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immajustvibehere · 10 months

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hey hey hey hey runs at you immediately. hey there hi! i heard you were looking for requests for the residential soft outlaw! might i request arthur with a fem!s/o who poses as a guy(for any reason up to you!)? a little extra bonus but not necessary— he's known her for a very long while and her change in identity is what ultimately makes him fall for her? im just a silly little sucker for best friends to lovers is all 🙏

thank you in advance if you decide to do this!!

I'm always afraid of prompts that are not strictly fem!reader 'cause I'm scared of fucking it up and offending someone. I have changed the request a bit to make it easier for me lmao :) Also, as I'm somewhat of a tomboy myself, this hit home.

Arthur Morgan x tomboy!Reader

summary: Arthur meets someone who had left the gang a couple of months ago. To his surprise, their appearance has changed quite a bit.

1700 words, 11 minutes reading time

Arthur was leisurely strolling down the main road of Valentine when, out of nowhere, a boy dashed around the corner, crashing right into him. Arthur stood firm, unwavering in his demeanour except an expression of surprise on his face, but the boy stumbled over Arthur's boot, ungracefully landing in a patch of dried soil.

"Careful there, boy", Arthur said in somewhat of a scolding tone.

"Sorry mister!", you quickly apologized and jumped onto your feet. You immediately recognized Arthur. Gosh, you hadn't seen him in years. But this was a bad time to stop for a chat. You heard your pursuer who was still around a couple of corners yelling for someone - for you. A quick glance around helped you to locate Arthur's horse.

"Meet me across Emerald Station!", you whispered in a hushed tone.

"What?" Arthur didn't quite understand. Something about your voice was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Besides, why should he meet you anywhere to begin with?

"Emerald Station!", you repeated with urgency before you ran to Boadicea and mounted her with practiced grace. At first, Arthur was too impressed to react and was left speechless. Boadicea is a gentle soul, but she normally wouldn't allow a stranger to mount her this effortlessly, let alone spur her into a gallop and ride away. It took a moment for Arthur to regain his senses, but when he did, he only managed to yell a "Hey!" after you, totally baffled and confused at the situation.

As Arthur made his way towards Valentine’s train station to get a ticket, he kept trying to figure out who you were. He recognized the voice, no doubt, but your whole appearance was...unfamiliar. You looked like a farmer's boy, with your rugged hat and short pants, you shirt worn and dirty. He couldn't recall when he had last spoken to a farm hand. Maybe you work at Emerald Ranch and had seen him doing business with Seamus. This assumption had some plausibility, it didn’t feel satisfying. Still, it was Arthur's best guess for now.

He had to wait a good while for the train. The sun was already low in the sky and the hills in the Heartlands casted long shadows, when he finally got out at Emerald Station. Arthur’s gaze swept the surroundings until he spotted Boadicea, calmly grazing upon a hill across the station. With his back to Arthur, there was the boy who had stolen or well - borrowed her, busy with brushing her coat thoroughly. For a couple of moments, he watched your gentle movements. The hat you had worn had been discarded, maybe lost on your quick escape. To his surprise, you seemed to have figured out where he stored the treats, as you knowingly dipped your hand into the left saddlebag and offered Boadicea an oatcake.

Arthur approached you and though you heard his heavy steps, you didn't turn around before he was close enough.

"Stealin' my horse would be reason enough to shoot ya, yer aware of that?"

But the boy carefully put the brush back into the saddlebag before he turned around and hugged Arthur closely.

"I missed you, Arthur!", you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

Arthur stood there with tense muscles, hands raised in confusion and staring at the top of the head full of hair. Hair, he seemed to recognize.

"Ehrm...do I know you?", he asked, now awkwardly resting one of his hands on your shoulder. Your frame felt familiar.

"Know me? Yes. Recognize me? Not so much so...", you mocked, peeling yourself from Arthur and looking up to him. It was the eyes that Arthur recognised first. Then your face, which honestly hadn't changed so much, though it was a bit dirtier than what he remembered. Dirtier and sunburnt.

"Y/n?", he asked carefully and pushed you gently away from him to get a better look at you.

"The very same", you smiled.

"You've...changed...", Arthur admitted, not quite sure what to make of your new appearance yet.

A mischievous grin appeared on your lips as you responded with a nonchalant "Maybe, yeah." However, you became a bit uneasy as you caught Arthur’s sceptical gaze. Arthur, however, had fixated on your scraped knee which you must have gotten from your fall earlier.

"Yer bleedin', y/n", he remarked.

"Oh, yeah", you simply shrugged, "It happens."

"We should get that cleaned...you wouldn't want to get it infected", Arthur said.

"Arthur. I'm fine. I-"

"No. Come on", Arthur put a hand on your shoulder and pushed you to a fallen log. When he squatted in front of you, you couldn’t help but blush.

"I can do that myself, you know-", but Arthur quickly interrupted you:

"Nah-ah. I'd prefer you focus on doing some explainin'", Arthur said, pulling out a bottle of alcohol and a clean rag. The fact that he didn't look up to you made you nervous.

"Sorry I took Boadicea. I had to make a run from the fella", you explained.

"Stole his pocket watch, I've heard", Arthur grunted and pressed the alcohol-soaked cloth against your scrape. It was a familiar sting that didn't bother you much. "I told him to get over it, 'cause you had just stolen my damn horse."

You chuckled: "Sorry. I didn't really have time for a re-introduction."

"Sure", finally, Arthur looked up to you, "What's that all about" He nodded towards your appearance.

"I am...working as a farm boy. They only needed boys and you know I'm not someone to work in the kitchen...so I wanted to see if it works...and well...I was desperate. If I hadn't gotten this job I might have starved", you explained.

"You fooled me alright", Arthur admitted with a soft smile as he took a seat on the log next to you, “But I’m an idiot, Boadicea recognized you alright.” Arthur took out a pack of cigarette, only to realise there was only one left. He rested it between his lips and struck a match to light it before he offered it to you.

"Thank you", you took a drag, handing it back to Arthur.

You observed Arthur as he took the cigarette between his fingers, his eyes roaming the grounds, eventually fixating on the buildings of Emerald Ranch.

"Pretending to be a boy is damn exhausting", you started.

"I can imagine."

"They pick a fight all the time. I dare say I know how to throw punches now", you grinned.

"Do ya?", Arthur chuckled amusedly.

"Yeah. They tease me a lot, though. I can never let my guard down. I'm afraid what they're gonna do if they ever find out so I plan on leaving before it comes to that. They are suspicious already…"

"Let me guess, it's your voice that gives it away."

You smile: "Yes. There's a rumour that my parents had me castrated."

Arthur snorted. When you saw the cigarette almost finished, you cheekily grabbed it from between Arthur's fingers and finished it in one big drag.

"You bastard have gained some confidence, have ya?", Arthur teased.

"I had to. Ain't no good acting all shy as a boy. Would have been burnt alive by now", you explained and stubbed the cigarette out on the log. Arthur observed you with a smile. He remembered, when you still were with the gang, you had been quite reserved. He had always been afraid of breaking you, you appeared so fragile. He liked your new confidence, it felt like he had met an equal.

"Will you come back to us then?", Arthur asked hopefully.

"I don't know...honestly, I never felt like I can contribute much. Don't know what's there for me", you said frankly.

"I'd be there", Arthur mumbled. It had been an unintended admission that had slipped from his lips. He wanted you to know that he’d love to have you back, but he regretted having mentioned it so casually, just because some weird feeling was getting the better of him.

"Don't do that to me, Arthur - you know I have a soft spot for you", you chuckled helplessly. Yes, Arthur knew. Your actions around him when you still were part of the gang were obvious, leaving no room for doubt that you harboured a small crush on the man. Yet, he had chosen to keep his distance, fearful of causing you harm. Though he had always treated you with kindness. There was not much difference between how he treated you and how he's treating Mary-Beth now. A younger lady at camp, civil, pretty, with the useful skill to relieve any drunk fool at the saloon of their wealth. A lady he was ready to protect as part of the can der Linde family.

Arthur stumbled over his words, rambling on in an uncoordinated manner: "I know, I jus' thought...you've changed quite a bit and maybe-"

"You prefer ladies with short hair, Arthur?", you teased with a grin.

The orange evening sun hid his blushed cheeks well, but you could still tell that he was flustered.

"No- well, yes? I don't...I don't mind. It suits you", he explained, clearing his throat after this miserable attempt of a compliment. You both looked at each other awkwardly before you burst out laughing. When you managed to stand up, you made an exaggerated curtsey in front of him.

"Thank you kindly, mister", you grinned from ear to ear and your cheeks were warm from the laughing.

“You’ve become a hell of a woman…”, Arthur sighed in defeat.

You gave him a wink and looked down to the farm.

"I get payed in two days. After that, I better move on", you said.

"I'll meet ya here then", Arthur decided, standing up.

"Really?", you looked a bit surprised at his readiness.

"Sure", he walked over to Boadicea, readying the reigns for his ride back to camp, "We don't have to go back to camp if ya don't want to. We can go up North a bit. I found a nice little pond up there, it’s great for fishin’."

Arthur smiled gently while you still beamed at him with your greatest grin.

"Thanks Arthur!", you approached him for a hug, which he readily granted you - now fully appreciating that it was you who he was holding.

"Nuthin' to thank me for, I'm gonna enjoy it just as much", he admitted while his hand caressed your shoulder.

And with this promise made, he watched you walk away.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr #rdr fanfiction #arthur morgan x tomboy

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gyudons · 1 year

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i’m sorry but this is the FUNNIEST THING i’ve ever read… a bunch of academics peering at this wooden dildo and having Intense Discussions about it

GUARDIAN - Archaeologists believe they may have found the only known lifesize Roman dildo, discovered in a ditch in what were the farthest northern fringes of the empire.

If it was not used as a sexual implement then the 2,000-year-old object may have been an erect penis-shaped pestle, or it could have been a feature from a statue that people touched for good luck.

What it definitely is not is what it was catalogued as after its discovery at the Roman fort of Vindolanda in Northumberland in 1992: a darning tool.

“I have to confess,” said Newcastle University archaeology senior lecturer Rob Collins, “part of me thinks it’s kind of self-evident that it is a penis. I don’t know who entered it into the catalogue. Maybe it was somebody uncomfortable with it or didn’t think the Romans would do such silly things.”

If they did think that, they could not be more wrong given that two- and three-dimensional representations of phalli were ubiquitous in the Roman world, whether in mosaics, frescoes, pot decoration or pendants worn around the neck.

The Vindolanda phallus is 16cm long but, researchers say, was probably larger because archaeological wood is prone to shrinkage and warping.

It has been examined by researchers at Newcastle University and University College Dublin. The analysis has revealed it to be, at the very least, the first known example of a disembodied phallus made of wood recovered anywhere in the Roman world.

The phallus was found in a ditch along with dozens of shoes and dress accessories as well as craft waste products such as leather off-cuts and worked antler – perhaps one reason for it being seen as a darning tool.

“What makes this a first is that it is not a small, miniature phallus,” said Collins. “It’s lifesize. It’s also important because wood just doesn’t normally survive … we couldn’t find any parallels.”

The size and uncertainty of function was fascinating, he said. “Often in archaeology when we find an object we can tell what it was used for or deduce what it was used for. That wasn’t the case for this object. We have had to cast our nets wide in thinking what would a six-and-a-half-inch wooden carving of a phallus be used for.

“We had some very interesting discussions.”

Ancient phallic objects were often used for warding off evil. The analysis showed the Vindolanda phallus had notably smoother ends, indicating it was used for something over a period of time.

The team has alighted on three possible theories, all of which are outlined in a detailed discussion paper published in the journal Antiquity.

One theory is that it was used for sexual reasons. That could mean it was a sex toy although some caution is needed, said Collins.

“Sometimes they [dildos] weren’t always used for pleasure … they can be implements of torture so I’m very conscious of using the term sex toy. Hopefully that is what it was used for. That is the most exciting and intriguing possibility.

“If that is the case it would be, to our knowledge, the first Roman dildo that’s been encountered from archaeology. We know from Greek and Roman poetry and Greek and Roman art that they used dildos. But we haven’t had any archaeological examples found which is intriguing in itself.

“If it is that and it is found up here on the northern fringe of the empire and not down in the rich heartland of Roman Italy … it is kind of astounding.”

Theory two is that the object was used as a pestle, either for culinary purposes or to grind cosmetic or medicinal ingredients. Its size would have made it easy to use and the shape would have imbued the food or ingredients with perceived magical properties.

The third option is that it was meant to slot into a statue which passersby would touch for good luck or to absorb or activate protection from misfortune – which was common throughout the Roman empire.

If that was the case, the statue would probably have been located near the entrance to an important building but the evidence indicates that the phallus was either indoors or at least not in an exposed position outside for any length of time.

Researchers hope the Vindolanda phallus will prompt a search for similar objects in other collections. In the meantime it has gone on display at the Vindolanda museum.

#history #long post

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precious-little-bhaalbabe · 3 months

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This post took me so long to actually write down all of I ended up sketching the swapped companions before finishing it

Behold!

More detailed descriptions and musings under the cut

Jenevelle the Shadowheart

Forever seeking to serve her Queen and to prove herself among her adoptive kin. Prove herself worthy of the silver she wears and perhaps one day grace the back of a mighty red dragon as Kithrak, should her Queen allow it.

Paints her spots on every day along with her war paint

Her long braid is decorated with a headpiece paying tribute to the Undying Queen, though of course never as resplendent as Vlaakith herself

Lazelle, Daughter of Shar

With her blade, she will cut Selûne and her wretched Tears from the sky and blanket Faerûn in the Nightsinger’s perfect darkness, whether the Mother Superior permits her to become Dark Justiciar or not

If not for her nose, it would be hard to pin her as Githyanki and not a strange looking wood elf. No spots and the shells of her long ears lacking the usual frills (inspired as an artist by Ptaris not having those features in game). A harmless malformation as the result of being raised in an unnatural environment, or something more sinister at play?

The name Lazelle was gifted to her by the Mother Superior, though something about it always felt slightly… off.

Karlach Cliffgate, Mage of the Heartlands

Chose her title saying there were far too many lofty heroes already claiming heritage from Baldur’s Gate, and she wanted her legend to show she fought for all the innocent people of the Heartlands her city calls home, like the heroes of sword and sorcery that inspired her to study magic as a youth.

Far fewer scars but nearly as many tattoos under those robes as the Karlach we know. Runes imbued with protective wards, magic symbols, dedications to her parents and to Mystra.

Her rough cut and dyed hair is woven in with silver disks with the symbol of Mystra

Even having fallen out of her favor recently, the Mage of the Heartlands wears her tabard emblazoned with the symbol of the goddess of magic still.

Naturally quite tall and heavy set, she still keeps an impressive musculature for a mage. Claims there’s no use for more mages who just sit in their towers reading all day. The Weave is meant to be touched, used to protect and assist people. Would far sooner cast a new spell to see the effects than study it in theory.

When you first meet her, she explains the softly glowing orange mark on her chest to be a scar of one such use of experimental magic. Perhaps after some trust is built, she will reveal the true nature of what caused it.

Gale Dekarios, the Black Flame of Avernus

A guard trained in picking off threats with his trusty longbow long before they could reach him or the one he protects, the Blood War has seen him far closer to the center of the action than he would prefer.

I didn’t draw them because it was hard enough designing new outfits for him and Karlach but he’s got tattoos. And scars.

The black flame and smoke from the infernal engine in his chest waft from the vents on his shoulders, the deep ominous glow from under his ribs never ceasing.

Wears a single earring of the crest of Waterdeep, the home he has sought to return to all these long years. Now, he’ll finally have the chance. If his heart doesn’t burn him from the inside out first.

Astarion Ancunín, the Blade of Frontiers

Handsome, heroic, and the talk of the land, the Blade of Frontiers will be a storybook hero in times to come

His dashing smile and golden eyes, handsome figure fitted in beautiful embroidery, are protected by his rapier and the healthy green glow of Fey magic

The armored chest piece he wears emblazoned proudly and loudly with the crest of Baldur’s Gate, a reminder of the people he’s sworn to protect

Wyll Ravenguard, the One-Eyed Warrior

A handsome and unassuming man at first glance, apart from his missing eye. Closer look is even more intriguing, his remaining eye a striking blood red.

Dressed in courtly garb, hardly the outfit you’d associate with an adventurer, but his skill with the blade quickly squashes any doubt he’s fit for the task at hand.

Upon first meeting him, he says the missing eye is the scar from a battle and nothing more. When you learn about his past and his history with the vampire lord Cazador Szaar, he reveals the scar is one of the last injuries he suffered as a mortal man. Taken out in the fight with cultists of the dragon that resulted in his death, before Cazador claimed him as his undead spawn.

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the-real-tc · 7 months

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#CIFF #Heartland #heartland on cbc #my pics #do not use without permission #Heartland cast #season 17 #Ep. 1701 #Heartland writers

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twola · 1 year

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Seven Deadly Sins - V

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

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. A continuing series.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Wrath: strong vengeful anger or indignation, retributory punishment for an offense or a crime.

➵ AO3 Link

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“The reason you need me on this job is…?”

Arthur chuckles, a deep rumbling laugh through his chest. “Always good to have sticky fingers like yours when robbin’ a homestead.”

You roll your eyes, leaning over and rubbing the horse’s neck as the mare slowly walks down the trail. He’s in a better mood after leaving the stifling heat of the swamps near Shady Belle - and getting out of Lemoyne altogether. Things had settled down from run-ins with Angelo Bronte and jobs in Saint Denis - and Arthur had come to you with a homestead he wanted to hit up in the Heartlands - far away from everything the gang was mired in fetid and humid south Lemoyne.

“And the reason you’ve got me ridin’ like this?”

Ah, now that is the better question. You sit astride the saddle, atop his mare, settled in tightly against him, one of his large hands splayed across your belly. Your hips press against his as the two of you sway with the movement of the horse.

“Want you to be comfortable, of course.” He replies, matter-of-factly. His other hand winds tightly around the reins.

“Course.” You laugh, leaning back against him comfortably, stealing a bit of shade that is cast by his worn leather hat.

You’d be just as comfortable sitting on the horse’s rump behind him, but by the way that his fingers clench and rub soft circles on your stomach through the fabric of your skirts, you don’t think he’d approve.

“So what’s the plan for this one, Mister Morgan? Rollin’ in with guns blazing? Distracting the menfolk with my womanly charm?” You ask playfully, knowing what exactly would rib the man into annoyance.

“Mm, little more simple. Supposed to be empty, owners on a holiday.” He replies, nudging the horse a little faster with a jolt from his spur.

“Oh… y’really didn’t need me for that.” You trail off, squinting into the distance. The late afternoon sun reflects off the mountains in the distance, far off in Ambarino.

“Sure I do, need ya for this-” His hand slowly moves down from your soft belly to cup at the jointure of your thighs. Through the layers of your skirts and bloomers, he presses against your folds, moving his fingers in slow circles.

“ What -” you squeak in surprise, “are y’doin?”

“Just mindin’ the time. A while yet’ fore we reach Valentine.” Arthur states as if he isn’t digging through cotton to touch you.

You buck involuntarily as his finger presses the seam of your bloomers against your clit. Your hand flies back and squeezes his thigh, right above his knee as you clench your teeth. He rubs his fingers faster, knowing he’s found that spot. You gasp, your head falling back against him as you grip the pommel of the saddle for dear life.

“Y’good there, sweetheart?”

“ Stop .” You grit out.

He does, drawing his hand away from your core, and a flash of worry shoots through him.

It’s assuaged quite quickly when you press backward into him, with a roll of your hips, your rear grinds against his already hard cock.

A groan rumbles from his chest before he can try and stop it. You respond with a sweet, needy sound of your own and roll your hips into his again. His hand presses against you once again. He digs through the layers of fabric to rub at your core shamelessly.

“ Oh… ” you whine in the most beautiful sigh he’s ever heard. He could drown in the dripping sweetness from your mouth.

“Mmm… stop the horse and fuck me.”

Oh, what an order. What a request. He’d gladly shackle himself at your feet to be able to serve out anything that falls from your lips.

He’s yanking the reins hard and swings himself from the saddle and is pulling you down in one fluid motion. Stumbling, falling, you pull his lips down to yours and press your hand against the bulge in his trousers. He grunts as he rights you, and you step back from him with that look in your eye, that look that gets him every time.

Christ , he’s stopped the horse in the middle of the goddamn road, in the rolling hills of the Heartlands, high above Flat Iron Lake. By some work of serendipity, just off the worn trail is a large outcropping of rock, which you giggle and back up out of his embrace toward. Moving around to the other side of the stone, you beckon him closer with a curl of your finger. Seems that now you’ve caught the playful mood as well.

You lay down in the soft prairie grasses of the Heartlands, barely shielded from the road by the rocks as you draw your skirts up your thighs. Your creamy stockings give way to bare skin above your knees.

Arthur’s gun belt clatters to the ground. He’s starting to love the noise it makes when it does so.

His suspenders hang loosely at his hips as he sinks to his knees between your legs. He unbuttons his pants as you raise your hips to slide your bloomers down, revealing your cunt as your knees fall open, the glistening, dewy folds of your core on display for him.

Arthur curses under his breath as he tosses his hat to the ground before shoving his pants down his thighs. He splays his body over you, settling himself between your hips.

You giggle, “Hopefully the next traveler on the road doesn’t get a full view of your pale ass.”

“Shaddup, you little minx ,” he leans further and nips at your bottom lip playfully, “fore I strip you naked and fuck you in the middle of the damn road.”

“Mister Morgan. ” You smile, and it’s like he’s been shot in the chest, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He groans as he presses his cock between your folds and slowly sinks in, loving the first clutch, the tightness of your body when he parts you for the first time. The sweet moan you let out as your hands grab at his shirt. The playful rubbing he had started this all with has made you more than wet enough to take him easily.

His curls tangle with yours as pubic bones meet. He looks down at his pelvis, cock completely hidden from view, and swears aloud in pleasure.

“Mm, Arthur.”

You’re going to kill him. It’ll be a sweet death, one he’s entirely undeserving of. He deserves to be hung or catch a bullet between the eyes. For all the things he’s done, for all the things he’s yet to do, he is completely unworthy of a death where he would find himself in your arms.

And yet…

He’s found himself longing . Not since his ill-fated relationship with Mary Gillis fell apart has he wanted more than to just sate his desires. Even then, he wasn’t one heading to the brothel in every cowtown the gang stopped in. This was supposed to be just one of those things.

Well, this was supposed to be one of those things. A simple, transactional relationship. Now he’s dreaming of keeping you in his bed for more than just sex.

A gasp from your throat pulls him from his wandering thoughts as his pelvis rolls into yours. He knows, now, after many times, that little gasp of yours is a cry for more. More speed, more force, more movement… more of everything he can give you.

His hips roll desperately as he covers your lips with his own, pressing his tongue into your mouth. Only when he has to gasp for air does he move back from you.

“ D-deeper.” You whine, pulling hard on the fabric of his jacket. The heel of your boot digs into his lower back as you try to get him to push in further.

“ Shit , girl.” Arthur’s hand presses the back of your thigh to his shoulder. The yaw of your legs widens and you let out a shriek as he throws his weight into his hips and parts you in a way he hasn’t before, reaching deep within your core.

The cry you give comes from your chest, bursting up your throat, a wanton sound of pure pleasure as Arthur braces his knees and leans further over you, tilting your hips back as he thrusts - the angle and your leg thrown high over his shoulder, you’re so loud and couldn’t even bear to be any quieter.

Of course, that goes straight to his throbbing cock as he slides it in and out of your drenched cunt. He feels the tightening in his guts, the telltale sign that he’s going to come imminently.

“Where-”

“Inside, god, please , Arthur, come inside me-” you gasp, tears collecting at the edges of your eyes, “ ‘m gonna - I’ll come too-”

Well, that was all the convincing he needed. The stupidity of it, the irresponsibility, it’s all forgotten as those words escape you breathlessly. It only takes him three more sloppy strokes as he throws his head back and groans loudly, his arms locking in a straight line as his hips drive into yours for a final time.

Arthur rumbles out the broken syllables of your name as he comes. You whine in response, a high-keening wail as you dig your fingers into his shoulders, clenching hard around his already pulsing cock. Your leg slips down from his shoulder, shaking with exertion.

He collapses over you, draping himself over your torso as he pants into your ear. He has the energy, at the very least, to weave his fingers through your hair, which has escaped its bindings.

Your hands move from his shoulder, fingers sweeping up his neck. One hand nestles on the back of his head, fingers carding through his honeyed hair. He’s learned that’s one of your favorite things to do, and he’s certainly not complaining. The other trails down his jaw, your pointer finger pushing gently for him to raise his head.

He follows your unspoken request, unable to even think of saying no to you. You look at him, your mouth quirking into a small smile as your hand cups his cheek, skin soft over his short beard. With the smallest of motions, your fingers pull slightly as your gaze falls to his lips.

He happily acquiesces. Your lips are so soft against his own, and as you open your mouth to his, the softest sigh flows from your chest into him.

God, he could die right now. Spent and softening, buried deep within your cunt, none of the jarring coldness of jerkily removing himself from your warmth. Draped over your form with your legs still looped over his hips, not allowing him to move.

A blooming warmth of affection burns in his chest, knowing you want him there just as much as he wants to be there. God, he’s realizing just how invested he is in this. Idiot. This was supposed to be simple. Uncomplicated. Look at him, Arthur Morgan , thousands of dollars on his head and so much blood on his hands, brought to heel by your soft lips and warm cunt.

You press your forehead against his, and he pulls back from your lips.

“We should make camp, it’ll be dark ‘fore we know it.” You whisper. He nods, pushing himself up off of your form and pulling his hips back from yours, internally cursing as his cock slips from the sweet cradle of your hips. He sits up on his knees, pulling his pants back up over his hips.

You recline on your elbows, your legs still spread around him. In the moments before you scoot backward to pull your skirts down to hide your legs, he stares at your cunt, glistening and wet. You shift slightly and a milky pearl of his spend trails down your folds before he loses sight of it when your skirts cover your skin.

Jesus Christ.

“C’mon there, cowboy. You gonna set up camp or do I have to do everything?” You laugh as you stand up, brushing the dust and dirt from your skirt.

He swats at your rear as you go by, and you stick your tongue out at him as you move back toward the horse.

The tent is up in a few minutes, and you sit on your knees making room for a fire, “What did you bring to eat?”

“Nothin’ great,” he shrugs, mentally kicking himself for his lack of preparation.

“Mm - d’ya think you have it in you to grab something? Maybe a rabbit? There should be plenty of them out here.” You look up at him with a pleasing smile on your face.

“Why, of course, Princess. This here’s a to-order kitchen.” Arthur drawls sarcastically, with a hint of a laugh as he places his hat back on his head. Winding his gun belt back around his hips, a crooked grin remains on his face.

“Shut up,” you yell, chucking a piece of kindling at him. He swats it away easily, chuckling as he moves back toward his horse, “One jackrabbit, for my lady’s delicate appetite.”

“You better not blow it to bits!” You call out to him as he gets up on his saddle and spurs his horse out into the fields.

It’s not but a few miles ride before he is able to catch sight of one in the waning daylight. He’s able to whip out his game rifle and kill it in two shots, blaming the first miss on the horse’s jittering, of course. He skins the jackrabbit quickly and ties its carcass to his horse’s saddle.

Arthur knows better than this. He’s goddamn close to forty years old. He should not be getting this excited to get back to the tent. But his cock is ever the immature teenage boy that he once was, swelling against his pants as he thinks of how many times he is going to have you tonight, alone, in a tent, far away from camp.

No interruptions.

And he would be lying to himself; the one thing he tries not to do, that he would not like to wake up with you tucked in at his side. Maybe to wake you up with a soft touch to your folds, a gentle squeeze of your breast - to slowly work you into a begging mess before sinking himself into your heat. To hear your voice sweetly gasp his name, hoarse with sleep.

His cock is completely hard at this point. It was hopeless to fight it, as he urges his horse to canter back to the campsite some miles away.

The smoke from the fire you’ve managed to make marks his destination over the rise of the next hill. He clicks his tongue and digs his spurs into the horse’s side to gallop up the rise. He reaches the top, and his eyebrows quirk as he realizes that he is not at the campsite. The smoke billowing up into the evening sky was much larger than a campfire should be. The campsite was still several lengths away, and as he squints against the darkness, he curses and pushes his horse into a gallop.

There’s movement in the distance. More than there should be. He unholsters his revolver from his belt as he approaches the campsite. Your scream echoes in his ear, he knew, even though it was far off, he knew it was you.

By the time he reaches the fire, he can only watch as you are thrown on the back of a horse, hogtied and gagged, screaming against the fabric smothering your mouth, a dark fear in your eyes as your captors flee north along the road, leaving Arthur behind fending for himself against two of their compatriots.

Hell hath no fury. Not like Arthur Morgan. Not when something of his is taken from him.

Two men move to draw weapons as Arthur swings himself off of his horse with his revolver pulled. He fires two quick rounds, hitting one of the bandits in the shoulder and sufficiently distracting the other one enough to stumble. The man he hit fell to the ground, his revolver skittering along the dirt.

The outlaw moves ahead quickly, slamming into the upright bandit and tackling him to the ground. He slams his revolver across the man’s face. He does it again. And again. And again. Blood gushes from his nose and mouth as his teeth get knocked loose. Arthur just keeps hitting him, far beyond when his head is a bloody pulp. The man is dead for several moments by the time he stops.

Blood covers his blue denim shirt and brown leather jacket, speckled on his face and up his arms like he’s skinned a wolf.

The second man regains some semblance of consciousness and tries to stumble away; he doesn’t get more than a few steps before Arthur points his revolver and blows the man’s knee out. He screams in pain and hits the ground, clutching at his leg as it hemorrhages all over the dry prairie ground. The man is already soaked in blood from the hole in his shoulder.

Arthur stoops down next to the man on one knee, voice low and dangerous.

“Tell me where they’re taking her or you’ll be wishin’ I did the kind thing and killed you straight away.”

“S-Six P-p-point.” The man stutters, tears of pain bursting from his eyes. Arthur presses down on his twisted and bloody knee with his boot, causing the man to howl for mercy.

Of course, these were fucking O’Driscolls . He should have burned that damn cabin down.

Arthur is not feeling merciful. With the speed of a practiced hand and absolutely no reservations whatsoever, he unsheathes his hunting knife and drags it across the man’s throat. After a few seconds, his bellyaching ends as he bleeds out in the dirt.

He wipes the blood off of the blade of his knife on the dead man’s shirt before resheathing it.

The tent that he had set up, along with your bundle of personal items burns as he gives one last look at the campsite. Arthur’s teeth grind as fury pumps through his veins. He stalks toward his horse as the heat of the fire burns away any comfort of the night.

Arthur was on the warpath. Woe be to those who took you from him.

Arthur Morgan, at his base instinct, was a simple man. He hurt men, killed them, stole from them, and lived a life of debauchery and sin for his own gain. He could be very indiscriminate with violence.

But this, this was personal.

Fucking O’Driscolls took his woman. If a hair on your head was out of place, he would skin Colm O’Driscoll himself.

His mare has worked up a lather on her coat as he runs her north toward Cumberland. He presses her onward, and tries to stave off the gnawing feeling in his gut - the fear trying to creep in underneath his rage - that he may find you in a different shape than he left you. That those grimy sons of bitches hurt you in any way, put their hands on you - take what belongs to him. Or worst of all, he storms into that damned cabin and finds your lifeless body.

Arthur makes it to the north of Cumberland far faster than a normal man would. He hitches his poor horse to a tree and feeds her an apple while he pulls out his shotgun and rifle from his saddle holster and heaves them over his shoulder. He draws his revolver and chambers three more bullets in it before placing it back in his belt.

With practiced speed and silence, he moves around the trees, stopping at different vantage points as he approaches the cabin. Fortunately, it looked like there were far fewer men here the last time he stormed through. He only counts two outside, the camp relegated to a small campfire in front of the cabin. A soft light glows from the windows, denoting the presence of someone inside.

He lets down the rifle from his shoulder. Breathing out heavily through his nose, he racks the bolt and takes aim at one of the men sitting around the fire. His finger moves to the trigger - done so many times before, and pulls , anticipating the recoil from the rifle and quickly throwing it over his shoulder again as he grabs his shotgun. The bullet found its mark, of course , and the O’Driscoll flew backwards in a gush of blood. His comrade jumps to his feet, looking around, and yells, pulling a pistol from his belt. Arthur moves around the campfire, silent as a hawk, and can approach the man from behind and slam the butt of the gun into his back, causing him to drop his gun and sprawl out on the ground. The man is at least able to turn himself over to his back before Arthur looms over him.

“Where the hell is she?” Arthur snarls, the barrel of his shotgun pressing hard against the man’s chest.

The O’Driscoll, scared shitless, stumbles over words as his eyes bulge with fear.

“I’mma give you one chance to tell me where she is.” He threatens, racking the pump of the gun loudly.

“In-inside, there, swear it. She’s in there.” The man sputters, pointing toward the door of the cabin.

Arthur scowls, pulling the barrel back from the man’s chest. He pushes himself to his elbows, eyeing the door, thinking to run. The barrel shifts upward to the man’s forehead and in an instant, Arthur pulls the trigger. The shotgun roars and the O’Driscoll’s head explodes in a burst of blood and brain matter all over the porch of the cabin.

Arthur kicks down the door of the decrepit cabin with the heel of his boot, the wood splintering as he foists his shotgun forward, barrels blazing as he pumps a round into the man that was moving to the door. The man’s chest bursts in blood as he slams back against the table in the middle of the cabin and slides to the floor.

You scream behind a gag at the noise, and Arthur paces further back into the cabin and finds you bound on the wooden floor, your eyes wide and fearful after hearing the multiple shotgun blasts over the last several minutes.

He leans the shotgun against the fireplace and unsheathes his large hunting knife, moving toward your form quickly. Kneeling on the floor on one knee, he cuts the gag at your cheek and then moves to the rope wound around your wrists and ankles. You gasp large breaths of air when the gag is removed, your eyes bloodshot and wet.

“They touch you?”

You don’t reply, hot tears streaming down your face, your hurried, shallow breaths starting to slow.

Arthur sneers, “Tell me, I’ll geld every single one.”

Silence.

He grabs your chin to force you to look up at him, his cold, angry eyes demanding answers, “ Tell me , woman.”

“That all you’re concerned about? That no other man can say they’ve had me?” You snap at him, eyes red-rimmed and overflowing with tears.

Arthur glares, but his brows falter the slightest bit as you breathe heavily, his hand still on your chin.

“No, Arthur, you’ll be happy to know that my cunt is still yours to do with what you please.”

Blood trickles down your temple to cover his fingertips.

He lets go of your chin, and you turn away from him with a sharp crane of your neck. You scoot backward on the floor, away from him, and gather your knees into your chest, looping your arms around them to make yourself small.

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant….” He nearly whispers, knowing that in his possessive rage, that is exactly what he meant. He’s caught looking down at you, his hand still in the air, smeared with your blood, hesitating to reach at you again.

“Yes, it was. Don’t worry, Arthur. My virtue remains untouched by anyone other than you .” Venom drips from your voice as you bury your head into your arms, refusing to look at him any further.

The old, dirty floorboards creak as Arthur sits down upon it, and after a moment’s hesitation, he pulls you closer to him, gathering your body against his and wrapping both of his arms around you, tucking your head in the crook of his neck.

Even as angry as you are, with a shuddering breath, you lean into his embrace. Your arms slowly unlace from around your knees and clutch at his shirt, and you’re sure you’re dirtying it with the sticky blood drying on your hands.

One of his hands threads into your unbound, wild hair, cradling the back of your head with a gentleness you didn’t know the man possessed.

“I didn’t… didn’t know what I’d find when I come up here… I was half expectin’ to find you dead.” He whispers, his voice low and gravelly, but missing the earlier malice, “Don’t think I’d know what to do with myself if you was gone.”

You snort, about to tell him something snide about finding another hole to shove his cock into, but before you’re able to pipe up, he cuts you off.

“I reckon I’m not the best at this, but… this ain’t just bout the…” he stumbles over his words, trailing off.

“Ain’t about how you’re always thinkin’ with your cock with me?” You were able to slide the retort in this time.

“ Christ , woman, I’m tryin’ here,” he interjects, exasperated.

You pull away from him, and he lets his embrace around you loosen. You wipe your temple with the back of your hand and grimace as your skin is stained with tacky blood.

Silence settles between you. Arthur lets loose a bated breath.

“C’mon. Forget the job. Let’s get somewhere and settle down for the night.”

You allow it. Just as you allow him to loop his arm under your knees and lift you into his strong hold.

He takes you away from this place, carrying you high in his arms so as not to touch all of the blood and brain matter pooling on the floor.

Not to be a part of the carnage he unleashed.

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