arthur immediately cocoons the two of you in blankets after sex, regardless of how hot and sweaty the both of you are.
touch, touch, touch - he wants to hold you close and feel your skin against his. gentle forehead kisses, tracing soft patterns across your body with his calloused fingers, braiding your hair, spooning, etc.
despite not being super verbal for a long while after sex, arthur will ask to make sure you're okay in that raspy drawl of his. "you alright, darlin'? i didn't hurt ya, did i?" he's a bit overbearing with it, but he just can't stand the thought of accidentally harming you in any way.
arthur always takes the opportunity to sketch you in your blissed-out and half-lidded state. pages of his journal are dedicated to drawings of you curled up in bed next to him flushed, sleepy, and content as hell.
acts of service - arthur does everything in his power to make you feel comfortable afterwards. he'll get you water or food, clean you up with a cool washcloth or draw a bath, massage your sore muscles... literally anything.
sometimes, arthur will hum softly as the two of you are cuddling.
this man definitely keeps some salve on hand for any love bites or marks he might have left on you.
arthur reads to you to help you fall asleep afterwards. he knows how much you love hearing his inner thoughts through his journal entries, so oftentimes he'll read you a recent passage. other times, he'll read from a book the two of you are enjoying together.
also, he definitely uses your chest as a pillow (he’s a silly man that loves boobs).
a/n: i love soft arthur sm, he consumes 98% of my thoughts 😔 howeverrr, i’m thinking of potentially writing some low-honor arthur stuff as well?? idk why that makes me so nervous lol, but lmk if you'd like a low-honor version of this and i will try 👀
One of his favorite "treats" is canned strawberries. He almost always buys a can when he reaches a general store.
Although he likes fruit, he is not a big fan of sweets or candy. He prefers salty or savory food.
He's very frugal, even when he has money. He keeps his possesions until they are basically unusable.
He's very figety when he's worried or in deep thought. He paces, touches his beard or picks threads on his clothes. He'll pick up stones and squeeze them when he's feeling stressed.
He's very drawn to music. He usually stops and listens to buskers for a few minutes if he sees them. Hosea once took him to a concert to celebrate his 18th birthday, creating a core memory and an appreciation for the musically talented. (That said, he is not a fan of Uncle's banjo playing lol)
He taught himself to swim as a young child. He was one of those kids who just got in the water and it came natural. He tried teach John by throwing him into water hoping he'd do the same, but John just panicked and needed to be rescued.
Drawing also comes natural to Arthur. He has a damn near photographic memory. It's a hidden talent that few know he has because he doesn't think he's very good or that it's a useful skill.
He very much took on the "eldest brother" role around camp to the younger gang members. He was always very protective of the girls. If John and Sean were about to scrap it out he was quick to step in (Although occasionally, he was the instigator).
Depending on what/how much he's drinking, Arthur can be a mean drunk. It's not uncommon to find him staggering around camp throwing insults at everyone after he's gone past his limit. He's often remorseful afterwards (though rarely apologetic), as he reminds himself of his father when he gets like this.
Some angst below (death and grief trigger warning)
Arthur visits the graves of the Callandars, Jenny, Sean, Hosea and Lenny any time he's in the area to pay his respects. (He has visited Kieran's less frequently, as they weren't as close.)
Arthur was not as empathetic or compassionate prior to losing Isaac and Eliza. He was desensitized violence, assaulting people who owed debt money, or killing innocent civilians as it was all he knew. However, there were times shortly after discovering their graves that Arthur has completely broken down over killing innocent people and he contemplated leaving the outlaw life behind.
He took a stone from Isaac's grave, knowing it he likely wouldn't be able to visit it again due to being on the run as well as the emotional toll it would take. He keeps it near his tent and carries it with him on days when the grief and guilt hits particularily hard.
He has recoccuring dreams where he visit's Eliza and Isaac's home and they are alive and well. He always wakes up feeling heartbroken when it isn't real.
Note: The reader — or anyone related to them — is NOT described with any physical detail beyond general female human anatomy and scars for the plot. All details of the cover images are just pieces that sometimes include an OC that I imagine for the story and NOT who is described.
Previous Chapter: PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 — WHAT THE STORM BLOWS IN:
Six Years Later – October 16th, 1898 – North Ambarino
Lightning splintered over a dark, raging sky to illuminate the tall mountains of Ambarino and the wooded northern valley below. All of nature swayed in stark, shuddering silver before being cast back into the deep shadows of night. The wind screamed as it shook the trees, created tidal waves with grasses, and stirred up every body of water it crossed. Rain pelted down to create a symphony throughout the wilderness.
Yet, the rain’s harsh force encountered the unique surface of a firm roof over a chapel nestled within a clearing amidst towering evergreens and aspens. From within, golden light glowed out of seven modest sized windows and the circular, stained-glass depiction of Saint Christopher above sturdy oaken doors at the front.
In the haze of rain, a pair of distant figures were barely visible closing a sliding door to a nearby barn. Both hustling back to the chapel along a muddy, beaten path; hats drawn low over their faces as lightning crackled.
The man in the lead swung open one of the twin doors, shorter than the man behind him and deeper of complexion when the chapel’s light revealed his scant facial hair. Dark eyes growing big as thunder boomed overhead as he warmed his hands together and stood aside for the other man to enter, “This storm is insane. Kinda surprised more of the horses didn’t start bucking like Old Boy did.”
“Not gonna lie, Javier,” a deep, gravelly voice came from the second man who closed the door behind him; striking blue eyes shimmering with mischief as he added, “I’d of bucked a sorry sack of shit like Marston too if I had ‘im on my back.”
A bitter laugh sounded from further inside the chapel among a host of others milling about or getting comfortable. “Shuddup, Arthur,” John Marston barked from where he was laid up on a pew.
His wrapped leg rested propped on a folded blanket with a light amount of red soaking the strips of cloth; certainly, less blood than the first set of ruined bandages set aside on the ground held. Those had been haphazardly applied out in the wild after John’s stallion had bucked him when a tree had fallen into the gang’s hurried path, causing for him to tumble down a ravine and eventually land poorly – with a sickening snap – on his leg.
The results of which Abigail had kept young Jack far away from as the bone had punctured the skin.
After finding him, one of the girls had spotted some light in the distance. They were far off enough from Deadboot Creek where they had crossed paths and bullets with some O’Driscoll’s, that the worry of running into the rival gang in this direction, was unfounded.
Upon getting the caravan cautiously down the way to the large meadow, two of the men went forward to investigate while the rest waited with bated breath, shivering within the tree line. Luckily, not for long as the two men had returned with news that the building was a chapel and the preacher running the place was opening his doors to them.
Now, here all twenty members of the Van der Linde gang were nestled into the confines of the chapel. A wearied yet welcoming looking preacher handing out what few supplies he could muster from the attached rectory.
“It’s not much,” he spoke with a clearly Irish accent that perhaps mismatched his looks, “But hopefully it will all do until mornin’. There’s a village, Orwood not too far off just can’t be makin’ a do out there in this weather. Can go there for some additional supplies.”
“It is far more than what we had up on that trail, Father Murphy,” Dutch Van der Linde boomed from up on the candle filled altar where he had been speaking with Mr. Matthews, “We thank you for such hospitality. We don’t encounter it often.”
The preacher nodded as he handed a final blanket to Ms. Gaskill who smiled prettily in appreciation. “Think nothin’ of it,” he spoke approaching the men in charge. Despite his cheery tone, the darker featured leader noted how the preacher’s eyes repeatedly ventured towards the door; how his wrinkled hands wrung each other as he sighed deeply.
“I can assure you that we are all accounted for, Father,” Dutch guaranteed, gesturing around the space.
Smiling tightly, the man of God agreed, “Course, o’ course. Not you folks I’m worryin’ about.”
“Who then?” Hosea intruded, removing his hat to shake away rain still clinging to the brim onto the cobblestone floors. Suspicion clearer than glass on his sharp features.
“My niece,” Father Murphy answered, eyes begging those doors to open again, “Went out before the storm to clear out snares so what she caught wouldna be soakin’ wet or washed ‘way by the rains. ‘Er ‘orse is a good one and she do be capable, but like what happened with your poor man there, any nag could get spooked.”
“Could send one of ours out if needs be,” Dutch offered willingly, “Got just the—”
In time with a bolt of lightning that cast a long shadow into the chapel and a boom of thunder – as though summoned from the storm itself – a dark clad figure stepped in from the rain. However, their face remained cast in shadow by a wide brimmed, boater hat that had seen better days, as they adjusted a heavy sack over a dark, coat covered shoulder before spinning back around to slam the door shut.
All heads turned to watch as you tilted your scarred face up into the candlelight; your suspicious eyes narrowed with head held high.
“Ah!” your uncle piped up through the tensed silence as he sprung away from the altar, “There she is, finally.” Stiffly marching for you, the man came to usher you along down the center aisle with hands kept firmly behind his back. His smile tense and false as he murmured through the corner of his mouth closest to you, “I can see you are upset, but—”
“How perceptive of you, Uncle Alfie,” you mock lowly, eyeballing every person in the room as the pair of you fell into step. Some of the odd congregation immediately looked away – mostly the women – from your wounded face. Others held your stare; sizing you up until they left your peripheral vision.
Those were the ones you would have to keep an eye on tonight.
“They have a child with them,” Father Murphy countered as he nodded in the direction of a young boy sitting with what you would have to assume was his mother, in the third row. She pulled him closer as she noticed you, though.
Turning away, you begrudgingly listened as your uncle continued, “And they have women with them as well and of course, that poor lad in the back. His horse bucked ‘im in the storm while they were on one of the mountain passes. Who was I to deny them sanctuary? Mr. Van der Linde assured that—”
“A man of intelligence, perhaps,” you bite back, moving with vicious purpose towards the rectory connected by a door at the left wall next to the altar.
“Now, now,” a voice smooth as silk echoed from Dutch at the altar where he stood beside Hosea and Arthur posted a step below. Pausing, you provided the dark featured man a sharp sideways glance while Alfie shuffled on the side as Mr. Van der Linde strutted forward, “There’s no need to belittle your poor uncle. We are humble folks and neither of you have any need to worry. We’re truly grateful for your generous help.”
Turning to face this silver tongue fully, you removed your hat. All shadow and hair to falling away from the scar that marred your face from the top of your left brow all the way down to your chin that you held high into the light.
Looking him dead in his dark eyes, you watched unwaveringly as the usual ran over his features: stun, discomfort, pity, and then, indifference. The last reaction sometimes went to disgust; you were uncertain which you preferred to see.
“Grateful, I have no doubt,” you start out coolly, head tilting ever so slightly as you monitored him, “Yet I wonder why it is that you were on the mountain passes in such a storm to begin with. Surely, you could have made camp elsewhere instead of continuing on…”
The man’s dark eyes squinted ever so slightly: a tell.
“But perhaps not,” you amended and then theorized, “Heading towards or maybe, running from something. All mere speculation, of course.”
“My,” the analyzed man began leaning back but keeping the eye contact; his tone even and measured now at the statement, “I see that you’re not one to take something at face value. I respect that, Miss…?”
“Do you?” your retort shoots out with no shortage of spite as your head dropped back down, dismissing his request.
Pivoting around to turn your back on the man, you made a beeline for the rectory. Your hand just touching the wood of the door when the man’s voice echoes out again, “I will ask that while your reservations are understandable, give us a chance. Just the one. We ain’t here for no reason beyond surviving the night.”
Giving one last look around the chapel, your eyes dragged their way back towards the man in charge only to pause on one you had not given much consideration. The one who stood a single step below the altar; one that he could surely step up and place himself on the same level as Mr. Van der Linde. Yet there he stood resolute with arms folded in a rain-soaked jacket and a worn gambler’s hat casting a shadow over his eyes that glinted in the candlelight. His substantial, well-trimmed stubble highlighted lips quirking up into a smirk of all things.
A rare, unsettling thing to meet your gaze these days.
Another one to watch carefully. Looking away, you heave a heavy sigh. “Fine,” your reluctant resignation echoes out as you finally push the rectory door open, “One chance.”
Before any of the hollow thank yous reach your ears, you slam the door shut without a second look.
Making off with a scowl towards the pot hanging over the main living space’s blazing hearth, you unceremoniously toss your hefty baggage onto a nearby table. Removing the four hares and one decent sized pine marten from the sack, you snatch up a knife. All five would probably be eaten tonight now you noted with bitterness as you began skinning the first animal.
---- ---- ---- ---- ----
The storm dragged on into the evening as the stew was cooked, served, eaten, and the chapel fell into contented silence only broken by the occasional hushed whisper and boom of thunder.
Most members of the Van der Linde gang sat strewn about the left side of the chapel, while on the right Dutch sat in one of the back pews; reclined and arms spread out over the back as he eyed the back of your head. Looking on with unnerving calculation where you sat at the front with your uncle.
Both of you were locked in some sort of harsh exchange as he brought one of his hands clutching a flask, to his lips. Taking a heavy swig, he did not glance as another joined him on that pew that creaked beneath new weight.
“Got that look in your eye,” Arthur Morgan’s voice rumbled, propping his elbows upon duck cloth covered knees.
Humming at the observation, the older man extended the flask to the younger, who took it agreeably to take a swift swig. Your voice raised a moment before you turned away from the reverend, who looked like he wanted to say more but chose against it and walked off for the altar. There he seemed to begin praying with his back to the rest of the room, while you just glared out of the nearest rain covered window.
Not knowing what more to say, the leader’s right hand leaned back as well. Flicking some dirt from his filthy, still wet boots before kicking them up onto the pew the next row up as he murmured, “Gettin’ one of them gut feelin’s too?”
Without turning away from you, Dutch nodded, “Something like it.”
“Want me to trail ‘er if she leaves then?” Arthur followed up, crossing his arms in front of him; finally looking up towards you as well. His blues looking on with more severity than Dutch’s browns.
Smiling at his best man’s eagerness to fulfill his role in this gang, the head man quietly chirped, “If you would be so kind, Mr. Morgan.”
Grunting his agreement, the gunslinger’s attention shifted as Father Murphy turned away from the candles and gestured to the room. Most everyone looked up towards the man of God; those that did not were smacked into attention.
Most audibly John Marston who received a smack upside the head from the mother of his son.
“Well, this is a much larger and much later Sunday mass than we are used to here,” Alfie began with a warm smile, earning a chuckle from one of the women. You on the other hand, rolled your eyes and sunk down into your pew as your uncle continued, “But we make do. There is a word from the old country, where my father had fled to, well over eighty years ago as a young man running from a failed rebellion in another land. This word is Uiscefhuaraithe. Odd? Isn’t it?”
“Not to us Irish folk!” Sean whooped from within the most crowded area of the gang; portions of which chuckled or sighed at his antics.
Father Murphy just laughed right along, nodding before translating, “It essentially means ’water-cooled’ or the type of cold only water brings. The kind that sets a chill in your bones after enduring a storm, for example. Yet, the same feeling can change depending on your situation. If you are lost, away from where you call home, it’s a lonely, dampening feeling. If you are where you intended and it’s a scorching day, suddenly it is a relief. A blessing, even. Strange how something you thought you understood, can become something entirely new depending on where you are, who you are with. Who is to say when change can dawn in one’s life? In one’s mind? In one’s soul?”
Arthur blinked at that and looked down to his hands to start picking at the dirt beneath his nails; a habit that made Dutch shake his head as he listened.
“Sometimes such change can be a choice, if the will is strong. Other times, the Lord must strike with sudden, radical change to fulfill the plans unseen by our eyes,” Alfie added, clapping his hands together and jolting Reverend Swanson from his slumbering stupor, “Trust in the Lord in times of change, in times of Uiscefhuaraithe. You never know when it could be for the best.”
With that last line, the preaching man had turned toward his niece, who proceeded to rise and head off for the rectory. Something that did not escape Mr. Morgan.
Coming Soon: Next Chapter: Chapter 2 - Old Habits
Note: I will be posting both here and AO3 for this story as AO3’s layout is nice, but there’s more customization options here on Tumblr for chapter images and such, hope you enjoy(ed)!!!
sooo i just finish some more arthur art tho drew him with his wifey again originaly i was working diffrent illustracion arthur x oc but needed a tiny break from it
Am I the only one who hates seeing "Y/N" used in fanfics? I don't write fanfic but reading just takes me out of it. Like I could read the most beautiful written fic and then the character says "Y/N" when referring to the reader 😭
Note: The reader — or anyone related to them — is NOT described with any physical detail beyond general female human anatomy and scars for the plot. All details of the cover images are just pieces that sometimes include an OC that I imagine for the story and NOT who is described.
See THE POLL for more details for this story that won (Story 1).
Story Summary:
More than six years after a turn of events that threw your entire world upside down, you had accepted a life of isolation — with the exception of your Uncle and his parishioners — in the far north of Ambarino.
Then, a certain Van der Linde gang’s path shifts to bring them straight to your door. A collision that will send both your story and many others hurtling into very different directions.
None more so than a Mr. Arthur Morgan.
PROLOGUE:
1892
How you had gotten into the front seat of the wagon, you did not know; as you had not known how most things had occurred in these last months. Thoughts echoed in the hollowness of your mind, while your body remained still and slumped. Only moving when the rocking motions of the wagon’s procession along the road forced you to sway.
How could you have been such a fool?
How could you have let that devil deceive you?
How could you have let that same devil turn you into… this?
Your downcast eyes – staring at nothing in particular – blinked; the lashes of your left eye dragging against the bandages that cut off part of your vision. From there, they wrapped across your face and head along with many other zigzagging strips of cotton gauze.
Sections of which were already stained by the seepage of serous fluid and bleeding along a crooked path. One that led from the top of your left brow, skipped over your eye, then all the way down over your lips and to your chin. Its only exception being the small additional cut right below that left eye.
Truly, you could not blame your uncle driving the wagon for having chosen to depart town at dawn. If you had left at a reasonable hour, Lord knows you would have scared every passerby half to death. Or at least given them reason to believe you had contracted some sort of disease that would set them chasing you out of town with pitchforks and torches. That was if they did not recognize you.
If they did… well, they very well may have pieced together a few of the events that had occurred that evening.
Daring to look over your shoulder – wincing at the pain from shifting the muscles around your eye – you watched as distant tendrils of smoke from fires put out, floated high enough to be dyed with the rosy hues of the rising sun. The city the plumes of destruction originated from, long blocked from your view by the shadowy groves of live oaks, cypress, magnolia, and dogwoods. All strewn with Spanish moss that lazily swayed in the early morning breezes blowing in from the west.
As the birds began to awaken to the new day, you turned back to the path ahead. Lamenting your previously razor-sharp observational skills upon only just noticing your uncle had burdened himself for the journey with your red chestnut Trakehner. The fiery mare snorted, tugging at her tie to the back of the wagon despite walking on obediently.
She was a temperamental sport horse; she would hardly be any use to a frugal priest in the far north of Ambarino with his meager, hard-working flock. The sturdy spotted Irish Cob baring the wagon’s oddly heavy load was what he would be most in need of.
As your uncle steered to the right to head northeast rather than west, you blinked.
The old you would have fought your previously assumed fate of being brought to a sanitorium out in Rhodes. The old you would have never even been brought onto this wagon with such knowledge; alive or conscious that is. The old you was buried six feet beneath the ruins of all that had happened. Only a silent, dreary, thing complacent to time and all that occurred within its clutches remained in the ashes.
Now, you simply glared into the morning sun as it rose to break the horizon. The burning in your soul cooled to embers that while manageable, glowed just as brightly as the light reflecting in your resenting eyes.
Whatever happened next… you did not care. You would never care again.
Next Chapter: Chapter 1 - What the Storm Blows In
Note: I will be posting both here and AO3 for this story as AO3’s layout is nice, but there’s more customization options here on Tumblr for chapter images and such, hope you enjoy(ed)!!!
arthur morgan smut headcanons PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏 specifically with a fem or afab reader + f!recieving oral 🥹
arthur morgan my beautiful baby!!
♡ i just know that man grunts and groans like crazy! he'd probably be too self conscious to make a lot of noise, so i feel like he'd be the type to bury his head into the crook of your neck
♡ soft, loving, and gentle! his worst fear would be hurting you, or making you scared, so i know he'd he extra careful not to be too rough
♡ he's an eater, sorry 🤷♀️ that man is loyal and he loves to provide, so you know he'd be between your thighs 24/7!! he'd love to press soft kisses on your tummy before leaning in to gently suck on your clit, grunting softly against you when his beard tickles your thighs
♡ his big hands would hold your thighs apart, and he'd be drawing soft shapes along your hips and waist as he went down on you
♡ imo he's definitely a missionary kinda guy! i feel like he'd always wanna be looking at you, because he'd want to know that this is real, and that you've really chosen him
♡ i feel like if you were on top, he'd be looking everywhere, his huge hands on your hips, not pushing, just helping
♡ he's such a gentle giant, i just know that man is an aftercare goddddd 🤤 he'd wrap you up in his big arms and hold you close, not wanting to let you go for hours
ok dats it 🥺
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