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everyone’s favourite cowboy 🐎

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Mgs fans automatically know how to draw likee how do they draw so good

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the last enemy that shall be destroyed

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I think I'm funny

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felt like drawing john today :] (arthur is here to bother him)

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my greek princess

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Such a lovely couple hope nothing bad happens to them

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Painted this tiny portrait for midsummer yesterday, thought it looked cute

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Firewater - Chapter 8

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader. explicit.

The heat of the summer marches on.

taglist: @v3lv3tf0x, @stottlemorgan, @mrsarthurmorgan7, @appalachiancowboy99, @pinescent-and-gingerbread, @blueskies664, @arthurstinmug, @ultraporcelainpig, @emerald-ranch @thedilfdiaries, @heron-feathers,@nalitali, @whiskeyskin

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

ARIZONA, JUNE-AUGUST 1897

It starts with a bruise on your hip and Arthur’s crooked grin.

“I didn’t mean to knock you into that boulder,” he says, not even trying to sound sorry.

You roll your eyes, tugging your skirt back down as you step into your boots. “You didn’t stop me, either.”

He shrugs, already tucking his shirt back in. “Didn’t hear you complainin’ when your legs were wrapped around my back.”

You swat him with your hat. He catches your wrist, grinning like sin, and kisses your palm before letting go.

The air still smells like sweat and mesquite.

-

The next time, you’re supposed to be gathering intel from a ranch hand who only talks when he’s drunk. You get him to spill with a bit of help from a bottle and some sweet words.

Then you and Arthur slip into a hayloft to wait out the patrols.

“You got straw in your hair,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your collarbone.

“You’re about to have it in your pants,” you shoot back, breath catching as his hands slide beneath your skirt.

Somewhere below, the ranch hand sings off-key about whiskey and women.

You bite your fist to keep quiet, and Arthur groans against your throat, like he’s trying not to lose his mind entirely.

-

You don’t make it back to camp that night.

Instead, you set up bedrolls under the stars. One is barely unrolled before Arthur has you straddling him, the moonlight turning his eyes silver.

“You always this handsy under the stars?” you ask, panting as you tug his suspenders loose.

“I like the view,” he grunts, eyes locked on yours. “Especially when you’re on top of it.”

You laugh—then gasp when he shifts his hips just right.

Neither of you sleeps much.

-

At some point, Charles gives you a long, slow look as you come back to camp at dawn with grass in your hair and dust on your knees. He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t, either.

But Arthur winks at him.

The bastard.

-

Then there’s the time you get caught in a flash storm, the rain hammering down as you take cover in the shadow of a sandstone bluff. You’re both soaked, chilled, and muddy—but you can’t stop laughing.

“Hell of a storm,” you say, peeling your shirt away from your skin.

Arthur grins, eyes trailing down your chest. “Don’t suppose I can help you warm up.”

You raise a brow. “You offering body heat or bad decisions?”

He leans in, water dripping from his hat brim. “Both.”

Your laugh turns into a gasp as he lifts you up against the rock wall, mud be damned.

The storm rages around you.

-

There’s a rhythm to it now.

Scout a homestead. Get hot and bothered. Tumble behind a rock or into a cave or beneath the shade of a lone desert tree.

Sometimes it’s frantic, all teeth and grabbing hands and trying not to get caught.

Other times it’s slow and filthy, a drawn-out tease while you’re supposed to be watching the road.

You call him a menace.

He calls you a hellion.

Neither of you stops.

-

You’re tending your rifle on a quiet afternoon when he comes up behind you, trailing a lazy hand down your back.

“You’re wearin’ my shirt,” he murmurs.

“I stole it,” you reply.

“It looks better on you.”

You glance over your shoulder. “You comin’ on to me, Morgan?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “I’m thinkin’ about where I’d like to come on ya’.”

You punch his shoulder, hard enough to sting. He winces—then kisses your neck like it’s his damn job.

Ten minutes later, you’re both panting against a sun-heated boulder, half-dressed and breathless, the rifle forgotten in the dirt.

-

There’s a fight one day—over something dumb. Maybe he didn’t wake you for a scouting trip, or you snapped at him after a sleepless night. You storm off to the ridge, fuming.

He follows.

You argue in low, heated voices, close enough to kiss, close enough to swing. The desert wind howls around you.

Then, silence.

Then: his hand fisting in your shirt, yours grabbing his belt.

You don’t talk the rest of the afternoon.

You let your bodies say everything for you.

-

Dutch starts noticing.

“You two seem thick as thieves lately,” he says one night.

You smile over your drink. “Ain’t we all?”

Arthur, beside you, raises a brow. “I just like her company.”

Dutch chuckles. “That’s a word for it.”

-

A few days later, you’re on lookout duty together. The heat is miserable. 

Arthur is squinting through binoculars when you crawl into his lap, straddling him lazily.

“You’re supposed to be watchin’ for trouble,” he mutters, but his hands are already on your thighs.

“I am,” you murmur. “Just a different kind.”

He laughs—then groans when you grind against him slowly.

“You’re gonna get us shot one of these days.”

“Worth it,” you whisper, kissing him hard enough to steal the rest of his breath.

-

The worst of it is the time you can’t wait.

You’re supposed to be delivering a message to a contact closer to Tucson. You make it halfway before you drag him off the trail and into a thicket of dry brush, your mouth already on his.

“You’re outta your damn mind,” he mutters as you yank at his belt.

“You drivin’ me there,” you shoot back.

It’s fast. Dirty. God-awful uncomfortable.

And you both grin like idiots the whole way back to camp.

-

And then—after weeks of this—you’re sitting beside him on a ridge at dusk, legs dangling over the drop. Your body aches in the best ways. Your hair’s a mess. His shirt is rumpled from you wearing it again.

The desert stretches out golden before you, calm for once.

Arthur hands you a flask, still catching his breath from what just happened behind the rocks, acts that were probably illegal in ten states.

You take a sip, and then smile sideways at him.

“I want you to take me to dinner.”

He blinks. “What?”

You stretch, smug and satisfied. “Dinner. You know—tables, food, silverware we ain’t gonna sell off at a fence. A town where we don’t gotta lie about our names. Maybe even a bath before.”

He stares at you for a second, then huffs a laugh, brushing dust from your bare leg.

“I just railed you up against a sandstone rock,” he says, “and now you want me to take you courtin’?”

You grin. “Exactly.”

Arthur shakes his head, but there’s no hiding the way his mouth curves, soft and amused. “You’re outta your mind.”

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Can you give Arthur this hat please 🤭

Ooh. Beautiful.

Nice hat.

I think he loves it @etherealsadchick

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you knew my father

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Is it normal to be scared of your crush 😭 like idk sometimes im scared to see them idk help

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so apparently 4 people already now are like “I didn’t know you were queer!” Well this 99.9% dilf writer is here and queer and real with my one (1) sadie adler smut 🤩 much love to everyone who recently found it 🫶🏼 happy pride month <333 shoutout bisexuals who are male leaning 😝 ur so valid 🙂‍↕️

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Okayy star wars au

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Revisiting that character post I think it's SO cool how in discussing playthroughs a lot of fans will say 'my arthur'

'my Arthur has saddlebags full of chocolate bars i like to keep him slightly chubby' or, 'my Arthur is high honor, he always stops for npcs' or 'just gave my arthur a haircut. Check him out in this new outfit i bought'

Like there's a million slightly different versions of him living in heads and hearts of the fans. He's ALL our Arthurs. I haven't really seen many other games where players treat The Character like this, outside of, ya know bioware/Bethesda Create the Character games. Idk but I really, really love it.

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“men don’t dress their arthur”

my brother:

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Etchings of tigers by Herbert Thomas Dicksee (1862-1942)