SixGunLuvr

40s • Female • 18+ Only • Ugly in love with Arthur Morgan, my RDOC, Adam, and my V in Cyberpunk 2077. Feel free to snag anything I post! If you use please give me credit. Nexus Mods = SixGunLuvr

[sixgunluvr]

There he was—my Arthur—riding like vengeance through the green wild, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of that worn hat, every muscle taut with purpose. His rifle steady, jaw set hard, and heart burning with the kind of fury only a man like him could carry. There’s a poetry in the way he moves, even in battle, like the wind itself knows better than to cross him.

His coat billowed behind him, dusted with trail and blood, and still he looked like something carved from legend—part man, part myth, all fire. I should be afraid when he’s like this, when the world sees only the outlaw, the threat. But I see the man beneath it all—the protector, the storm that shields me.

Arthur Morgan rides for blood and justice. But I know, deep down, it is love that gives him aim.

[sixgunluvr]

He moves through the night like a shadow, the lamplight casting a golden glow upon the damp streets, yet never quite reaching him. His hat, worn and weathered, shields his eyes from the world, but I know what lingers beneath—fire, fury, sorrow.

Dressed in black, he looks every bit the outlaw they whisper about, the danger in his stance, the promise of reckoning in every slow, deliberate step. And yet, I know the truth. Beneath the steel and gunpowder, beneath the scars and sins, there is a man with a heart that still beats, though the world tries to harden it against him.

Arthur Morgan. My ghost in the night, my salvation in the dark. I wonder if he knows that no matter how deep into the shadows he walks, I will always find him.

[sixgunluvr]

The ink upon this page can scarce capture the depth of my longing, nor the fire that smolders within my heart each time I think of you. The world calls you an outlaw, a rogue, a man unbound by law or country, but to me, you are so much more—my guiding star in the vast, untamed wilderness.

The nights grow long in your absence, the candlelight flickering like the restless beat of my heart. I dream of you, my love, of your dark gaze burning with promise, of the slow curl of your lips when you speak of the future you swear we shall have. I close my eyes and see you as you were when last we parted—your dark coat draped over broad shoulders, the rich red of your waistcoat catching the dying light of dusk, the fire in your eyes tempered by a weight only I seem to understand.

I know you bear the burden of a leader, of a dreamer fighting against a world that seeks to crush the free spirit of men like you. I have seen you by the campfire, your brow furrowed in thought, your fingers idly tracing the brim of your hat as the others look to you for guidance. They do not see what I see—the man behind the legend, the heart that beats beneath the black of your coat.

Oh, how I long to run my fingers through your dark hair, to press my palm against the rough line of your jaw, to whisper my love against the stubble that shadows your face. My Dutch, my love, do you think of me when the moon is high? Do you hear my voice carried on the wind through the pines, calling you home?

I shall wait for you, always, as the wildflowers wait for spring. No law, no bounty, no distance shall sever the thread that binds my heart to yours. Return to me, my love, before the world takes you from me forever.

[sixgunluvr]

He stands before me, bathed in the golden glow of twilight, the fire in his green eyes burning brighter than the embers of our camp. The red of his shirt is deep, bold, a striking contrast against the wilderness that surrounds him—like a warning, or perhaps a promise. His gaze is fierce, unrelenting, as if he carries the weight of a thousand battles, a thousand choices he can never take back.

The world calls him an outlaw, a dangerous man, but I see something else beneath the hardened lines of his face. A protector, a warrior, a heart still capable of tenderness even when it fights against him. He is carved from the wild itself—fierce, untamed, yet impossibly beautiful.

Arthur Morgan. My gunfighter. My storm. My salvation. And though I know the life he leads can only end one way, I cannot help but love him all the same.

[sixgunluvr]

There is something about the way the last light of day clings to him, the amber glow of dusk painting his face in gold and shadow. The sharp line of his jaw, dusted with the roughness of days spent on the trail, sets firm in thought. His eyes—deep, piercing, searching—sweep the horizon, ever watchful, ever wary.

The weight of his world rests upon those broad shoulders, draped in a coat worn and weathered by time and turmoil. His hat, tilted just enough to shroud his expression, does little to hide the fire that smolders beneath. He is the storm and the calm before it, the danger and the refuge all at once.

Arthur Morgan. My outlaw, my heart’s torment, my salvation in the dark. I wonder if he knows that even in the dying light, he shines brighter than any star in my sky.

[sixgunluvr]

The firelight flickers against his weathered face, shadows dancing over the ridges and scars of a man who has lived a hundred lifetimes in the span of one. Smoke curls from his lips, twisting through the cold night air like whispered secrets he will never share. His gloved hands, rough and steady, cradle the cigarette with the same ease he holds a gun—casual, effortless, deadly.

I watch him, lost in thought, those piercing green eyes fixed on something beyond my reach. He wears the weight of the world in his silence, in the tight set of his jaw, in the lines carved deep by the burden of a life spent running. Yet, even in the quiet, he holds me captive.

Arthur Morgan—my outlaw, my protector, my ruin. A man as cold as the steel at his hip, and yet, in the rare moments when his gaze meets mine, I feel a warmth that could set the whole damn world on fire.

[sixgunluvr]

The sight of him steals my breath away. The crimson of his shirt, dark and rich as spilled wine, clings to the hard lines of his frame, made rugged by the lawless life he leads. His suspenders, stretched taut, only serve to accentuate his strength, his broad shoulders carved by the weight of the world and the burden he carries upon them.

His hat, low over his eyes, shields me from the storm that brews within them, yet I know their piercing green fire, smoldering beneath the shadow. A man of few words, but his presence speaks volumes—danger, desire, devotion. The world may call him an outlaw, but to me, he is Arthur—my protector, my ruin, my salvation.

Oh, how the West weaves its wicked spell upon the men who dare to tame it. And how I have fallen helplessly into the clutches of the one who can never be tamed.

[sixgunluvr]

I never knew what true freedom felt like until today.

Arthur took me riding—just the two of us, away from town, away from watchful eyes and whispered warnings. The sun was warm despite the winter chill, and the sky stretched endless above us, a brilliant blue that made me feel as if we were the only two souls in the world.

He lifted me onto the saddle in front of him, his hands firm on my waist, sending shivers through me that had nothing to do with the cold. "Hold on, darlin’," he murmured against my ear, his voice low, teasing, full of something unspoken. And I did.

I held on tight as he spurred his horse forward, the wind whipping through my hair, the steady thrum of hoofbeats beneath us. I could feel the strength of him behind me, the way his arms bracketed me, keeping me steady, safe. Every time I leaned into him, I swore I could hear his heartbeat, steady and sure.

We rode for what felt like hours, the landscape blurring past in streaks of gold and brown. I closed my eyes and let myself get lost in the rhythm of it all—the warmth of his chest against my back, the scent of leather and pine, the sound of his deep, steady breathing.

He slowed the horse near a quiet creek, where the water shimmered in the midday light. Dismounting first, he turned to help me down, his hands lingering at my waist a little longer than necessary. I looked up at him, breathless from the ride, and found him watching me with something in his eyes that made my knees weak.

"Y’ever think about leavin’ this place?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, rough edges smoothed by the moment.

I knew what he meant. Not just leaving town. Leaving everything. The rules, the expectations, the life I was meant to live—the one that never felt quite like mine.

"Only every day," I whispered.

His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch reverent, careful. "One day, maybe."

"Maybe," I echoed, though we both knew promises were dangerous things in a world like his.

But for now, I would take this—this stolen moment, this feeling of weightlessness, this ride through the open land with the man who made me feel more alive than I ever had.

And as he kissed me, slow and deep, the cold biting at our cheeks, I knew one thing for certain.

No matter where the road took us, no matter what came next—so long as I was with Arthur Morgan, I would never truly be lost.

[sixgunluvr]

There is no place in this world safer than Arthur’s arms.

When he holds me, the noise of the world fades, the worries that weigh on my heart disappear like mist in the morning sun. In his embrace, I am not the daughter of a strict mother, not the girl whispered about for loving a man like him. I am simply his.

His warmth seeps into my skin, into my very bones. He is solid, unshaken, a man built for battle, for survival—but when he wraps me in his arms, he is gentle, as if afraid I might slip through his fingers. He smells of leather and pine, of smoke from campfires long since burned out. His coat, worn from years on the road, is rough against my cheek, but beneath it, his heartbeat is steady, strong.

He never says much when he holds me like this. He doesn’t have to.

Sometimes he rests his chin atop my head, his big hands tracing slow circles along my back. Sometimes he lets out a long, quiet sigh, as if holding me is the only thing in the world that lets him breathe. And sometimes, when he thinks I am not paying attention, he presses the softest kiss to my hair, a touch so delicate it makes my heart ache.

I wonder if he knows how much I love him in these moments.

How I could spend eternity right here, tangled up in him, feeling his warmth, his strength, the unspoken promises he makes when his arms tighten around me.

The world may call him an outlaw, a man to be feared, but in his embrace, there is only love. Only safety.

And no matter how far he rides, no matter how many nights I spend waiting, I know he will always find his way back to me.

Because when he holds me, I feel it—I am home.

[sixgunluvr]

I woke before the sun this morning, the house quiet except for the faint crackling of the dying fire in the hearth. Snow had fallen heavy through the night, blanketing the world in silence, soft and untouched. Christmas morning.

Mama had been fussing all week, setting candles in the windows, baking spiced cakes, and humming hymns under her breath as if the season alone could make the world right. But my heart was elsewhere, out on the road, chasing the man who carries it with him.

Arthur.

I hadn’t let myself hope. Hope was dangerous—it made the waiting worse, made the loneliness cut deeper. But as I lay there beneath my quilts, staring at the ceiling, something inside me stirred. A feeling.

And then I heard it.

The faintest tap against my window.

I sat up so fast I nearly fell from bed, my breath catching in my throat. Heart pounding, I scrambled to the glass, pressing my hands against the frost-covered pane. And there he was.

Arthur stood below, snow dusting his broad shoulders, his hat pulled low, his coat wrapped tight against the cold. Even from here, I could see the way his lips curled into that small, knowing smirk.

I didn’t stop to think. Didn’t hesitate.

I threw on my shawl and slipped down the stairs as quietly as I could, past the twinkling candles, past the tree Mama had decorated with care, past the stockings that hung by the hearth. The world inside was warm and safe. But Arthur—Arthur was the fire that burned inside me.

I pushed open the back door, the cold biting at my skin, and before I could say a word, he pulled me into his arms.

"Merry Christmas, darlin’," he murmured against my hair, his voice rough with the cold, with exhaustion, with something else—something deeper.

"You came back." My words were muffled against his coat, against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"’Course I did," he said, pulling back just enough to look at me, his green eyes dark in the moonlight. "Told ya I would."

I reached up, brushing my fingers against his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw, the warmth of his skin against the winter chill. "You’re freezing," I whispered.

He chuckled softly, tilting his head. "Guess you’ll have to warm me up, then."

I laughed, despite the lump in my throat, despite the tears burning at the corners of my eyes. He always did that—turned my worry into something lighter, something bearable.

And then he kissed me, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made the cold disappear, made the world fall away.

When he pulled back, he reached into his coat and pulled something from his pocket—a small, worn leather pouch. "Got somethin’ for ya," he said, placing it in my hands.

I opened it with shaking fingers, my breath catching as I pulled out a delicate silver chain, a small locket hanging from it. I traced my thumb over the intricate etching, my heart swelling with emotion.

"Arthur…" I whispered, barely able to speak.

"Ain’t much," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But figured you should have somethin’ to hold onto when I ain’t around."

I looked up at him, at the man who had stolen my heart and given me his in return. "It’s perfect."

His expression softened, and for a moment, I saw it—that flicker of something unguarded, something real.

"Come inside," I whispered, lacing my fingers with his. "Stay, even if just for a little while."

He hesitated. I could see the battle in his eyes, the war between what he wanted and what he thought was right. But then he nodded, just once, and let me lead him inside.

And as we stepped over the threshold, the warmth of home wrapping around us, I knew this moment would be one I would carry forever.

Because no matter where the road took him, no matter how far he had to ride, Arthur Morgan had come home to me for Christmas.

And that was all the gift I would ever need.

[sixgunluvr]

The first snowfall came last night, blanketing the town in a quiet hush, as if the world itself had paused to listen. I woke before dawn, shivering beneath the weight of my quilts, my breath a ghost in the chilled air. The fire in the hearth had long since burned low, but it was not the cold that stirred me from sleep. It was the dream of him.

Arthur.

I dreamt of his hands, warm and strong, tracing slow patterns along my skin. I dreamt of his voice, that low rumble, whispering words meant only for me. I dreamt of his arms around me, holding me as if I was something precious, something worth keeping.

But when I opened my eyes, the room was empty, and reality set in like the morning frost. He is not here.

I spent the day pretending I was fine. I went to the market with Mama, smiled when I should, nodded at the proper times, but my thoughts were elsewhere. The townsfolk talk of Christmas preparations, of gatherings and laughter, but all I can think about is whether Arthur will come back before the year ends.

Before another winter passes without him.

I know he doesn’t belong here, in this quiet town with its neat rows of houses and people who would never understand him. He belongs to the wild, to the open road, to the places where men carve their names with bullets and blood. And yet, when he is with me, I see another version of him—one that is softer, one that lets himself be something more than an outlaw.

He once told me that he didn’t believe in much, but that he believed in me.

I hold on to those words like a prayer.

Night has fallen now, and I sit at my window, watching the snow drift through the gaslight glow of the street. Somewhere out there, he is riding beneath this same sky, his breath curling in the cold, his heart beating steady and strong.

I wonder if he is thinking of me.

I wonder if he knows how much I love him.

[sixgunluvr]

The wind howls outside my window tonight, rattling the panes like a spirit begging to be let in. But the only ghost haunting me is the one I love, the man who comes and goes like the tide, never staying long enough to be mine, yet never leaving me fully behind.

Arthur was here today.

I woke to the sound of hooves on hard-packed dirt, faint at first, then growing louder, until I knew it could be no one else. My heart leaped before my feet even touched the floor. I rushed to the window, pressing my hands against the cold glass, and there he was—tired, dust-covered, but more beautiful than any man has the right to be.

He didn’t come to the front door. He never does. Instead, he waited in the shadow of the old oak tree, where the world could not see us. And I went to him, of course I did.

The moment I stepped outside, he pulled me into his arms, his grip strong, desperate. “Miss me, darlin’?” he murmured against my hair, his voice low and rough, full of something unspoken.

I wanted to scold him for being reckless, for riding into town when I knew the sheriff and his men were watching. I wanted to tell him how I lay awake at night, worrying, praying, aching. But all of that faded when he kissed me, his lips warm against the cold autumn air, stealing the breath from my lungs, the words from my mouth.

He smelled of leather and gunpowder, of whiskey and the wild. His hands, rough and calloused, cupped my face with a tenderness that undid me.

“I can’t stay,” he said after a while, regret thick in his voice.

“I know.” My fingers curled into his coat, as if holding on could make time stand still.

I wanted to beg him to stay, to tell him that I didn’t care what the world thought, that I would follow him wherever he went. But I know Arthur. He would never let me live his life, never let me be hunted the way he is.

So instead, I traced the scar on his cheek, memorizing him, locking every detail into my heart.

“I brought you something,” he said, reaching into his saddlebag. When he pulled out a small, leather-bound book, my breath caught. “Figured you’d like somethin’ to write in when I ain’t around.”

I held it against my chest, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Arthur…”

“I know, darlin’.” His green eyes softened, and for a moment, I thought maybe—just maybe—he would stay.

But then he was gone. A kiss pressed to my forehead, a lingering touch, the rustle of his coat as he turned away. I watched him ride off, my heart breaking as it always does.

And now I sit here, writing in the book he gave me, running my fingers over the worn leather, knowing he touched it, knowing he thought of me when he picked it out.

I love him more than I should. More than is safe.

And if this is the only way I can keep him close, then I will write until my hands grow tired, until the ink runs dry.

Because no matter how far he rides, no matter what fate has in store for him…

He will always be mine.

[sixgunluvr]

I have tried to put it into words—what he is to me, what he makes me feel—but every time, I fall short. How can ink on a page capture the weight of his gaze, the rough warmth of his hands, the quiet way he speaks my name as if it were a prayer only he was meant to say?

Arthur Morgan.

The name alone stirs something deep in me, something wild and unshaken by reason. He is not just a man; he is the storm rolling over the prairie, the fire that burns in the cold of the night, the steady hand on a restless horse. He is danger, and yet I have never felt safer than when I am at his side.

I love him in ways I do not know how to name.

I love the way he rides, the way his body moves with his horse as if they are one. I love the sound of his voice, rough like the gravel roads he’s traveled, yet gentle when he speaks to me. I love the way he looks at me, as if I am something he never expected to find, something precious in a world that has given him nothing but hardship.

I love the scars on his hands, the ones he does not speak of. I love the way he holds me, as if he is afraid I will slip through his fingers like the rest of the good things in his life.

He is not a perfect man. He has done things I dare not ask him to speak of, things I know weigh on him in the quiet hours of the night. I have seen the sorrow in his eyes, the regret he carries like a heavy saddle. But I do not love him despite it—I love him because of it. Because even with the blood on his hands and the shadows in his past, he is kind. He is good in ways most men will never understand.

He holds me like I am the only softness he has ever known. And when he kisses me, I feel it—the hunger, the longing, the desperate need to have something in this world that is not bound by duty or bloodshed.

I know this love is not easy. I know there are whispers in town, warnings spoken in voices too loud to ignore. The law wants him, the world hunts him, and yet I cannot make myself turn away.

I would rather have one moment with Arthur Morgan than a lifetime without him.

And if the world ever takes him from me, I will carve his name into my bones so that even in death, I will never forget.

[sixgunluvr]

I saw him today.

I did not know his name then, nor the weight it carried, nor the whispers that trailed after him like dust in the wind. I only knew that when he rode into town, the very air seemed to shift, as if the earth itself had taken a breath.

I was standing outside the dress shop, waiting for Mama to finish her business inside, when I heard the distant thunder of hooves. A single rider came down the street, his horse dark as the night, his presence stealing every glance, every hushed word.

He was unlike any man I had ever seen.

Tall in the saddle, his shoulders broad beneath a weathered duster, his boots worn from miles of road traveled. His hat sat low over his brow, casting a shadow that could not quite hide the striking green of his eyes. I felt them before I truly saw them—felt them settle on me like the touch of a hand.

I could not look away.

He slowed his horse in front of the saloon, swinging down with an ease that spoke of a lifetime in the saddle. The spurs at his heels jingled softly as he stepped onto the wooden planks, his movements lazy but sharp, as if every fiber of him was always waiting, always watching.

The town was quiet in a way that only happens when something—or someone—demands attention without a word.

A man by the barber’s chair muttered his name under his breath.

Arthur Morgan.

An outlaw. A gunslinger. A man with a price on his head and a past written in bullets.

I should have been afraid. I should have turned away, should have told myself that whatever lay behind those green eyes was not meant for a girl like me. But the way he looked at me—steady, unreadable, as if trying to decide something—I felt my breath catch in my throat.

He tipped his hat. Just a small motion, barely a greeting, yet it sent my pulse racing.

And then he was gone, disappearing into the saloon without another glance. But I felt it still—that moment, that pull, like a string had been tied between us the second our eyes met.

Mama stepped outside, fussing over the heat, never noticing the way my hands trembled as I held my parasol.

I had no words for what I felt. Not then.

But now, as I sit here in my room, candlelight flickering against these pages, I know that today was not an ordinary day. Today, I saw a man who will change the course of my life.

And heaven help me, I think I want him to.

[sixgunluvr]

The morning sun spills golden light through my window, but it does nothing to warm the ache in my chest. Arthur is gone. I knew he would be, yet waking to an empty world without him always feels like a fresh wound.

I went to the general store today, feigning normalcy, exchanging pleasantries, pretending my heart wasn’t wandering somewhere out on the open road with the only man I’ve ever loved. The townsfolk talk in hushed voices of the lawmen who rode in this morning, their eyes sharp, their questions sharper. They are looking for him.

I held my breath as I listened, clutching my basket so tightly my knuckles turned white. The sheriff spoke Arthur’s name like a curse, his voice thick with warning. “He won’t outrun us forever,” he said, tipping his hat as he strode past me. I kept my face neutral, but inside, my heart pounded like the hooves of a wild horse.

I shouldn’t know the things I know. I shouldn’t hear the name "Arthur Morgan" and feel my pulse race for reasons far removed from fear. But I do.

I stepped outside, letting the warm breeze wrap around me, trying to calm the storm inside. My fingers itched for ink, for paper, for something to tether me when he is gone. Writing his name, tracing the letters with careful devotion, is the only thing that keeps me from going mad with worry.

I pray the wind carries my love to him wherever he rides.

I imagine him now—hat pulled low, cigarette dangling from his lips, a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. His rifle strapped across his back, the leather of his gloves worn from years of gripping reins and steel. He moves like a wolf among sheep, quiet but dangerous, always aware of the eyes watching him from the shadows.

I wonder if he thinks of me when the night grows cold. If he pulls out the small scrap of cloth he took from my dress last summer, a foolish keepsake, yet one he swore would bring him luck.

I wonder if he aches the way I do.

Tonight, I will wait by the window, watching the stars, whispering his name into the darkness. And if the wind is kind, perhaps it will carry my love to him, wherever he may be.

[sixgunluvr]

I lie awake at night, listening to the wind howl through the prairie grass, and wonder where he is, if he is safe. The fear that one day he may not return is a constant ache, a shadow that looms ever closer. Yet, I would not trade these moments, brief though they may be, for anything. His love is a fire that burns within me, bright and unyielding.

Mama says I am a fool, that no good can come from loving a man like him. But how can I explain that with Arthur, I have found freedom, adventure, a life worth living? How can I turn away from the only man who has ever truly seen me, not as a fragile woman to be protected, but as a soul worthy of love and passion?

I will wait for him, through storm and silence, through fear and doubt. For as long as there is breath in my body, I will belong to Arthur. And I will write these words, if only to keep his spirit close when the miles and dangers stretch between us.

[sixgunluvr]

When he kisses me, the world stands still. His lips, tasting of whiskey and wind, claim mine with a hunger that borders on desperation. In his embrace, I feel safe, as if nothing and no one could harm me. It is foolish, I know, to place such trust in a man wanted by the law, a man whose life is lived on the edge of a knife. But my heart is no longer my own—it belongs to Arthur, wholly and without reservation.