields during his rides.
Arthur isn't a man for poetry or fancy gestures, but he found himself captivated by the colors of the wilderness.
On his scouting trips, while the world was quiet and the wind was whistling through the pines, he’d spot a patch of bright yellow primrose or a cluster of deep blue cornflowers. He’d stop his horse, look at the blooms, and immediately think of you.
He’d awkwardly pluck a handful, stuffing them into his satchel, feeling like a fool for doing so.
“What am I doing..?” He’d mutter to himself, shaking his head.
But the moment he rode back into camp and saw you, the embarrassment vanished, replaced by a desperate need to see you smile.
He wouldn't make a grand production of it. He’d walk up to you while you were working, clear his throat loudly, and thrust the slightly wilted bunch of flowers toward you without looking you in the eye.
“Saw these. Thought... thought you might like 'em.” He’d grumble, his cheeks flushing a deep red.
“Why thank you, Arthur. They’re… well, they’re gorgeous.” You’d reply, face heating up as you grinned up at him.
But when you took them, your fingers brushing his rough skin, and thanked him with that beaming smile, Arthur felt a rush of warmth that no amount of whiskey could ever provide.
Arthur Morgan, who lets his guard down during a drunken slow dance at a camp celebration.
The camp was in high spirits, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and the sound of a fiddle playing a lively tune.
Arthur had been drinking – more than usual – and the whiskey had softened the edges of his anxiety. When the music shifted to something slower, more melodic, he found himself standing near you.
The courage of the bottle pushed him forward.
He reached out a large, calloused hand, his voice low and slightly slurred.
“Dance with me... please?”
You didn't hesitate, sliding your hand into his.
Arthur was a mountain of a man, and he felt clumsy as he pulled you close, his boots stepping slightly out of time. He wasn't a dancer – he was a fighter and a killer. But as he felt your body press against his, the world around them blurred.
He loosened up, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction as he rested his chin on the top of your head.
Closing his eyes, he let himself breathe in the scent of your hair, swaying slowly to the music. For a few minutes, he wasn't an outlaw on the run; he was just a man holding the woman he loved.
“Yer real pretty…” He whispered incoherently yet sweetly into your ear, a confession born of alcohol and longing, and for the first time in years, Arthur felt truly at peace.
Arthur Morgan, who finally kisses you after you help him back to his cot.
The party had wound down, and the whiskey had finally caught up with him. Arthur was stumbling, his head spinning, and you were the one who caught him, looping his heavy arm over your shoulder to guide him back to his small, secluded corner of the camp.
He was leaning heavily on you, his breath warm and smelling of rye, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin tingle.
As you helped him lower himself onto the cot, you lingered for a moment, your hand resting on his chest to steady him. You started to pull away, but Arthur’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a surprising firmness.
He pulled you down, and before you could gasp, his lips were on yours.
It wasn't a polished kiss; it was desperate, hungry, and filled with all the words he had been too scared to say. He tasted of alcohol and longing, his beard scratching your skin, but the heat of it was intoxicating.
While he groaned into your mouth, his hand moved from your wrist to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were clouded with emotion, his forehead resting against yours.
“I've wanted to do that... for so damn long.” He whispered, his voice cracking.
Meanwhile, you had hidden your face in the crook of his neck, too speechless to reply.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who is a mess of shyness and awkwardness the morning after.
The sunlight filtering through the canvas of the tent felt far too bright the next morning.
When you woke up and looked over at Arthur, he was already awake, staring at the ceiling with a look of sheer panic on his face. The bravado of the whiskey was gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable uncertainty.
Whenever you tried to speak, he shifted away slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Mornin’...” He muttered, his voice gravelly.
He couldn't quite look you in the eye, his ears turning a bright shade of crimson. He was terrified that he had overstepped, that you would regret the kiss, or that he was simply too ruined of a man to be what you deserved.
But as the day progressed, the awkwardness turned into a tender, tentative courtship. He started holding your hand in secret, his large thumb stroking your knuckles while you walked. He’d leave little notes or pieces of candy on your bedroll.
He was still the rugged outlaw, but with you, he was a boy in love, constantly checking to make sure you were happy, his eyes following you with a devotion that was almost painful to witness.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who treats your first time together with a reverence that borders on sacred.
The transition from kissing to something more happened on a quiet, moonlit night, far from the prying eyes of the camp. He had led you to a secluded spot by a stream, the grass soft beneath you.
Arthur was trembling – not from cold, but from a sheer, overwhelming nervousness. He had spent his life taking things by force or fighting for survival; the idea of being gentle, of truly cherishing someone, was terrifying.
As he stripped away your clothes, his hands were shaking. He kept pausing, looking into your eyes for permission, his voice a low, unsteady rumble.
“You sure? I– I don't want to hurt you. I'm not– I ain’t a gentle man, darlin’.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure in my life, Arthur.”
You’d assured him that you wanted him, and the look of relief and desire that crossed his face was heartbreakingly sweet.
When he finally entered you, he did so with agonizing slowness. He stopped the moment he felt any resistance, his muscles locking up, his breath hitching in his throat.
He stayed still, his forehead pressed against yours, waiting for you to adjust, whispering praises into your skin.
“Yer so tight… fuck, sweetheart.” He hissed, his voice thick with emotion.
He didn't rush. He focused entirely on your pleasure, his movements patient and rhythmic. Every time you gasped or arched your back, he would slow down, kissing every inch of your face, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.
“M– Mmh! Arthur… feels s’good..!” You’d mewled into his ear, and he responded by capturing your lips in a kiss.
Arthur was so focused on your comfort that he almost forgot his own needs, his heart hammering against your chest.
And when he finally came inside with a groan against your ear, he'd let go. He collapsed against you, sobbing quietly into your neck, finally feeling like he belonged to someone.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who becomes incredibly protective and affectionate in the aftermath.
After that night, Arthur changed. The softness he had shown you became a permanent part of his demeanor when you were alone. He became your shadow, always ensuring you were fed, warm, and safe.
If another man looked at you for a second too long, Arthur didn't need to say a word; one dark, warning glare from beneath the brim of his hat was enough to send them scurrying.
But with you, he was a different man.
He loved to wake you up with soft kisses on your shoulder, his large body curling around yours like a protective shield. He started talking to you about his past: the things he regretted, the dreams he had given up on.
He trusted you with the parts of himself he had hidden from Dutch and the gang; the parts that were fragile and frightened.
He’d spend hours just watching you, his hand resting on the small of your back, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration on his face.
He still brought you flowers, but now he’d tuck them into your hair, his fingers lingering against your skin.
He had found something in you that he thought was lost to the world: a reason to believe that he was more than just a gun for hire.
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