Arthur Morgan x Reader angst
Reader does not know where they belong amongst the gang. Or at all, really.
Warnings: super angsty, Micah Bell, reader is genuinely miserable, Arthur x reader if u squint, outlaws n shit!!! Ambiguous gender, reader falls for Micah's assholery, Micah is sexist asf,
listen while you read?:
Whenever Arthur rushed to his tent, you always knew it was because he'd received a special little letter. You haven't run with the gang for long, but you've been there long enough to know that the sulky man was only ever excited by one of two things: a big fish and Mary Linton. You didn't blame him, honestly. Serving as the camp's workhorse, he had little time to himself. When he did have time, he'd go on some love-struck search for his missing half. Though it'd been years since she'd sent him a letter, it seemed like she'd find some way to follow them everywhere. It was impossible, of course, since she had no way of knowing where they'd move, but she always managed to show up close to camp. At least close enough to get him to drop his workload and come to her aid.
You knew all this solely because you had a habit of watching. It wasn't really a bad habit, considering that you'd never dared to take a peek at anyone in their tent. It was just that—a habit. Or, perhaps, a part of your nature. It was something comfortable that you did even before your time in the gang. As a teenager, you'd sit outside the general store and just observe. You were too old to go to school yet too young to go inside any of the stores on your own, so you busied yourself with pretending to be a viewer. You'd spot many things: a man riding in with a bounty, a pair of women talking about the latest perfumes, or a dog jumping around in the mud. You'd always wanted to do those things, too, but never had the courage to get out of your spot.
Then came Dutch Van Der Linde, a man who'd seen that, despite your inactivity, you were far more capable than you let on. Though you weren't a great shot like his right-hand man, you weren't utterly terrible like Sean. Your words were clumsy and awkward, but you always finished your sentences. That was one thing he seemed to like about you: that you would always finish what you started, regardless of how badly you'd mess up.
Or maybe he just liked that you were a follower, regardless of how things ended up.
Nonetheless, he allowed you to stick around his gang, and you'd get things done. Though not without struggle at first, one of which would always embarrass you no matter how many times anyone thanked you for your effort. Even if you managed to feel good about your work, one back-handed compliment from Micah would send you right back to your tent with a shameful feeling in your gut. You'd often end up watching Arthur, your usual savior, spit some venomous words on your behalf, like he'd been the berated one. That's what made Arthur a saint in your eyes. Despite being a murderer, he managed to be good and do good things when he could. Even if he denied such things, it made him all the better in your eyes. It showed that he did not do good things for praise, but because he could.
You'd never be like Arthur, no matter how many times you'd observe him and try to pick apart the things that he did. He was a rare kind of man. Maybe he wasn't even a man at all, but perhaps an angel who fell from heaven. That was considerably more plausible to you since no other man had yet to even reach his near-impossible status of honorable degeneracy. So, you settled for just watching him. Listening to him. Living through him. Wanting him and wanting to be him.
Arthur, unsurprisingly, wasn't the only person to catch your eye. There were many like-minded men and women in camp who agreed with and admired Arthur, just like yourself. Though, unlike you, they'd actually work for his attention. Young Lenny was often Arthur's first choice of partner. You didn't understand why, considering that Lenny spent the majority of his time reading, until you'd actually had the opportunity to see him in action. He fought hard and got the job done, like a true outlaw.
He was a no-nonsense kind of kid, which Arthur seemed to value. Not long after Colter did they become closer. Brothers. Not brothers, as in two boys growing up together or being related biologically, but brothers who learn from each other. You'd always wanted to be as effortlessly balanced as Lenny. Sophisticated in your own right, but willing to get your hands dirty with no fuss. A perfect brother. You were anything but that. It was true that you, too, would get things done. However, you possessed a far less methodical mind. You were too scatterbrained to finish things in one go and too finicky to be a perfect brother. Far too abnormal to amount to being anything like Lenny Summers, and yet you were older than him.
Age didn't seem to matter when it concerned your abilities, though. No matter how young or old you were, there would always be someone better. Whether it were being better at being thirteen or thirty-two, they'd beat you in a heartbeat no matter your true age.
Abigail Roberts was your favorite example to bring up. She'd always been a very mature woman, even in the face of her husband, John Marston, a grown man who acted like a fifteen-year-old boy when faced with the consequences of his own actions. While there were many women in unfortunate circumstances like her, she did what she could to make life good for her son. Many, including her stubborn husband, considered her a camp leech now that she was no longer of use. Which you despised. Abigail was so much more than people let on. Beautiful, graceful, smart, and most importantly, a loving mother.
She's had her ups and downs and continues to, but the most impactful thing she ever achieved in life was Jack. A sweet, curious little boy with a newfound obsession for the Knights of the Round Table. He was, in every way, the soft spot of the camp. It's ridiculous to admit, but you were envious of both of them. You wanted to be a virtuous parent like Abigail, too. To be able to cultivate your legacy in a purely determined manner and retain your glory despite having given life only four years ago. However, you also wanted the reboot given to little Jack, too. A fresh start to a new life. The funny little possibility of growing up to be the first great knight of West Elizabeth.
You'd never amount to anything close, though. And you knew it. Even Micah Bell, an utterly disgusting and hateful excuse for a man, achieved far greater than you. So much so that he felt like your presence at camp was the most useless of them all. Below the women, who he claimed were just mouths to feed and fuck; below the drunkards, who acted as breathing furniture; and below little Jack, a child so defenseless that he could be lured away in the middle of the night and nobody would be any wiser.
You never truly discouraged him because he was the only one to tell the truth about you. Unlike everyone else in camp, who had so much ahead of them and so many tales for future generations of children to play pretend with, you would not be remembered in a jovial manner. Your life would never, no matter how hard you tried, be anything other than an allegory of shame and failure.
A/N: I just woke up and wrote this for some obscure reason that I don't even know. 😋 I hope yall like it, tho. Let me know if yall like the 'listen while you read' !!








