I recently had a request who wasn't sure if my requests were open. So just wanted to say that yes!
I'm totally open for requests - HCs, short fics, prompts.
Submit here
Deets below:
Mains
RDR2:
Arthur/Female!Reader, Arthur/Mary, Arthur/OFC, John/Abigail, Karen/Sean, Young!Arthur, Modern AUs, Generic Canon fics
SPN:
Dean/Female!Reader, Dean/OFC, Young!Dean, Destiel, no Wincest please (I just can't)
The Boys:
Butcher/Female!Reader, Butcher/Becca
TWD:
Daryl/Female!Reader
Main Genres
Hurt/comfort, angst, sick!fics, enemies to friends, first encounters, (I'll try to give anything a shot though, really)
Open to
- Other character/Female!Reader
- F/M
- M/M (though I can't attest to how good it would be, but I'm open)
- Male!Reader (see above)
- 18+ (will be posted with warning tags)
No underage unless platonic because yuck
If there's something you'd like, drop me a request - I'm open to most things and if it's something I can't/won't do, I'll politely let you know.
Also - dear anon who requested the modern!Arthur fic - I'm currently working on it now ♥️
hi!!! I wanted to come on here and say how much I love your work, and I’m glad that you took a needed break!!! Congratulations on having your baby, I’m so happy for you :D
Thank you so much! That really means a lot <3 He really is an absolute gem (even if I am completely knackered nowadays)
Let me preface this with - I will be coming back. I will finish the fics that have been on hold. And I am so grateful for folk still reading and commenting on my AO3 - thank you for sticking with me.
I stopped writing for a while when I got pregnant - I was just so exhausted. But after an induction that lasted five days, a variety of medical scares, and an eighteen hour labour that unfortunately didn't go as planned, my little boy was brought into the world via emergency caesarean.
Words cannot describe the love I feel or the completeness that has entrenched my heart.
POV: me casually checking your account every five minutes like a feral raccoon…just to see if you posted another part of that modern Arthur Morgan fic.
I swear I’m out here refreshing your page like it’s my full-time job. The way you write??? Actually addictive. I’m invested, emotionally attached, spiritually involved, all of it.
Oh gosh - thank you so much <3 I'm gonna try and get some more updates out (and not leave it eons!). I'm so glad you enjoyed it xx
Any chance of a sequel to the modern au one you just did pleeeease? It was really good...
Hi love! Sorry it's been forever since I posted! Life's been insanely hectic and preggo brain hasn't been my friend when it comes to writing and posting 😂
Hii, i absolutely loved your fic about reader who’s Abigails best friend getting pregnant after a one night stand with Arthur. I’d love to see a part 2 of it if possible!❤️
Sorry it's been forevvvvvver since I posted! Part 2 up now!
OMG I KEEP REREADING “We’ll take our time” PLEASE CONTINUE IT I NEED MORE
Modern!Arthur my beloved
So sorry this took so long - I'm currently pregnant and my brain is now mush 😂 I reckon I probably have one more part to go but I just needed to get something published because it's been foreeeever!
Part 1 here
We'll Take Our Time: Pt 2
“I miss real coffee”, you groaned as you slid the offending mug of decaf away from you across the table, a hand returning to rub absent circles on your ever-expanding bump. “And wine.”
Abigail let out a chuckle, dumping another sugar packet into her latte. “It won’t be forever.”
“Feels like forever…”
A soft smile formed on Abigail’s lips as she tapped her spoon against the porcelain. “How’s it been? With Arthur, I mean.”
The corner of your lip curled absently, eyes downcast at the swell of your belly for a moment.
“Good.”
And it had been.
Arthur had taken the news as well as a man could in his position. Better in fact. The initial silence had been expected – the pensive jaw, the anxious fingers scrubbing at the scruff of his chin, the slack lips and furrowed brow. The air thickened as you sat beside him, your eyes soft and jaw tight as you traced every inch of his profile for some hint of what was to come. Shouting? Disbelief? Anger? Breath stilling within your lungs, you waited for him to shake his head and walk out, or to propose how to fix this mess you’d gotten yourself in.
“I’ll be here.”
The gruff hush of words left his lips so delicately they kissed the silence instead of breaking it, the calmness in them taking you aback for a moment. With a firm nod and teeth dragging across his bottom lip, Arthur sighed and looked at you with a softness in his eyes that made your heart twinge.
“If that’s what you want. I’ll be here.”
A promise made with gravel tones and trembling hands. A promise more than kept.
The awkwardness faded a little more with each passing day, each late-night text asking how you were. At every hospital visit, at every scan. Days bled into weeks, weeks into months – the passage of time marked with actions that said far more than words. Surprise 3am knocks on the door and a greasy take-out bag clutched in calloused fingers, it’s contents the product of miles and hours spent searching for the one thing you’d been insatiably craving. The shunning of cherished Friday pool nights and lazy Sundays in favour of hours spent in secrecy pouring through blogs and books about parenting. An empty wallet spot now occupied by a grainy black and grey printout of a curled shape suspended in static - never spoken about, never shown.
Your closeness grew with the swelling of your belly, a friendship blossoming from the anxiety of your impending new arrival, a close bond that sometimes teetered on the precipice of something more. He never stayed the night. You never asked. But the unspoken question always hung like smoke in the air, too fragile to be given voice lest you broke this precarious arrangement. Easy laughter and a firm hand against the small of your back steadied your nerves. A warm, lopsided grin doused the anxiety that settled dormant in your bones.
*
A lazy Sunday brought rain that came down in sheets and the welcome presence of Arthur. From your vantage point curled on the couch, you found yourself sneaking glances over to where he knelt on the rug surrounded by wooden slats and balled up remnants of what were once instructions. You tried not to watch him, focusing on the tv as it replayed an old show you’d seen a thousand times before - but every so often, you felt your eyes drawn to him. Damp from rain, his white shirt strained against the muscles of his back, the fabric catching the curve of his shoulder blade as he worked. For God’s sake woman… he’s only building a crib. The groan that escaped his lips when he stretched for the screwdriver sent a fluttering through your belly and you averted your eyes again as you cleared your throat.
“Want some coffee?”
“Hm?” he hummed, fingers scratching at his stubble as he picked up piece after piece before setting them down again with a furrowed brow.
“Coffee?”
“Oh… sure, thanks. Sounds great.”
Glad for the excuse to leave the room for a moment, you braced yourself against the counter, silently admonishing yourself for the hormones raging through your system. Poor guy’s got enough on his plate with all this, you thought, glancing a hand gently across the curve of your bump. Doesn’t need you ogling him as well. Might scare him off for good. Steam curled lazily from the mug and you breathed deep, relishing the smell. It’s just the pregnancy, you reasoned. Just hormones.
But when you returned and handed him the mug, that flutter resurged with a vengeance when Arthur beamed up at you with a grateful smile, a warm palm curling around your calf with a gentle squeeze and a gruff ‘thanks, darlin’’.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s getting there.”
“Y’know”, you smirked as you made your way back over to the couch. “You could just read the instructions.”
“Mm”, he hummed through a mouthful of coffee, shaking his head. “Don’t need ‘em.”
“Sure looks that way.”
“Just gotta have a little faith in me”, Arthur grinned before turning back to the half-assembled crib. His fingers moved deftly despite the soft curses under his breath, eyes narrowed and tongue poking out just a little as he tightened screws and fitted slats, each movement meticulous and measured and benignly intoxicating.
“I could call John. Give you a hand?”, you grinned to yourself with a playful cadence that echoed through the small room. If ever you could hear an eye roll, you heard that one.
“Do not call John.”
Time ticked by lazily, slow and honey-thick amidst the patter of raindrops against the window and the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Quiet domesticity bloomed within the bubble of that room, a moment existing entirely independent of the world outside your front door. A snapshot of what might have been so tangible you could taste it, only to bitterly remind yourself that Arthur was a friend. The father to your child, yes. But a friend and nothing more. It didn’t do well to dwell on what could be’s.
“That should do it”, Arthur announced once the sun had slipped beyond the horizon, rocking back on his heels with a triumphant smile. He dragged himself to his feet, stretching out his back with an audible crack before gripping the edge of the rim and giving it a slight shake for good measure. With a soft groan, you hauled yourself to your feet, a hand pressed against the curve of your belly as you stepped over, offering a proud grin.
“It’s perfect”, you whispered, stood so close you could smell the faint scent of tobacco and leather that always seemed to cling to his skin. “Thank you.”
“Told you to have a little faith”, he chuckled back.
And there it was again - a solid palm pressing against the small of your back, a tentative graze of his thumb against the notches of your spine. With barely a fraction of movement, you leant against the solidness of his side, that warm palm of his shifting from spine to hip to hug you just a little closer.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you.” The words slipped free from your lips before you had chance to register their formation on your tongue, heart instantly thumping with abandon.
Arthur’s arm tensed faintly at your words, his hand still resting, warm and steady, against your hip. The lamplight and fire’s glow cast a golden hue over the curve of his jaw, highlighting the faint lines of age that creased when he swallowed and illuminating the blue pools of his eyes when he looked down at you.
“You’d be just fine,” he said at last in a low rumble.
You wanted to argue, to tell him that wasn’t true - that somewhere between late-night messages and anxiety ridden hospital visits, he’d become a constant you didn’t know how to do without. Months had worn down the exterior of the insatiable enigma that was Arthur Morgan, bending and shaping him into something familiar, something that felt as though it had always been there.
His eyes flickered to your lips, then back up again – a subtle flicker so fast you might have imagined it.
But just as quickly as the heat rose in your throat, it was quenched by the abrupt, rough sound of Arthur clearing his throat, his eyes tearing themselves away from yours.
“I should go”, he said quietly, his hand dropping from your hip to scratch at the back of his neck. “You probably need to get some rest.”
You hung your head for a moment in a futile attempt to hide the flush on your cheeks, shunning unwarranted thoughts of what could be to the back of your mind with a self-deprecating smile.
“Sure. Thanks again”, you nodded softly, meeting his eyes again. “For the crib.”
With a nonchalant wave of his hand, Arthur strode to the couch and grabbed his jacket. “Don’t mention it. Happy to do it.”
Heavy steps creaked on the floor as he made his way to the door.
What are you doing?
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Just tell him.
“Yeah.”
A hand on the doorknob.
Tell him you love him.
“Well… goodni-“
“I’m gonna order pizza”, you blurted out, a little louder than you expected.
Arthur paused, brow furrowed as he turned to look at you.
“I mean… do you wanna stay for pizza?”
“Oh… uhm…”
“As a thank you for today.”
He seemed to consider it for a moment before a small smile broke out on his lips, hand retreating from the door handle.
“Sure. If that’s alright?”
“Course.”
“I, uh… probably ought-a rinse off first”, he muttered, setting down his jacket at tugging awkwardly at the hem of his sweat damp shirt.
“You are smelling a little ripe”, you smiled, nose wrinkling just a little.
“That bad, huh?”, Arthur chuckled. “You mind?”
“Not at all. It’s just-“
“I know where it is”, he smiled.
“Of course.”
“Alright then,” he murmured through a half hidden toothy grin, nodding toward the hallway. “Won’t be long.”
When Arthur re-emerged, your skin prickled in the most delightful way, words catching under your tongue as you tried to keep from gawping.
Jeans slung low around thick hips, he paused sheepishly as you drank in his shirtless figure – eyes tracing the dense swell of muscle and scarred skin flushed pink. Blonde strands of hair hung damp on his forehead, and flesh supple and dew dropped with water spots. You’d seen him this way only once before, but the whiskey skewed memories of that night didn’t do justice to the man stood before you.
A droplet of water slid from his collarbone, down the broad curves of his chest, and your breath hitched with embarrassing audibility.
“Was wondering if you had a spare shirt. I looked but…,” he explained awkwardly, as if his being half-dressed was somehow your fault.
Your gaze caught his for a lingering second until he shifted his weight and you tore your eyes away, cheeks burning.
“Shit – yeah, sorry. I can, uhm… lemme grab you something,” you managed, already moving toward the bedroom. “One sec.”
Shirt retrieved and held out with averted gaze, your fingers brushed – the soft cotton stark in contrast to the roughness of his surprisingly gentle hands. Sparks flitted from his fingertips to yours like static, your mouth suddenly dry and breath held as the pad of his thumb brushed with delicate purpose against your knuckles.
Heat radiated from his bare chest, kissing your skin as you stood almost toe to toe, his palm glancing downward to splay across your swollen belly, a subtle smile twitching at the corner of his lip and a soft hum clicking against his throat.
“Looks good on you”, he said quietly as your hand drifted to cover his.
“I’m a whale”, you chuckled against the thumping of your heart behind your ribs.
“No,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it barely stirred the air between you. “Definitely ain’t that.”
His palm flexed gently beneath yours as blue eyes flitted to your face. His throat worked, eyes dragging over your features with a reverence that made your pulse flutter anew. Heat bloomed in your stomach, spreading like warm honey through your limbs as your hand shifted absent thought to rest against the dense plain of his stomach, fingers arched and barely grazing the taut skin of his midriff. Arthur’s eyes drifted to your lips and you shifted your weight to your toes, pushing up just a fraction as if drawn by some unknown force. Breath mingled as he stooped a little to meet you, so painfully slowly – curling two fingers of his other hand around the curve of your waist as he clutched the shirt now hanging limp in his grasp. Your noses brushed, eyes fluttering closed as you felt the warm puff of his breath against your lips.
And you would have kissed him.
God, you wanted to kiss him…
You would have given yourself over and closed that final inch, relishing the warmth his hands against your body would offer. You would have thrown caution to the wind, damning the notion of being sensible in favour of exploring his body in the sobering light of day but with the same aching need you had both felt on a night now so long ago. You would have allowed yourself to give in to the want of being wanted, to the need of needing something more than whatever this steady friendship had become.
You would have…
But the doorbell chimed clear and shrill through the warm air between you, shattering the moment like a pane of glass.
Arthur snapped away, his hands jerking back like he’d been caught stealing something sacred, leaving you with such speed that you almost whimpered at the loss of him. Your feet dropped flat to the floor once again as heat rose to your cheeks and just like that – the spell had been broken.
Rosy cheeks flushed crimson when you opened the door, cash in hand and expecting the pizza delivery – only to see Abigail and John bundled in rain-soaked coats. John’s gaze slipped behind you to the shirtless and flustered Arthur still clutching the shirt in his hand, a smirk already set on his lips and a quip forming on his tongue.
*
Friday night had rolled around once again, though Arthur no longer found it to be the welcome distraction from the humdrum of daily life it once was. His thoughts often drifted to the uncertain path he’d found himself walking, the anxiety burbling silently in his gut not helped by John’s constant need to bring up the impending arrival of a baby he had neither planned nor expected.
In a most unexpected twist of fate, Arthur sat in silence beside John, the blaring music washing over him like white noise as his mind drifted far from the bar in which he sat to the one thing that always seemed to occupy his mind of late. You. Gut churning and fingers refusing to still, he chewed at the inside of his mouth, jaw tensed as he both wished for the longing to be with you tonight to go away and yet never cease. Something in the way you looked at him always sent heat rising from his collar bone, the linger softness of your touch on his arm warming him in the dead of night when he lay alone with unwelcome thoughts racing through his head. Memories in a scrapbook collage of almost moments and what could be’s sticking beneath his ribs. A lingering look and a breath held a beat too long. A subtle curve of a smile when he looked your way. That almost kiss.
With a gut-wrenching jolt, Arthur always doused the thoughts as quickly as he could manage, severing the relentless tug on his heart strings with the simple fact that after that first night – that fateful night right in this very place – he had also hoped something more might have blossomed. And yet you had never called.
Weeks had passed and just when the memory of you had started to ebb, he had received that phone call, although not the one he had hopelessly hoped for. You didn’t feel anything more for him than the friendship you had both slowly nurtured, and Arthur was a fool for thinking anything else. The other night had been a moment of madness. Hormones and fear and a longing to not be alone. That was all.
“So”, John began, taking a pull of his beer as Arthur sat absently picking at the label of his bottle. “You gonna marry her?”
“Don’t be a fool, Marston!” The whirlpool of thoughts that never seemed to still swirled once again through his exhausted mind, brow crumpling as he considered John for a moment. “Why? Do you think I should?”
John shrugged and drained the last of his beer, nodding to the bartender for two more despite Arthur’s being almost untouched.
“You got her in trouble...”
“In tr-“, Arthur cut himself off with a huff, shaking his head in exasperation. “It ain't the 1800’s!”
“Looks like you were getting mighty close the other night.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Well don’t”, Arthur snapped, though little bite rang through his words. “She ain’t lookin’ for anything anyway.”
John hummed through a crooked smile, taking another sip. “Wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“You really are an idiot. You know that? She probably doesn't even like me.”
“Oh, she likes you plenty.”
Athur’s fingers stilled, that familiar heat curdling in his belly.
“Yeah?”
“Never shuts up about you when she's at our place”, John nodded.
“And what do you say?”
John shrugged again, a lopsided smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, barely masked behind the mouth of his beer bottle.
“I tell her you ain't worth all the fuss.
“You're an asshole”, Arthur chuckled, shaking his head.
“An asshole who's about to beat you at pool”, John retorted, giving Arthur a light slap on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “C'mon, tables free.”
So I haven't been around for a while, there's been some big changes recently! I got married earlier this year, and then a couple months later I found out that my husband and I are expecting!
It's a super exciting, nerve wracking, anxiety inducing time - and we've been crazy busy trying to sort renovation stuff we've been putting off.
But yeah. A new little member of the family is on the way! 😁
Because it's becoming apparent this needs to be said as a writer in the rdr2 community, fuuuuuuck AI.
(ai rant below the cut)
I don't use AI to source ideas, writing, prompts, etc. Nothing. I can count the number of times I've used Chat GPT on both hands, for things unrelated to writing, and it was before I was aware of the environmental impacts or considered the ethics of using generative AI.
I feel like one of the world's slowest writers, but never have I ever considered resorting to AI. My writing is a hobby, for my own enjoyment, and I share it with others because I want to connect and fangirl over the game. I'll never claim to be an amazing writer either, but I also know that I'm an amateur. I've never taken a writing class, though I did do fairly well with reading/writing in school. I've seen my writing improve over just the few months I've been consistently doing it, and that's enough for me. If you think my writing is lame, whatever. I know there will be a few people out there who enjoy reading and writing just like I do, and that's enough for me. But at least it's MY shitty work.
It's become such a miserable experience as a fanfic reader, too, because twice now I've fallen victim to alleged AI written fics and users who then deactivated their accounts after being called out. I admit I've been a bit gullible, but at the same time, it's so fucked up that we even have to think about this now.
Keep AI the fuck out of art. Keep humanity in your hobbies and connections.
Sing it loud and sing it proud.
My chapters might take a month or two to be posted - but you know what they are? Mine. From my brain.
In every breadth of my life there's been someone sportier, someone prettier, someone more popular.
But you know what I love?
We'll Take Our Time (Ongoing)
A prompt from Tumblr that will be continued.
Let down at the last minute by Abigail, the reader strikes up a friendly conversation with the enigma of a man sat beside her at the bar. That man is Arthur. A one night stand and pregnancy ensues.
Modern!Arthur/ (F) Reader
Irish Eyes (Ongoing)
Our OC is Margaret MacGuire, Sean's sister. She goes by Margaret. Or Maggie. Or Peggy (depending on who you ask). Sometimes it's Peg (but don't let Sean hear you call her that!). She came into the Van der Linde's to fulfil her goal - to look after her loudmouth, vagabond baby brother. She doesn't expect to fall in love with Arthur. Arthur/OFC
Under Your Skin (Ongoing)
Never meaning to, you end up pregnant with Arthur Morgan's child. One child leads to a happiness you never thought you'd find, which in turn leads to a family Arthur never thought he deserved.
Arthur/ (F) Reader
*
Completed
You're My Brother
A short two-parter fic about 22 year old Arthur Morgan and 12 year old John Marston, and the beginning of their bond. Young, new and cocky, John ends up getting Arthur seriously hurt - an event that changes how they both see each other. Mushy whump aftermath, lots of tears, lots of hurt Arthur.
Young!Arthur & Young!John - Word Count: 6,214
The Worst
A request fic.
Prompt: A fluffy Arthur x reader where she’s got a real, respectable job in town or something and Arthur’s all clingy in the morning and trying to convince her not to leave bed for work
Arthur/ (F) Reader - Word Count 1,471
Weep and Call it Singing (18+ Chapters)
When tasked with bringing down Dutch's boys from the inside by Colm O Driscoll, the last thing you expected was to find yourself torn between two sides. Least of all, you never expected to fall in love with your rival's loyal enforcer.
Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 57,739
Seams are Torn
When a hunting trip with Arthur goes bad, you find yourself holed up miles from camp and inches from death. This story takes place in the cabin you take refuge in, with fear burrowing into your bones, Arthur's honeyed reassurances, and the threatening icy embrace of death's hand looming at your shoulder.
Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 22,362
A Place to Rest Your Bones (18+ Chapters)
Your momma always welcomed Dutch and Hosea to take refuge in your small house whenever they needed. As you grow older, you become a safe haven for Arthur. A life told through snapshots of these visits from a young child, until your final visit.
Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 59,102
More People than Ghosts
Battered and bruised, when Eleanor escaped the infamous Blackthorne gang, she didn't expect to fall into the arms of Arthur Morgan. But can you ever truly leave your past behind?
Arthur/OFC - Word Count: 24,068
Roping 101 (18+)
Arthur finds himself a little...tied-up. After all, camp doesn't provide a whole heap of opportunities to really let go. A hotel room with a sturdy headboard does.
Arthur/Reader - Word Count: 1,342
Fever and Falling
You left the Van der Linde gang years ago, but when Arthur Morgan falls ill, you're persuaded to return. Nursing Arthur back to health rekindles more than just old memories.
Arthur/Reader - Word Count: 6,430
My Soul has Gone Away
Arthur Morgan doesn't say a lot about Eliza and Isaac. He has nightmares about them a lot though. This is one of them.
Word Count: 1,513
Don't Call Me Sweetheart (18+)
Had a dream, wrote a fic. Aimless smut/fluff about reader getting hurt and Arthur caretaking...of sorts....
Arthur/Reader - 18+ - Word Count: 2,733
We Can't Change What's Done
Your world is turned upside down when a crazed cowboy claiming to be from the past barges into your home. Your future in his past is told to you through letters from...well, from yourself.
Arthur/Reader - 18+ Chapter - Word Count: 19,622
You’d often find him at his small shop – a business you’d had to persuade and assist him in setting up. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to set up on his own, more that he wasn’t confident he’d be able to pull it off (we all know what little self-belief he has).
But his self-taught skillset and easy manner brought a stream of steady clients. Not few enough to keep him up at night worrying, not enough to make him rich – but his books were kept just full enough to keep things ticking over.
He hated talking on the phone, so you took most of his bookings and spent your time ordering stock and making sure he stopped to eat lunch. It wasn’t exactly the job you’d dreamed of, but you found that you loved it regardless. Plus, it meant you got to watch him work…
The sight of him at work… well… that’s just something else. Clad in grease smeared navy blue overalls and wiping his hands on a frayed scrap of cloth, sleeves rolled to his forearms and oil embedded in the creases of his palms.
More often than not you’d find him on a creeper underneath a car he would never be caught dead driving (he much prefers his beaten-up truck that’s been fixed up more times than you could count to any sports car or expensive model), legs poking out and one knee bent up, humming contently to himself as he worked.
When you nudged his ankle to offer the coffee you’d brought him, he’d roll back out with the soft scritch of plastic wheels on concrete and a lopsided smile, always scrubbing his hands down the legs of his overalls before reaching up for the cup.
If it was quiet, he’d take you under his wing and teach you little bits and bobs. The only overalls you had at the shop were Arthur sized so they’d bury you, even when turned up four times at the cuffs and hems. Still, Arthur would think it’s the cutest thing he’d ever seen – you in oversized coveralls that still smelled like him, hair scraped back and a wrench in hand.
