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#rdr2 fanfiction
immajustvibehere · 6 months
Text
Touch Starved Arthur x fem!touchy Reader (Part 2)
Pairing: hh!Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader (fluffly)
Part1 here!
summary: Arthur takes you and Jack out camping for two nights. Both of you have to battle your feelings for each other until you finally....
warnings: one bed trope, fluff, domestic bliss
6000 words
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In the manner of Arthur’s approach, you knew he was up to something. His big hands rested on his gun belt, his expression was casual. His attempt to appear relaxed was almost perfect. You weren’t fooled so easily, though. By the smug grin that started to appear on your face as Arthur came closer, he understood that you had sensed his unease from a mile away. Your intuition was exceptional, and Arthur silently cursed himself for his own transparency. And suddenly, there were his subtle tells…the scratching of his neck, the scrunching of his nose, the restlessness of his fingers caressing the leather of the belt.
"Hey, what's up?", you asked and propped your head up with your elbow resting on the table.
"Uhm...I have a proposition to make", Arthur awkwardly sat down at the table. Thankfully, barely anyone else was around to witness this encounter. The sun hadn’t risen yet and people were only slowly crawling out of their beds. In fact, Arthur still saw the remnants of sleep in your features but the steaming mug of coffee in front of you suggested that you were diligently combating it.
"I'm all ears."
Arthur couldn’t help but detect the playful undertone in your voice. You had grown more comfortable around each other the last few days and weeks and some banter and teasing were commonplace by now, particularly in the presence of others. But when you found yourselves alone, which hadn’t really happened since last time, you’d feel like there was a more genuine connection and care for each other than either of you would normally let on.
"Ya can say no if ya don't want to but-...well, I already talked to Abigail. She said she was fine with it", Arthur started. You had no clue what he was on about, but he pressed on, "I suggested we take out Jack for a night or two. The boy needs to see something aside this patch of land and I thought...if you would wanna tag along? You know, I was fine fishing with him but I'm not sure if I'd be any good at the other stuff."
"Yes, of course", you immediately replied. Arthur wasn't sure why he had expected a rejection or a dismissal that he was stupid to suggest such a thing. You actually looked pleasantly surprised about the idea.
You smiled: "It's not just Jack, you know? I haven't left camp since we moved here, so I'll get to see some of the country too!"
"Okay, sure", Arthur said, still somewhat in surprise about what you had just agreed to. But his surprise soon gave way to a sense of anticipation, especially when he noticed enthusiasm. He couldn’t supress a warm chuckle, evidently relieved that everything had worked out.
You briefly discussed the logistics, and Arthur settled on a plan: a night between Dewberry Creek and Ringneck Creek for the first stop, followed by, if Jack was up for it, a night in a room at the Rhodes Saloon.
The following day, you were all packed up. Your horse carried a rolled-up tent, large enough to accommodate the three of you. Jack rode with Arthur, he was the experienced rider after all and would be much greater use in keeping the child from sliding off the horse. It was a fine day, the morning sun was veiled behind some clouds, offering a respite from the usual stifling heat. Rain wasn’t to be expected, the clouds looked like they would clear sooner or later.
For the ride, Jack was dead silent for ten minutes at a time but then asked any question he could come up with. Arthur appreciated your willingness to respond, particularly when faced with Jack’s more challenging inquiries that needed to be tailored for a child’s understanding. Arthur was outright impressed at your skill in addressing his questions, and kept silent, even if Jack wanted his view on something specifically.
It was a smooth ride. Once you had passed the first creek you kept looking for an ideal spot to build your camp. You watched happily how Arthur pretended to discuss the area with Jack, granting him the final say in where to put up the tent. Arthur was responsible for the tent while you went off with Jack to look for firewood. When you returned, the tent had been putt up and Arthur had already gotten out the fishing gear.
"Are we fishing again?", Jack asked with curiously.
"Well, we gotta eat something", Arthur answered.
"But fishing's boring!" Jack said back and Arthur chuckled warmly. The last time he took the boy fishing, it was anything but uneventful, though he understood that a four-year-old wasn't so keen on standing still and waiting.
You squatted in front of Jack: "Why don't you take your toys with you to the water? You can play and Arthur and I'll do the boring waiting."
"Mh, okay."
You walked over to Ringneck Creek. Arthur settled on the same spot he had been to while fishing with Javier a while back. It had a good overlook of the place, so Jack could play in the distance, while still being in eye- and earshot. You and Arthur sat down next to each other, not saying anything and prepping the fishing rod. Even when there were no words exchanges, both of you felt comfortable in each other’s presence. Arthur felt your eyes on him as he pierced a tiny bit of cheese through the hook and handed the rod to you.
“The fish get cheese for lunch? That’s mighty fine, don’t you think?”, you joked.
“This cheese? It has been mouldy for days now. It won’t do us any good. But for fish? The stinker, the better”, Arthur explained and added in a mumble, “Or so I’ve heard…”
You both threw out your line and before you quipped: “So you keep your mouldy cheese in your satchel with the rest of your food?”
Arthur watched the rings expanding around his line, then swallowed quickly before looking you in the eye. Not very convinced he answered: “No…?”
He had expected a lesson on proper food hygiene, but you only grinned cheekily: “Glad I took care of food for this trip. But you really shouldn’t do that, you know? Next time you leave camp for more than a day, I’ll pack you something.”
“Ya don’t have to do that, really”, Arthur replied out of politeness, but the idea of you walking up to him with a sandwich to take on his journeys sent tingles to his chest.
“Mh. I insist”, you said, “I’ll have to take care of you if your stomach goes mad, so I’d rather prevent that. Not that I wouldn’t like to take care of you. Don’t you never keep an injury or sickness a secret in front of me, got it?”
“Yes ma’am”, Arthur said, “You sound like Miss Grimshaw, it’s good yer away from camp for a while”, Arthur joked. Deep down, he knew that you didn’t want to control him, but that you sincerely cared for his well-being. Something Arthur couldn’t quite understand. Of course, he would do the same for you – but that’s different because he had already figured out that he liked your attention more than anyone else. No, that he liked you more than anyone else. Arthur got a little lost in his own thoughts. He wasn’t yet entirely sure about his feelings for you. Mainly because he wasn’t sure how you felt. You were so kind and caring for everyone in the gang, he sadly doubted that he was anything special.
“I missed spending some time with you. Sorry that it’s so hard to sneak away from camp”, you said after a while, bringing Arthur back to reality.
“Doesn’t matter”, Arthur mumbled. He was embarrassed that he felt his cheeks getting warm, “We got away now, didn’t we? I feel almost bad that I take up so much of yer time.”
“Please don’t”, you laughed, looking at the man next to you with a smile.
“I think I saw Sean shed a tear when he heard that you’d be away from camp for two days”, Arthur mentioned.
“Yeah. I think he’s sweet on me”, you said so casually, that Arthur was caught off guard, staring at you in disbelieve.
Arthur cleared his throat before he slowly said: “I thought he and Karen…?”
“Well, Karen is good for one thing”, you said with an ambiguous smile, not meaning serious offence with those words, “I’m good for another.”
From the distance, you heard Jack calling for ‘uncle Arthur’. Arthur sighed with a smile and handed you his finishing rod.
“Yer okay to watch that?”, he asked.
“Sure, go ahead”, you encouraged him.
Jack wanted Arthur’s help to balance on a dead tree. It was wholesome to see how Arthur helped him up on the trunk and then held his hand so he would have an easier time balancing. Then the boy would sit on Arthur’s shoulders and break a smooth looking branch from a tree, using it to play swords fighting with Arthur. You knew that Arthur was gentle with Jack and compared to some men in the gang, even to John if you were honest, he was doing a great job. Still, you hadn’t dreamt that he'd be ready to take on a whole swords fight, pretending to get stabbed when Jack’s twig poked his leg. You noticed Arthur’s stolen glances in your direction. It was as if he wanted to make sure you were watching, though you didn’t have the impression that he only played along to impress you. Arthur seemed to genuinely enjoy it.
“Caught anything yet?”, Arthur’s voice woke you up from your daydreams when he walked up to you after a while.
“No…”, you answered and admitted, “I was a little distracted.”
“Ain’t blamin’ ya. We gave you a hell of a show”, Arthur said and took his spot next to you again. Luckily, a few fish bit later on and by the time you walked back to your tent, a fire could be built and the fish were grilled. A lot of time had passed, and the sun was already low in the sky. Jack demanded to be read to from his favourite book. After you had read a few pages and Jack had settled in to listen to some more, you handed the book to Arthur. He had been busy with stoking the fire and cleaning the grit, so he was a little caught off guard by the action.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”, he asked.
“Read to the boy”, you answered with a grin.
“Why can’t you?”, Arthur asked, his eyebrows raised in wonder.
“My throat is starting to feel sore”, you lied so obviously, that even Jack could have seen through it, “besides; I want someone to read to me too.”
Arthur considered the situation for a moment before giving in. The last time he read a book to someone…well, he wasn’t sure. Was it to Jamie when he was still a little boy or to Isaac? Did he ever even read out to Isaac? Arthur was prompted into opening the book when you suddenly snuggled up to him. But that alone made him lose his voice for a moment, so he had to collect himself before starting to read.
You loved how raspy Arthur’s voice would get when he was nervous, but it soon smoothed out and he had barely read for ten minutes when you had to stop him, because Jack had fallen asleep.
“’s barely even dark…”, Arthur commented after he had carried the boy to his bedroll in the tent.
“He did have an eventful day”, you said, and Arthur had to agree. The bottle of whiskey Arthur had brought was soon opened up and half was gone by the time you could make out the first stars in the sky. A lot of your conversation was just recollecting the day or commenting on happenings on the last few days, but after some silence, Arthur started a new conversation.
"Maybe, if ya told me what the other men ask you to do, I'd feel less a fool for asking ya fer something", Arthur suggested. The undertone of his voice revealed curiosity, but he had tried to keep that intent hidden. You were surprised that he remembered what you had talked about the last time it was just the two of us.
"You're unbelievable!", you exclaimed and giggled so light-heartedly. Arthur's heart melted when he saw the crinkles around your eyes. "You just want the gang's gossip!", you accused him.
"No! I'm just sayin'", Arthur shrugged with a smile, "It would really help a lot."
You looked at him, his blue-greenish eyes staring right back at you. You were an avid eye-contact holder, it was required for your role in the gang. But no pair of eyes ever compared to Arthur's. It was his turn to catch your gaze wandering to his lips, he also noticed how your eyes fluttered, when they looked up again, and then briefly away, as if you considered something.
"Fine. I'll tell you some. But I won't tell you who asked me for what."
"Sure."
"Mhhh...it's not the craziest stuff, if you’re expecting that. Most men like when I play with their hair. Or head scratches. I told you I was good at them! Someone likes it when I feed them. Like...you know...we go pick some berries and I feed them. It can be really,...domestic, I suppose. But then it becomes a lot of fun because we try to throw the berries into each other mouths, trying to catch them. It’s great..."
You got slightly embarrassed. When you spend time with other men from the gang, you always tried to give them an experience that made them happy. Some of it was oddly intimate. It didn't bother you much, but now, speaking about it with Arthur, you somehow started to worry that you'd be worth less in his eyes. Just because you have done those things with his friends. It wasn't like you slept with them. No, none, with very few exceptional instances, have ever been inappropriate.
You were silent for a while, those thoughts taking over quickly. And yet, what should it matter? It’s just Arthur, it was okay if he knew that side of you.
You sighed deeply, still finding Arthur’s eyes glued to your lips.
"Some of them like to show off to me. It's real stupid stuff. Like 'look how quick I can draw' or 'check out this piece of wood I whittled'. I suppose these are just things they are mildly proud at...but embarrassed to show someone. I...like that, though. It's really cute and reveals something about the person. There is always something to praise or enjoy about it. And they really appreciate it."
Arthur stared into the fire, nodding his head slowly.
After a while, he started with: "I ehrm-..." Then he pulled out his journal.
"It's nothing special either...", he flipped through some pages, only to reveal a double-sided sketch of Clemen's Point. A beautiful sketch, well-observed with depth and detail. You knew Arthur kept a journal – you never knew he drew in it! And from all the sketches the other men had ever shown you, most of them could have been done better by Jack, this was honestly impressive.
"Arthur-"
"I know, 's silly", and he was about to close the journal when you snatched it out of his hand and placed it in your lap. Not daring to flip the page but studying the sketch in front of you.
"Are you kidding? It's fucking amazing."
When Arthur looked at you in disbelieve, you doubled down: "Fuck you, man. I can't even pick out things I like to praise because the whole damn thing's just-!"
"Yer teasing me..."
"Am not! When someone shows me a drawing, I often have to guess, like ‘Oh, that’s a nice bison you drew.’ And then they correct me and go like ‘It’s supposed to be a dog.’ and we have a good laugh about it…but this…Is that Dutch's horse?", you asked, pointing at the little white stallion. Arthur confirmed it. You started to point at things, accurately identifying what it was. John's tent, the chicken coop, even the figure in the distance, that only was a vague outline of a person, you identified as if you had been there when it was drawn.
"You have more drawings in there?", you asked.
"Sure. But- wait", he took the journal back, carefully skipping the pages where he had sketched you, which had happened suspiciously often recently, and only showing you the landscapes and animals. You never expected that Arthur had an eye for things like that. A doe was captured perfectly in its shy manner. A funny looking cabin, a crooked tree. For all those things, Arthur stopped and took his time to draw them. It was stunning. You felt like he had given you a better idea of what sort of a man he actually is. To say you liked that version of him, was an understatement and you started to realise this with every sketch of ducks or fish he presented to you.
"When you find someone, someone you really like. And start a family...you could draw and sell those pictures, you know?"
Arthur was shocked. Firstly, why you knew about his wish to start a family, and secondly, that you suggested his drawings are nearly good enough for anyone to pay money for.
"Y/n", Arthur lamented, almost with a painful voice. As if you were that naive girl that had no idea about how life works. That there could never be a family for him, never a different life than shooting and robbing to get to some money.
"Have you ever painted? Like with colour and a paintbrush?", you interrupted.
"Ain't worth it. I'd be no good with colour. And it's too expensive."
"When's your birthday?", you asked out of the blue. You were determined. If you had to work your ass off for it or drop to your knees in front of Miss Grimshaw, you'd get this man a paintbrush.
"No", Arthur said firmly.
"Come on!", you quipped.
"Stop it. It's just a stupid thing I do to pass some time it ain't-"
"But I love them!", you interrupted, "I really do. Every single one you showed me."
"Clearly, something ain’t right in your head then", Arthur joked and put his journal away.
"You are a charming man, Mr. Morgan," you teased back, bumping into his shoulder.
As if your words had confirmed Arthur's accusation, he comically tapped your forehead with his index finger: "Really messed up, aren't you?"
"Why?", you said, switching gears and skilfully capturing Arthur's finger that had went for another tap. It took both of your hands to open Arthur's hand, not that he resisted, but his hands were huge. And with your guidance, Arthur's hand cupped your cheek. "Is it because I like to spend time with you? Do you think one has to be mad to enjoy that? Because if you do think that...I have to give you ten reasons why you are wrong."
Arthur barely listened to your words. His senses were hyper focused on his hand which was touching your cheek. Warm and soft. Not smooth like a perfect hide, but skin isn't perfect. Hell, his hand must be mighty uncomfortable. It was calloused, beaten up, scarred. There was no rational reason why you would snuggle your face into it like it was a pillow you readied for a night's sleep.
With pleasure you watched how often he blinked, how flustered he became, how his hand twitched in excitement under your touch. As careful as you were some butterfly, Arthur’s thumb dared to caress your cheek. The movement was so small, it was like he didn’t even want you to notice that you he had dared to do that. Somehow, this rough and hardened outlaw was a real sensitive guy. A sensitive guy who made your stomach flutter.
"I'll head to bed and join Jack, you coming too?", you asked, guiding Arthur's hand into your lap and holding in lightly with your two hands.
"Imma...t-take care of the fire a little longer", Arthur answered with coarse voice, his throat entirely dried up.
"M'kay", you smiled and stood up without letting go of Arthur's hand. Halfway in the process of standing up you halted, pressing a light kiss on Arthur's cheek and whispered good night, before finally letting go and walking off to the tent.
Though you were exhausted, it was tricky to sleep. You listened to Arthur who was still attending the fire, walking up and down, whispering to the horses and occasionally took a swig from the bottle. Jack slept at the side of the tent, you had taken the spot in the middle. No matter how long it felt until sleep finally took over, Arthur crawled into the tent ten minutes later, only to find out that you had messed with the sleeping set-up. It wasn’t the way he had arranged it, namely, a very inequal distribution of blankets and ‘pillows’ (rolled-up jackets or other garments). Arthur had planned to spend the night without a blanket, so you and Jack had two. But you had given up one of yours, which neatly waited on Arthur’s bedroll for him.
“She ain’t gonna make this easy for me”, Arthur thought, before lying down.
-
“Uncle Arthur!”, Jack squatted next to the man who was still fast asleep. Well, until the boy started to shake him with all his might, though it barely rattled the man.
“Aunt y/n told me to wake you”, Jack smiled innocently. Arthur was trying to grasp the situation. For a fleeting moment, he thought there was danger nearby. Then he had been confused about why Jack was there. Only slowly, as Jack left the tent and the rays of sunshine hit his face, he remembered that he had went out camping with you and the boy. And clearly, he had overslept.
Arthur crawled out of the tent and stood up with a groan, stretching his tired limbs. The smell of coffee had reached his nose before he looked down to see Jack walking towards him, a half-filled cup in his hands.
“For you”, he exclaimed. Arthur took the mug and mumbled his thanks, looking up a little to finally lay eyes on you. The fire was on, the percolator boiling with water, and he saw that you were in the process of readying a little pan for some eggs you had apparently taken from camp.
“Good morning”, you said with a big smile.
“Sorry I overslept…”, Arthur grumbled, sitting down by the fire.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I’m glad you could catch up on some sleep.”
Breakfast was nice. You scrambled some eggs, garmented them with herbs you had collected earlier and re-filled Arthur’s mug. Jack was happy after eating a few bites and then playing with his toys in the distance. Arthur and you discussed the rest of the day and decided you would take your time, see if Jack was up for a ride and a stroll through Rhodes and spending another night at the Saloon.
Later, Jack helped you with washing the dishes at the creek. You managed to talk him into throwing a wet rag at Arthur, which he answered by throwing the rag back at you. This started a game of dogde or catch the rag. You laughed a lot. By mid-day you were on your horses, carefully navigating the shadows to escape the relentless sun. After one very slow hour of riding, with breaks whenever Jack discovered something interesting on the ground that needed further investigation, you arrived in Rhodes. After restocking on groceries, you made your way to the saloon, finding it relatively quiet and peaceful still.
“Can I help you, folks?”, the bartender asked, leaning on the counter.
“A room, please”, Arthur stated briefly. The bartender considered you for a moment, his eyes wandered from Arthur to you and finally your hand that rested protectively on Jack’s shoulder.
“We have a special deal for families. Spacious room, enough beds and a discount on a bath”, the bartender explained, opening the ledger where he kept track of which rooms were taken.
“Sounds great!”, you chimed in happily before Arthur could do as much as open his mouth.
“There you go. Walk up the stairs behind there, first door on the right”, the bartender handed you the keys, “Just let me know when you want the water heated up.”
“Will do, thanks!”, you answered. Your free arm was quickly intertwined with Arthur, who was taken by surprise. He stiffened a little but walked off with you and Jack rather convincingly.
“Whoa! This bed is huge!”, exclaimed Jack when you walked into the room.
“Ain’t for you though, little man”, Arthur chuckled. The room was equipped with a bed that was big enough to fit a couple and a toddler, but there was still a children-sized one in the corner. Arthur noticed how your arm slipped away from his as you entered the room, dropping some of your luggage onto the floor.
“Luxurious, isn’t it?”, you smiled. It was definitely better than the rooms you’d get in Valentine and probably even cleaner than the other ones the saloon had to offer. Jack was settling in, testing how bouncy his mattress was and unpacking his toys while Arthur walked up to you, clearing his throat.
“Yer fine with sharin’ a bed?”, he asked.
You raised an eyebrow: “We shared a tent last night, and that was a much tighter fit, wouldn’t you say so?”
“I guess…”, Arthur felt a little helpless. Sharing a bed felt more domestic and intimate than sharing the same tent. Also, Jack wouldn’t be all snuggled up to you, but in his own bed at some distance. Frankly, Arthur was excited. You watched his frown, not quite sure if its origin was because of discomfort or simple nervosity.
“Are you okay with that? I could bring my bedroll and-“, you wanted to suggest, but Arthur was quick to interrupt you: “I just didn’t know if you were fine with it. I don’t want ya to feel uncomfortable.”
“Don’t worry about me”, you smiled, “I’ll go down and ask for a bath. Abigail will be glad I we bring the boy back cleaner than he was before.”
Arthur was alone in the room for nearly an hour, before you and Jack appeared with damp hair, smelling of soap. It was decided that Arthur would also make use of the warmed-up water, and as he went off to the bathroom, you and Jack set your plan in motion.
By the time Arthur returned he was met with a sight that initially puzzled him. The two of you had transformed the little corner with Jack’s bed using the limited resources available to you, creating a makeshift fort out of pillows and blankets. Jack’s small bed had been turned into a cozy cave of sorts, sheltered from the outside world to the point where you needed a lantern to read a book within.
Arthur didn’t even see you at first, he only heard Jack’s bubbly giggle and you shushing him. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to play along and pretend that he didn’t know where you were…like some sort of hide-and-seek. But he decided against it, instead sighing happily, and sitting down on the big bed.
“I can hear ya, ya know?”, he said gently.
“No you can’t!”, Jack said back.
“Should have built it bigger, doesn’t look like I’ll fit underneath there”, Arthur commented. Now, you peeked out. Arthur saw how you opened a mouth, but something stopped you for a moment. His hair was wet and slicked back. He hadn’t even bothered putting on his shirt, but instead only wore his pants and union suit underneath. Hell, he hadn’t even bothered to button it all the way up. It hugged his muscles perfectly. You knew he was in good shape, but you hadn’t expected THIS.
“Shouldn’t have grown so big then”, you finally said, a fine blush on your cheeks.
As the evening advanced, you had read several chapters to Jack, lulling him into slumber. You then quietly slipped into the bed beside Arthur. After some casual conversation which both of you skilfully and awkwardly used to get closer to each other, Arthur asked something that had been on his mind for a while: "What do you get out of it? All the nurturing and caring for everyone in the gang? Has any one of them ever done right by you?"
"Well...I have a place to stay and sleep. I don't have to worry too much about earning money. And I like making others happy."
Arthur didn't like that. A place to sleep and food, he felt like, shouldn't be things you had to earn by listening to the complaints of others all the time.
"All you get is hearing the troubles of some dirty, foolish outlaws. Ain’t really a life, is it?"
"Some make me happy too", you admitted, quietly. You realised how Arthur tensed up slightly.
"I get to know y'all. Don't you think that's a privilege? For a woman my age? Others can't simply walk around in the street, offer some hand-holding a listenin' and expect this to pay for their meals."
"You want to do this for the rest if your life?", Arthur asked. You scanned his body, focusing on the dark hair that grew on his chest.
"No", you whispered, and gently, you put your hand on his chest. You felt his heart, no, you saw how it beat, the skin of his chest swiftly moving in an up and down movement.
Arthur...was different than the others. You didn't know if it was that there was an actual difference, or if it just felt differently. But the way he treated you, the way he held you...it was so gentle. Like it was touch meant for a lifetime. The others were slightly more prudish, because they knew they had a couple of hours with you and maybe they'd be shot and die the next day. Somehow...not Arthur. When he pulled you closer into a hug, it was always the same, as if it was a welcome back, a coming home. There was no holding onto it, because he sorts of knew you would always be there. And you wanted it to be like that too. Because you, as tricky it was to admit, had feelings for this man.
Now it was you who caught Arthur staring, staring at the unsure movements your lips made as you searched for something to say. Maybe to explain what this all meant to you.
"Do you think it's ridiculous, what I do?", you asked. You wanted to know Arthur's opinion, truly.
"What? No."
"Really?"
"Hell, we'd be a bunch of degenerates if ya didn't keep us together. Yer ignoring Micah. For good reasons, I gotta say, and look what a slimy no-good he is. We'd be all like that if it wasn't for you", Arthur said. There was humour in his voice, but he meant what he had said. You smiled slightly.
"I wish I had come to you earlier", Arthur said.
"We are making up for the lost time, aren't we?", you said and leaned into him. The gesture seemed so familiar that Arthur wrapped his arms around you with barely any thought. Arthur watched your fingers as they trailed through his hair on his chest, never resting somewhere for long but tracing lines from his collar bones to where his beard started on his neck.
“Do you mind?”, you whispered, your fingers resting on a button of his suit.
Arthur subtly shook his head and watched how you unbuttoned one button after another. You had him slip out of the sleeves so the suit could be pulled further down, now exposing his entire abdomen to you.
There was no way he could hide his hitched breath. Your touch tickled pleasantly as your fingers explored his skin. He was enjoying those careful attentions, you'd trace around bruises and old scars, Arthur was focused on how it felt differently, the abused flesh and the scar tissue that had lost sensitivity. He noticed, either for the first time ever, or he had forgotten in the meantime, how ticklish he was on his side, under the ribs. He had no urge to laugh, but his body reacted to your touch differently, squirming when your skin brushed over his. Arthur noticed that you took a liking to those reactions, because he felt the corner of your mouth, which was pressed into his arm as you leaned into him, curl into a smile.
It was quiet. Sometimes the yells of a bar fight could be heard or someone hammering on the piano, but that aside, it was only Jack's silent snores that disturbed the peace.
"Arthur?", you whispered and sat up.
"Mhm?", Arthur looked sleepy. It wasn't even that late yet, but something about the situation was making him sleepy in the best way. You said nothing more. You only put your hand on his cheek, briefly caressing his stubble.
"Would it be okay if I kissed you?", you asked.
For a few moments, Arthur's mind went completely blank. He only breathed a shaky "Yeah" and your lips brushed his already.
Instantly, Arthur's hands pulled you in closer. You were close, lips brushing, breathing each other's air. It was all you needed, before both of you finally pressed into each other.
You knew Arthur was gentle, but this sort of tenderness took even you by surprise. And Arthur- well, he was pretty sure he was dreaming. When was the last time he had kissed a woman? No, when was the last time he kissed a woman and felt like his heart was about to explode in his chest. He had craved this ever since the night you spent together. And by the way your hands wandered to his hair, fingers running through his strands, he knew you had wanted it just as much.
It was a soft kiss and both of you looked sort of surprised when it had ended. Arthur sat up slightly and pulled you on his lap, which earned him a happy grin. You started to pepper the man in front of you with kisses. Super light, as if a breeze was brushing his forehead, his cheek, his nose, under his ear, the corner of his lips. You had lost count, stirred on by a blushing Arthur underneath you.
"D-don't ya think that's enough?", Arthur said, kind of trying to dodge your kisses, but not really.
"Nope. You deserve this!", you said, but when you headed for his nose, Arthur managed to turn it into a proper kiss again.
Then you sank on his chest, lying on top of him with his arms wrapped around you.
For Arthur, this was a weird feeling at first. But he loved how your weight pressed him down into the mattress and how your hands always found a piece of his body to caress and tickle. He was embarrassed about how dry his mouth and throat became again, all of a sudden. He was convinced you realized how often he had to swallow and how hesitant he still was to move his hands any further down than the small of your back. Though if you noticed, you were very understanding. You clearly heard his heart hammering in his chest and waited patiently for it to calm down before speaking again.
"Can I tell you something silly?”, you said, lost in thoughts.
"Sure"
"I liked it when the bartender referred to us as family."
"Me too", and his hold on you became ever so tighter.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
@eyelovie @t3rritorial-piss1ngs @daenerysluvrr @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @tem60 @freshoutthewomb2 @itswormtrain @ineedyoubadly @lea-khena @anawkwardartistandgamer @pheesupremacy @tahitiansiguesss @c2ss1e @alyxhasonsocks @kagemaruzest69 @agaritas @lonesome-ranger @joelmillers-gf
1K notes · View notes
polakina · 13 days
Text
how they fuck you
red dead redemption headcanons #2
hc masterlist // masterlist
on my third playthrough of rdr2 and i cannot bring myself to play low honour. why do i put myself through this?
also this is ridiculously long, got a little carried away but i shall not apologise
rating: explicit
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is always gentle with you at first
delicate touches, lingering kisses, gazing eyes at your every movement or ministration
"what do you want, mi amor? tell me"
loves to hear you beg for him, want him
it just turns him on even more
dirty talk through the ROOF
this man knows how to talk you through it
"fuck you feel amazing, hermosa. yeah, just like that, huh? anything for you"
will eat you out for days if he could
never really tried it before, even when he lived in Mexico, he never really gave it a go
but with you, he wanted to try everything. whatever you wanted, he was up for it
so when you first asked him, he was nervous as hell, but willing to try
he found out he loved it and does it every single fucking time he had you all to himself
buries himself between your thighs like a man starved, his arms wrapped tightly around your thighs to keep you still
his tongue worked fucking wonders on your pussy, knowing exactly where to focus his attention, loving how you always moaned a little softer when his tongue dipped inside your cunt
fucks you slow, savouring the moment when he can
loves to have you riding him. seeing you on top spurs something inside him
his hands grip your waist fiercely, guiding your hips to grind against him, pulling sweet, elicit moans from your throat
loves to cut your clothes from your body with his knife
it's so much more satisfying than just taking them off with his hands
kinda likes quickies. prefers taking his time but there's something about pulling you away for a few minutes to have his way with you behind the protection of a tree or something that he loves
usually happens out on missions, so there's risk of the gang seeing you guys, but what's life without a little risk?
you could be on watch beside your tent while everyone sleeps, and javier will come over to keep you company
but it doesn't take long for his hand to slip into your pants as he whispers all sorts of things in your ear as he sits behind you while you try and continue your watch duty
was terrible at aftercare before, never really understood the in's and out's of it
but learned eventually with you, when you explained it to him
now he's at your beck and call whenever you need it
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wear this man's hat around camp and that's all he needs to pull you to a secluded tent
but wear it while you fuck him? arthur would die happy in that exact moment
likes to call you 'cowgirl' when you ride him. you always roll your eyes at how stupid it sounds, but it doesn't stop him
the two of you don't have all the time in the world. being one of dutch's most trusted members, he's needed away from camp a lot more than anyone else
so you've both learned the art of being fast
and it doesn't take long for him to make you cum
never asks for them, but loves blowjobs
he likes to draw in his tent when he's got time to himself, so when he sees you come in and sink to your knees in between his lap, he can't think of a better sight
the absolute king of praises (have you heard how he talks to his horse?? imagine him talking to a woman oml)
not a fan of degrading, he never saw the appeal, but uses other methods to 'punish' you
"what do you want, darlin?" he'd say as he's fucking you from behind, your face pressed into the pillow to stifle your moans, your ass in the air held up by his hands on your hips. "oh babygirl, you wanna cum, huh? then you can beg me for it, can't you?"
will edge you for days
especially when he knows he's going to be away for a few days afterwards
definitely grabs the headboard
mainly for his own stability to be able to thrust into you harder as you moan his name into the room
has his hands on you at all times
holding your hands above your head by your wrists, holding your face against the mattress with his hand on the back of your neck, curling his fingers in your hair and gently yanking your head back when he pounds into you
when you do get a night away from camp, he wants to make it last the whole night
takes his time with you to the point where he's practically teasing you for hours
takes his time undressing you, kissing every part of your body, touching every part of you until his fingerprints were practically imprinted into your skin
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give this man some guidance or it's like walking through a maze blindfolded
learned a lot with you
figured out really quick what you liked and what you didn't like, what places he could touch you that would send your head spinning
this eventually led him to learn how to be very sneaky in public
he could touch you in such simple places, in such an innocent way that no one else would think anything of it
but you'd know, and you wouldn't stop it
you like the way he touched your neck? he was all over that shit, cupping your cheek, his fingers tickling your neck
you liked his hands in your hair? his fingers tangled at the base of your neck, pulling your hair slightly to tease you
his hand would rest on your thighs, fingers slowly creeping up your thigh while you were all sat around the campfire
you'd always give him a little glare, which he would ignore, a goofy smirk on his face
and the way he fucked you was no different
he had mastered the art of teasing your body and your limits, and put that knowledge in every time he had you alone
"come on, marston. stop teasin' me like this"
he'd always smirk, working his way down your body in a painfully slowly manner
"i'm takin' my time with you, sweetheart. you just lay back and relax. lemme take care of you"
loved to make you feel good before he even thought about himself
but when he was too pent up, he came a lot quicker than he wanted
but he made up for it when tending to you afterwards until you were practically pushing him away, too sensitive for his expert fingers
not the best at going down on you, but makes up with experience
but what he's really good with is his hands
his fingers
they know exactly what they're doing when he pushes them inside your soaked pussy
curling at that devastating spot inside you that makes you crumble to your knees
loves to be on top of you, seeing your face contort when he pushes inside you slowly, deeply
he's basic, a lover of missionary, but seeing your face and watching your body writhe under his grip is really what turns him on
368 notes · View notes
margowritesthings · 8 months
Text
A Job Well Done
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pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader (f) word count: 4944 words warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, oral (f giving), rough oral, a little choking, a touch of voyeurism, explicit language, it's pretty much a blowjob fic authors note: idk what to say... this started as a little drabble because me and my fiancé love having a little smoke together at night and.... well, here we are I guess?? i hope you enjoy you lovely lot, and if you've asked to be tagged and you're not please let me know!! I have a new system for keeping track of my taglist and I may have lost some requests in the transfer
taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i *if i've missed you please let me know!!!*
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You pull Arthur’s jacket tighter around your shoulders, settling into the old wooden chair while it creaks beneath you. Thanks to being in the middle of the Lemoyne swamps, it isn’t too cold despite the moon hanging so high in the sky above you, the jacket is more for comfort. From where you sit, you can see near the whole camp, watching lanterns flicker off incrementally as each member of your makeshift family retires for the night. A few of the boys stay up, drinking by the fire, their voices muffled and distant in the thick air.
It’s been a week to the day since you last saw Arthur, before he left to track a rather sizable bounty down and attempt to cushion out the camp funds, and God do you miss him. The days feel so much longer, nights so lonely you’ve considered saddling up and finding the bastard yourself just to bring him home sooner. Comfort can be found, though, in the ways Arthur’s presence has bled so deeply into your life that his physical being doesn’t even need to be here. 
His smell lingers on the jacket he left (the one he wore every day before he had to leave just so you could wear it when you missed him), that perfect mix of tobacco and whiskey and something so ineffably Arthur that you soak up every time you wrap it around your frame. 
He’s there in the routines you've built your lives around, intertwined as they are, the ones you can’t shake even if he’s not beside you. The cup of coffee in a morning, his so much better tasting than yours but you try anyway. The first morning after he left, you made two, ending up giving the extra to a very grateful Abigail to save face.
There’s a nightly routine, too. The one where you get ready for bed, then climb through the window to meet him on your balcony. He’s always there waiting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, patting his lap ready for you to crawl on. He’ll drag a match across his boot, (or sometimes the bottom of yours, if you’re still wearing them) lighting up the smoke before handing it to you. You’ll pass it between each other, catching up on your days, limbs entangled just how they should be as you watch Shady Belle fall asleep around you. 
Without him, those routines bring you comfort, grasping onto the remnants of your cowboy until his safe return. That’s why you’re sitting in this spot, pulling a cigar out of the little tin stash box Arthur left behind. Normally it’s just a cigarette, you could never survive a cigar a night and have the throat to tell the tale, but there’s something inexplicably Arthur about this brand of smokes, something you’re seeking tonight. 
You pluck a match from the tin, striking it against the table beside you, never having gotten the knack of igniting the thing on your boot as effortlessly as Arthur does, and light the cigar between your lips. The all-familiar woody essence dances across your tongue, your tired muscles relaxing from the first few tokes. 
It’s just you, the moon and the crickets as you sit on the balcony, Arthur’s smoke between your lips. You wonder what he’s doing. He should be sleeping, but knowing him he’s probably up planning, or doing exactly what you are right now. You pray he’s safe, hasn’t been gotten by the law or worse, gotten himself killed. You can’t let yourself even think about that, the very idea bringing a tremble to your limbs. To combat the sudden spike in anxiety, the next time you bring the cigar to your lips you drag in just that bit more smoke, letting it soak down your spine. Not nearly as experienced in smoking as Arthur, you cough a little, but you recover much quicker than you used to. 
Memories of that first time, of Arthur offering you the little brown stick and you nervously nodding, bring a little smile to your face. Oh, how you spluttered, Arthur giving you his drink on instinct, only realising that the whiskey burn would do the opposite of help once it was too late. You’d have been in your right mind to be embarrassed as hell, but by the way he chuckled as he rubbed circles around your back told you that he found it nothing but adorable. 
You sit there for a few minutes, basking in the precious peace so seldom found nowadays and taking a drag every now and then, the smoke riding a sigh from your lips. Your eyes slip closed, trying to shut off as many senses as you can to really connect with that smell and taste, imagining him emerging from your bedroom window to be here with you. 
He’s much less graceful than you are, often catching some part of his person on the windowsill when he climbs out onto the balcony. So many nights spent patching up little holes in his pant legs, right where that out sticking nail used to be in the frame before he ‘bested it in combat’ (i.e. pulled it out with a hunting knife and threw it ceremoniously in the lake). 
Manifestation is a powerful tool, you’ve always believed that, but you still nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a large hand grasp your shoulder just as you imagined, Arthur’s gruff, hushed whisper tickling the words “hey, sweetheart” into the skin of your neck. It takes you a second to catch your breath, heart racing from the shock before everything registers and reality sets in. 
“Arthur?”
He’s here.
“C’mere, darlin’.”
You fly out of your seat, the rickety old thing nearly splintering under the force, launching yourself into his open arms to burrow yourself into him.  Every part of him consumes your senses and you drink it all in like an addict. The smell, the real thing, much more of that Arthur essence than the whiskey or cigars, probably because he forewent breaks in his journey for those little pleasures to get back to you sooner. 
He seems to be taking you in as much as you are him, inhaling long through his nose and sighing it out contentedly, feeling whole again after so long without you in his arms.
“I missed ya’, beautiful.” He says softly into your hair, holding you tight against him, his knuckles brushing up and down the small of your back through layers of clothes you’ve stolen from him. 
“I missed you so much…” You mumble into his shirt, hardly able to breathe through the wall of hard chest muscle you’re pressed against, caring even less. 
It’s only then do you remember the cigar, forgotten and abandoned, smoking away on the table propped up on a jar lid turned makeshift ashtray. Most of the boys don’t bother with one, and neither did Arthur, until a fateful night a few months before you started dating when you first handed him the jar and told him you read something about birds and rabbits eating the butts of cigarettes. He kept the little piece of junk right next to his bedside, waiting for you to find it after that first night together. 
Arthur spots your momentary pull of attention, pulling his chest away to raise a brow down at you with a little chuckle rumbling his chest.
“Having a fancy smoke of a night, are we?” 
A cheeky little smirk- Arthur’s favourite, actually- tugs at the corner of your lips, waiting patiently for him to kiss it away.
“The smell reminds me of you…” you play coy, earring yourself that kiss when Arthur lifts you up to his height, kissing you softly, letting his world and yours fall back into place together. 
“Well I’m here now, angel. Wanna sit? Could do with a nice cigar with my girl to celebrate a job well done.” 
You’re eager to nod, heart fluttering at the prospect of getting to sit with him and hear all about his trip. He untangles from you to sit down first, patting his lap for you to crawl into. You fit perfectly together (you should do, you were made for eachother), head resting on his shoulder, legs splayed over his thighs with your arm draped over his shoulder. The cigar has gone out, so Arthur strikes a match so expertly on his spurs before shaking it out and placing his hand on the small of your back for support. You lean into him, watching him take puffs of the cigar and feeling the tiniest bit of tension leave his joints. He looks so natural with a smoke between his teeth, commanding an air of power with each movement he makes. Smoking doesn’t suit just everyone, you think, but God, does it suit him.
“We’re celebrating? You got the bastard, then?”
“Sure did,” he says, smoke spilling from his lips with each syllable. Arthur looks you over again, drinking in the dearly missed view, before kissing you on the forehead and flipping the cigar between his fingers to offer it up, “Eventually found him up in Fort Brennand, but he weren’t alone. Nearly lost a damn eye, but luckily only Woffard had to be brought in alive, so I dropped the other bastards and ran.”
You hang on his every word, your hero. You know he’s downplaying the fight, the danger of it all, but he does it so that you don’t worry every time he’s gone. It never works, and you always do, but you love him for trying. 
“Oh, Arthur, I’m so glad you’re alright…” You coo, pressing a hand to his cheek, feeling the weeks worth of stubble scratching against your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, not unlike a cat, and your find yourself keeping your hand there to mindlessly play with his hair, tipping his hat off to put on your own head. He chuckles, reaching to adjust it on you.
“Course I am, couldn’t leave you here all alone with this buncha’ fools, could I? Besides, someones gotta bring home the bacon around here, and you know Marston’s too trigger happy to bring a bounty in alive.”
“So you got the full price?” Your eyes gleam, the proudest smile on your features as Arthur nods and shifts both your weights for a moment to pull out a stack of bills and smack them on the table dramatically.
“You’re damn straight I did, baby.”
Of course he did. Arthur never fails, and God knows how much the camp needs this right now, freedoms diminishing by the day as Dutch makes more enemies and plans jobs that just seem to keep going wrong. But you don’t want to think about that right now. Right now, there is only you and Arthur, and the promise of a whole night spent with him uninterrupted. You hand him the cigar back, along with a stolen kiss, and he takes another mesmerising drag. The way he holds it, every so often tipping the ash into the first gift you ever gave him, it does things to you that you just can’t explain. It’s just a cigar, and yet you’re pressing your thighs together tight to futilely subdue the tightness coiling between them. 
“I’m so proud of you… I always am.” Unkempt locks of hair are twisted between your fingers, your face so close to Arthur’s you can pepper his cheek, temple and lips, whenever not occupied, with little kisses, Arthur’s hat sometimes tipping up against his forehead on your head. The two of you are always like this after a few days apart, unable to get enough of each other or keep your hands off one another. You shift your weight to access him better, catching his bottom lip between your teeth to press a long, tender kiss there. He hums under you, hand splaying under your jacket to grasp at your shirt. It’s seconds before you feel it, that hardening that nudges up against your thigh, prodding and reminding you just how much Arthur has missed you.
You pull away from the kiss, just enough to raise a teasing brow at how sensitive your cowboy is to your touch. He shrugs, unashamed, with that cheeky grin and those glistening eyes directed right at you. 
“What? I missed ya…” His words are accompanied with a pinch of your ass, which makes you writhe on top of his stiffness, the friction dragging a low growl from deep within his chest. 
“I can see that, cowboy… I missed you too. I missed you more.” You emphasise, nipping at his lip again and splaying your fingers across his chest. He rises to your touch, and you feel him stiffen more so under you. It takes a second of manoeuvring, but you’re soon straddling him, hovering above him like the angel he sees you to be. From this angle, with the moon behind you, you’re glowing. 
“You absolutely did not, you little siren…” He growls again, pulling at the flesh of your ass so that you’re grinding against him, the friction of denim against denim igniting you both and burning so wonderfully. 
“Oh, yeah? I can prove it.” There’s a little cock of your head, a raise of one teasing brow as you start to slide off him. He looks confused, disappointed, even, until your knees rest on the planks of wood on the balcony floor and he instinctively spreads his legs to give you the space between them. Your fingers splay across his thick thighs, and they tense under your touch, as does Arthur’s jaw. He’s starved after a week without you, clearly trying to reign in a control he’s struggling to possess. There’s no wonder, having his girl knelt before him like this. 
“You wanna take this to the bedroom?” He growls out, abandoning the still smoking cigar in the jar lid. You look up at him, peeking out from under the rim of his hat. 
“No.” You reach for the cigar, taking a few drags yourself before flipping it in your fingers just like he did and placing it between his teeth, “Finish your smoke.”
A distant laugh captures Arthur’s attention for a second, reminding you both just how close you are to the other gang members. You’re somewhat hidden by the railing, but if they looked in your direction, Arthur is fully visible from the chest up. A simple bob of your head- and you’re planning on plenty- would bring you into view. 
The look Arthur gives you when he quickly diverts his attention back from Marston and the others is downright feral, especially when your hands reach for his belt buckle. Nimble fingers make quick word of the obstruction, and you’re soon pulling Arthur’s thick, long length out from his jeans. He groans at your very touch, involuntarily bucking his hips up into your hand. 
You laugh, the sound a tempting little giggle as you tell him “Patience, cowboy…” 
He almost snarls in response, clearly having been goddamn patient enough over the last week where all he could do is fuck himself with your name on his lips and the thought of you knelt just like this between his legs at the forefront of his mind, always. 
Just as you lean in, when your soft lips trace over his rosy, swollen head, he pulls you back by plucking his hat from atop your head and throwing it to the side. He rests the cigar between the fingers of his free hand to free his mouth to speak to you.
“Need to see you while I fuck that pretty little moutha’ yours, angel…”
His words soak through you (and soak you through), and you just can’t wait a second longer, needy to have his cock deep down your throat, desperate for the burning of your lungs and the stinging in your eyes when he loses that control he so often vehemently clings to. 
Unable to wait a second longer, you run your tongue from base to tip, feeling every vein pulsing under your muscle and eliciting a deep groan from Arthur. When you finally take him in your mouth, his hand reaches to cup your cheek, following you down as you take as much of him as you can. 
“Fuck.” He groans, fingers reaching to tangle in your hair, scratching at your scalp. He’s probably louder than he should be, your eyes flickering to the general direction of the others as a warning, but they soon snap back to your cowboy, an intense eye contact burning at your skin as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. Arthur never takes his eyes off you, guiding you up and down his length and bringing the smoke to his lips. The tip of the cigar flares a deep, fiery orange, and smoke billows from his mouth with each laboured breath you coax from him. The way he’s sitting, fingers of one hand pulling at your hair, controlling your movements, and the other limply holding the smoke, he exudes a power many seek to master but never quite get. It makes your heart swell and your cunt throb for him, knowing on your knees before him is the only place you ever want to be, knowing only you inhabit it. 
You can taste Arthur, his salty essence leaking from the pure ecstasy you’re providing and spit pools in your throat, mixing with it and dribbling down your chin. Arthur catches it with his thumb, guiding you off his cock to push the digit into your mouth and let you suckle from it. You do, hungrily, adjusting on your knees to better take Arthur deep down your throat and-
“Arthur! That you?” 
Marston. 
For eyes widen at each other, Arthur instinctively pushing you a little lower by your shoulder to keep you out of sight. John hasn’t seen you, and you’d like to keep it that way, being in the incriminating position you are between Arthur’s legs. 
You spot the irritated sigh, the twitch of Arthur’s jaw as he plasters a fake friendliness onto his features and peers over the balcony to see his brother standing on the clearing below. 
“Sure is. Whatchu’ want?”
Straight to the point.
“We didn’t hear you get back. How long’ve you been here?”
All that tension you’ve worked so hard to dissipate comes back to Arthur’s form with a crashing force. You can almost hear his plea for just one second a’ goddamn peace, merely by the way he sighs before answering. 
“Not long, thought I’d try and sneak past you fools and get some shut eye.”
Subtle, cowboy.
Ever oblivious, or simply not caring, John continues, “How’d it go, then? You got the bastard?”
He has you pressed against his thigh to hide you from sight, cock standing to attention right beside your face. It’s too tempting, especially with a none the wiser Marston stood right below. When your tongue darts out, hovering above Arthur’s twitching, aching cock, his eyes flick down to you, warning residing deep in his eyes. You take it as less of a warning, more a challenge.
You wouldn’t.
Oh, but I would.
And you do. You lift up, just enough to fit the head of his throbbing cock past your lips and slide the whole length in. It bumps the back of your throat, but upon hearing Arthur’s strangled, poorly hidden groan, you can’t seem to stop yourself.
“Y-uh… Yeah, I got ‘em…” 
It’s impressive, how he can just about hold a conversation despite his cock being so far down your throat his balls rest on your chin. 
You can’t see John, but you can only imagine how his head must tilt and his brows must pull together at the strange response from Arthur. 
“You alright, brother?”
He won’t be.
You blink up at Arthur, feigning an innocent, near angelic expression as you inhale through your nose and push him even further into you. You hum, low and quiet, letting the vibrations pass through him. Arthur whimpers, instantly knocking any and all sounds you’ve ever heard from top spot and replacing them as your favourite in the whole world. 
“I-I’m fine. Just tired.” He tries to hint again, to no avail. His fingers are digging into your shoulder with a bruising force, that control slipping bit by bit with every passing second, every little movement. Tears prick at your eyes, that burning in your lungs you’ve been reaching for finally igniting. You’re stuffed with him, feeling so full that it’s hard to breathe. When you go to release him, to be able to gasp for precious air, you realise you can’t, Arthur’s huge hand holding you right in place with his palm flush against the back of your neck. Revenge. 
“Where’s the Mrs?”
A raise of a brow. You’re not married, but everything is so naturally right between you and Arthur that the gang just seem to have defaulted to that. It makes you beam, wanting nothing more than to be this man’s wife, the kind of wife that makes him cum down your throat while he has a menial conversation. 
“S-She’s- fuck…” When he grips harder at you, you gag around his length, tears now streaming down your cheeks and mixing with your spittle and the little bits of precum that leak out from Arthur. “She’s in bed. I-I better go check on her, a-actually.” He whimpers again, fingers now gripping into your hair to keep you in place. You’re not sure how much longer you can last like this, struggling to breathe, overflowing and, God, so wet for him. 
John sounds unconvinced. You’d giggle, if you could.
“Alright… Well, g’night, brother.”
Arthur barely manages a grunt, and you can feel his thighs tensing and twitching from the sheer effort of not bucking his hips up into you and giving the pair of you away. He stills, most likely waiting for Marston to fuck off already, before he rips you away from him and pulls you to your feet, gripping your aching jaw with force enough force to keep it open. 
“You goddamn siren.” He isn’t mad. He’s trying to be, but you know Arthur far too well, and he’s burning with a fire far hotter than mere anger. Need. 
The mischievous glint in your eye is all you can offer for response, what with his iron grip on your face, but you do manage to slip your tongue out and lick the pad of his thumb, tasting the mixture of fluids still lingering. 
It’s all getting too much, knowing what you just did and who you did it around, hearing Arthur unable to string a sentence together because of you. You don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on in your life, so desperate for a release that you’re pathetically writhing in Arthur’s hold. He notices, forced anger on his features replaced with a cockiness that only comes from knowing he’s regaining the power in the situation. 
Your cheeks tingle when he releases you, sitting back in the seat and leaning back, one elbow resting on the arm of the old wooden chair and picking the cigar back up. God, you could ride him in that chair till morning, if you thought the wood wouldn’t splinter under the force. 
“You gonna finish what you started, my little siren?” He asks, taking an especially long toke from the smoke while he waits for you to drop to your knees before him. Your cunt throbs, screaming out for his attention, but it would seem your antics have earned you punishment. 
Your knees hit the wood with a force, though an involuntary whimper escapes you, hips grinding pathetically against nothing. Arthur notices, smirking like a goddamn cheshire cat at his little wanton whore. 
“Patience, angel.” Your own words echo back to you like a slap in the face. You definitely deserve this.
The grip you had on the power in this game you’re playing with Arthur officially disappears when his hand snakes around the back of your neck, grasping at your hair and winding it around his wrist like a leash. You have to tilt your head so the tugging at your scalp is a mere burn rather than a sharp pain, but that’s just where he wants you. 
“Now, little siren, I’m gonna teach ya’ some manners, and you’re gonna finish what you started, alright? And if you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll think about getting that sweet little cunt of yours off…”
It’s all it takes, the promise of Arthur’s fingers deep inside you while he sucks on your clit just how you like it, lapping up your juices like a man starved, and the defiance in your eyes dissipates. Arthur bends you to his whim, messy, sloppy putty in his hands as he drags you onto his weeping cock. You’re all but drooling for him, leaking out of the corners of your mouth when he slips into you. Your scalp tingles with the pull, especially when Arthur involuntarily tightens his grip with a hiss of his breath. His tip bumps the back of your throat, but he doesn’t stop even when you’ve fit all of him in that you can.
“Fuck, good girl, just like that baby girl…” he groans, and when you open your eyes to look up to him, he is watching you with a gaze so intense you feel like it could tear you apart. The tension burns between you, coiling so tight the chirp of a nearby cricket could snap it. 
There’s an unspoken question in your eyes when you start to nearly choke on his length of when you’ll be released, but his eyes darken, “Come on, baby, you can take more, can’t you?” 
He seems to register your fear, but it phases him little. It seems more a challenge, really, coaxing him into rocking his hips into you, pushing you even further onto his cock until you feel it start to breach past your throat in a way you didn’t even know possible. You splutter, wriggling and writhing as you try your hardest to breathe through your nose. 
“Shh… good girl,” he coos, a ravenous look taking over your usually so lovable cowboy. You’ve pushed him, and God do you live for it. “Not much further… wanna see you take all of my cock, alright? You gonna do that for me, angel?” 
You can’t nod, but it isn’t much of a question, not much choice available with your limited movements and the way Arthur has completely commandeered your body. You’re irrevocably his, body and soul. 
It doesn’t feel possible to fit more of him in, your throat burning for relief that won’t come until Arthur is satisfied, but when he bucks his hips into you, you feel his base press against your nose. He groans hard, the noise initially from the sensation of having your throat wrapped around his cock, but when he sees the sight of you, tear stained and gagging on him, the moan is pulled out into a noise of pure ecstasy. 
“Good girl… my good fuckin’ girl.” 
His thumb rubs lovingly over your wet cheek, a sensation you cling to as the corners of your vision get fuzzy. Fuck, you’re not sure how much longer you can hold out, but you’re so desperate to feel Arthur’s spend trickling down your throat, feel him lose control and moan just for you that you’d honestly be willing to die for it. 
Your expression, complete with lust-fogged, watery eyes, and beautifully flushed skin, teases the last of Arthur’s restraint like a razor thin blade against that final thread. When it finally snaps, you’re allowed one gasp for air, before he’s thrusting back into you hard. You can feel him stiffen, even more so than before, as his hips splutter into your mouth and he starts to tumble over the precipice into that realm of pleasure that only the two of you share. 
“F-Fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna-” But he interrupts himself with a visceral, primal groan, the vibration of it shattering the both of you. You take advantage of his practically inebriated state to regain some of your own anatomy, managing to swirl your tongue around his pulsing head inside your mouth. The hot, salty spend blooms across your tongue at that, Arthur guiding you by the cheek to bob up and down on his cock while he paints your throat white. His moans are a melody you’ll never tire of, animalistic and vulnerable all the same. 
It feels like it never stops, Arthur’s spend filling your mouth up and leaking out from the corners of your lip. You can hardly stay still, writhing your needy cunt against your own heel, desperate for a reward you’re earning when you look him in the eye and swallow it all down. Pride blooms across Arthur’s features, saturated with a love that warms you from the inside out. His thumb caresses your face softly, wiping the tear tracks as you finally release his cock from your mouth and he guides you to your feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.
“My good girl…” He coos, barely above a whisper as you breathe each other in, both as breathless as the other. Your throat aches, your jaw burning, but you’d do it a thousand times over to experience what you just did all over again. 
“Now…” He splits the sentence with another kiss, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Get on inside, sweetheart, I think you’ve earned yourself a reward.”
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shittybundaskenyer · 9 months
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✹ ▬   𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒, 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒
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rating: Explicit pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader summary: it’s been half a year since you’ve last seen Arthur, and as you finish the last empty page of the journal he gifted you, a lone rider shows up down in the valley on a familiar, silver-dappled mare. warnings: high honor Arthur, reader is an artist herself, and very lonely, touch-starved, porn with feelings (and minimal plot), i’m not gonna lie 5k of this is just pure smut, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex, love confessions, Arthur being a sweetheart, a little angst and emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet ending word count: 8457  
a/n: i finally finished that wip i started cooking up during uni crunch time, but i’m proud to announce that i finished my master’s in graphic design and i’m finally fucking free of uni. it was a very depressive part of my life, i got completely burnt out in mind and soul too, so writing and drawing was more like a burden than something i enjoy. but now, now i’m so full of new passions, especially towards writing that i couldn’t wait to finish up this piece. i also want to thank everyone who came by to read my stuff even though i haven’t posted anything since like last october or something, love you all! (also special thanks to @wintersongstress​ bc you kept me going whenever you said a few kind words) <3
MASTERLIST   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN
In the spring Big Valley blooms.  
Fireweed and balsamroot and irises, blue and purple and the prettiest shades of yellow and pink, dotting the landscape like careful brushstrokes of a painter’s handiwork. The earth is alive here, black and red from the fallen fir and pine needles, with mushrooms and bugs hiding under the rotting, fallen logs. 
It’s a beautiful morning—pink from the rising mist and the early sunlight.
You sit on the porch of your small cabin, its wood creaking as a gentle breeze sweeps over the surrounding forest. Songbirds confess their love above, chirping a sweet melody that sings to your heart just the same. You finish your coffee and place the worn tin cup on the windowsill behind you, leaning back in your chair to pick up your journal. 
It’s almost full now; barely a few empty yellowed paper is left. You turn another page, sketch the shape of an eagle with the last chunk of your pencil, so small you can barely hold it right. It’s been many months since Arthur gifted it to you.
It’s been months you’ve seen him the last time too. 
Your heart aches a little when the orioles begin another love-song in your small garden. A sweet smell reaches you, a late-blooming wild cherry tree, its honey lulling in bees and birds and flies and the first butterflies of the year. You draw them too, detail their wings and hair and the tiny spikes covering their legs. With shaky, unladylike handwriting you write their names there too. 
WESTERN TIGER SWALLOWTAIL
MONARCH
WILD DOVE
As you write the last word, your hand lingers over the drawing, then on the freshly pressed forget-me-not on the other page, it’s blue seeped into the paper around it like a watered up, inky halo.
Little dove. Arthur's name for you.
Christ, you miss him. 
Worry clawed under your ribs for so long you no longer feel the ache. You know what kinda life he lives, what he does in the name of survival, the largest devil. You still like him. You still feel anxious every time you go into the town post office and realize that there’s no letter nor telegram from him. He’s been… kind to you. Real kind, even though no one else was. 
You draw in a slow breath and flip the pages back right to the first one. It’s crumpled a little from all the time you’ve returned to it before. A simple sketch faces you, the lines and shading so different from your own, patches of light and shadows adding together a face that stares at you every time you look in a mirror. All the imperfections, all the ugliness and beauty your likeness wears, all the messy hair and sparkling eyes he’s grown to know. 
Little dove, says a handwritten line under the portrait. Draw me all the other beauties of this land.
You did. Christ, you did it all and he’s still away.
You sigh, fold the journal and wipe your hand in your skirt. It’s still muddy from all the work you’ve done in the garden after you've awoken, so you don’t mind a bit of graphite there too. 
The journal returns to its palace on the windowsill, beside the coffee cup and a pack of cigarettes. 
Big Valley turns into shades of gold as the sun rises above the treeline, illuminating the wet dirt roads that twist below like giant snakes. You take a deep breath and rise to meet the day. There's a prickling warmth on the line of your spine, a trail of goosebumps that make your breaths come out shaky. Maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's fate. 
You stop, halfway turned to the door already, and a rider appears on the winding paths in the distance. 
You stand and you watch, frozen in place as the familiar silver-dappled mare canters closer and closer, its rider swaying in her saddle, one hand grasping the reins and the other dangling lazily beside his body. Black hat, a worn leather coat, sky blue shirt and shining spurs. You don’t have to see his eyes to recognize the sun on horseback. 
After a few moments he halts the mare before your cabin, her breath puffing against his hand as he pets her forehead after swinging himself down from the saddle. “Good girl.” 
You grow weak in the knees, lip trembling as you suck in a hasty breath. Do all wishes come to fruition if one draws it enough times? Do paper, words and shaky lines have this much power?
He walks up the first two steps of your porch, taking off his hat to reveal golden brown locks, long and messy now, wet with sweat and yesterday's rain still dripping from the trees.
There’s a moment of silence when your eyes meet. 
A moment of truth when he says your name. 
You open your mouth, then close it. There’s so much you want to say, so much you feel, yet the only sentence that leaves your lips is, “You've come just in time for breakfast.”
*
The silence is awkward at first when you pour him the remaining lukewarm coffee, and even more when you prepare breakfast and lay out everything on your small dining table. Your bed is unmade, there’s mud stuck on the doormat, your laundry stacked in a high pile in the corner and all the dried herbs from last autumn hang low from the ceiling of the single room cabin. 
Your home is as much a mess as you are, but it’s well lived-in, like a body. A shell housing a soul. 
Arthur doesn’t mind. Never did.
“Is this the wrong time?” he asks when you cut fresh onion leaves on a plate, still dewy from the morning mist that rolled over the valley. The knife stops in your hand. You can hear him breathing, calm, even exhales, yet it feels like he’s not even real. 
“No,” you press out, uncertain in your own thoughts, and you keep cutting the leaves until they’re nothing more than a fleck of green pulp on the white porcelain. You don't even realize when he stops you. You just feel the unusual warmth, radiating from around the back of your palm, through your whole arm, until something wild and ancient flickers alive in your ribcage. 
“Are ya alright?” The calloused hand retreats and the knife falls from between your fingers. 
“I—” you swallow, throat suddenly dry and choked with tears at the same time, “half a year is a long time.”
He closes his eyes and hangs his head. ‘Course it is. You thought he was dead. You thought he got taken to prison and they hanged him like a dog. 
The food remains untouched as he swipes a hand over his jaw and takes a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. You watch him, still cautious, taking a mental note of every little change. A small scar freshly healed on his cheek. His beard longer, a bit messy. His eyes oh so tired, like he hasn't slept in days. 
“You want me to go? I get it if ya have a husband now an’ I don’t want to cause tr—”
“No!” you almost shout, panicked, and his gaze searches your face. Why do you behave so goddamn strange? You wanted him here for months! You wanted him, wanted— “Jesus, there’s no husband, okay?”
The corner of his lips curl upwards a little at that. Crow's feet crinkle in the corners of his eyes. Those tiny laughing-lines around his nose move.
“I guess I just… I’ve been alone for a long time,” you sigh and force down a bite of cheese-topped bread. Your stomach protests loudly, it wants to escape the hunger or the nerves, you can’t decide yet. 
Arthur takes that as a sign to take a bite from his food too, and you know he's hungry. As you watch you realize how tired he is. How worn—like a saddle neglected in care and used until the leather cracked, then split. He eats up the whole slice of bread before you manage to take your second bite. 
The awkward quiet persists, gets stronger even, but there's so much to say and so little courage you can muster. 
He’s the one who finally runs a bloody knife through the silence.
“Did ya draw for me?”
There’s a distant longing in his voice that’s almost crystal clear. You nod, the nerves tangled in your belly easing. He remembers, he knows. He wants to see.
You bring in the small book from the porch while he finishes his food, and he’s already lighting a cigarette when you arrive and lay the leather-bound pages in front of him. He smiles at how worn it looks, how much fingerprint-stained page edges are littered throughout the journal. It’s well-loved, and well lived-in too. 
You silently watch as he flips through a few pages, tracing a finger over bucks and birds and butterflies, over the scratchy sketch lines you immortalized nature with. The Grizzlies covered in snow. Clovers and mushrooms. Your home with opened windows and flowers hanging in pots from the roof of the porch. 
“I’m sorry I missed all this,” he says softly, looking up at you like you’re the sun and the moon and the whole world. So fond, so tender it makes you ache for something that never can be yours. “I’m sure this place is pretty in the winter.”
You nod. You don’t tell him about almost freezing to death when the storms rolled in from the mountains in the spring. You don’t tell him about the roaming gangs either, about the bastards camped at the Hanging Dog ranch or the man who got eaten by a bear in his own home. This is a dream world. A valley that can be as easily a good dream as it can be a nightmare. You want it to be a good dream for him. An escape. You know what life he lives. What he runs from. 
“It’s even prettier now,” you finally answer, watching him reading your messy handwriting beside the drawings. Forget-me-not. White clover. Blue iris. “Spring came very late, everything is still blooming.” You bite into your lip and after a few seconds you ask, “wanna see?”
Arthur looks up at you and something flickers in his eyes. Maybe hope. He nods, puts out his cigarette, dusts off his hat and puts it back on his messy hair. 
“Only if you let me draw ya again.”
*
Everything around you buzzes and dances and it’s full of life, the valley, the word ‘spring’ written by the hand of Mother Earth in flowing rivers of wildflowers and overgrown grass. Orioles chirp not far away, singing another lulling love-song, matching the rhythm a creek makes above, crystal clear meltwater digging its course from stone and black earth towards south. 
Arthur stands a bit farther away from you, with his journal and a piece of charcoal in hand, putting the scenery to paper in blacks and greys and negative spaces. Or you think he’s drawing the Grizzlies and forests and farms littered down in the valley like mushrooms popping from the ground after a lukewarm summer rain. 
But instead, he draws you.
The crown of flowers sitting atop your head—the girls at camp taught him how to make one, he said, smiling. The arch of your lips. The shadow of your lashes. The tangles in your hair, the dirt on your skirt, the sun glinting in your eyes. 
When he’s done he walks back to you, flops down into the grass beside you to show you his work. The scenery really is just the background. Hasty, faint lines of mountain-spines and plants that curl towards the sun. But you, you’re detailed like an oil painting, from the wrinkles in your dress to the imperfections of your face. 
“You wanted to draw the land, ain't ya?” you ask him, knowing, smiling at him as he slips his charcoal into the cord on his hat. He gives you a lopsided smirk, then wipes his hands on the rough fabric of his jeans.
“I just found something so much more pretty,” he looks into your eyes when he says that and it burns like how maybe the sun’s surface would burn. You know there’s a blush rising through your neck, up to your cheeks, and you hope he thinks it’s from the warmth of the day. But he would be a fool to believe that. 
“Are ya tryin’ to flirt with me?” you feel like a child. A giddy girl getting her first carved wood pony to play with. You never believed him when he told you you were beautiful. You couldn’t. Yet here, now, in the all-revealing sunlight he seems like his words are genuine. Much more pretty.
He leans back on his hands, the sun caressing his face when he finally takes off his hat. His laughing-lines crinkle. 
"Do ya remember last year, when you gave me a kiss?"
If you haven't been burning up, you certainly are now. Something wild and primal stirs in your belly, something that’s very close to want and need. Of course you remember. Of course you can’t forget the way you leaned in and gave him a little peck on the lips, a bare press just because his plump lips looked so goddamn kissable and because you were so goddamn drunk. It doesn’t mean you didn’t want to do it sober. You just didn’t have the courage. But with amber whiskey in your stomach and his hand on your knee you couldn't be stopped. It was the day he left. The last day you’ve seen him alive until now.
You nod and look away. You don’t want to think about a dark future when Arthur wants to talk about kissing you. Jesus Christ.
“I wanted to draw your lips ever since then. Sometimes I did when I dreamt about you. Always smiling, always with flowers in your hair. But I never got it right.”
“I never thought you was a romantic, Mr. Morgan,” you’re truly blushing now, breaking the eye-contact, and picking at your nails instead because hearing this is a lot. The man you were waiting for months, the man you thought you loved and was dead, now sits here beside you, making poetry bubble in your chest. An oriole sings there too, trapped by ribs and muscle, red like the rising sun. 
“I— I’m never good with words,” he shrugs, picking on a blade of grass between his fingers. “Ya know I never was.”
You smile at him, still flushed. 
“But I thought about the time we spent together in the past and I… I realized I was happy with ya.”
What is this if not a confession?  
You reach for him. Slowly, like one would comfort a spooked horse, sliding your palm over his scarred knuckles until the grass he was twirling falls to the ground. He watches your hands on each other, yours so small and mostly soft compared to his large, battle-worn fingers. 
"I was happy with ya too," you whisper, so damn afraid yet you know he said it first, it must mean something—
He looks at you, looks right through you, gazes into the deepest depths of your soul where you already carved a space for him months ago. He looks at you and he knows this is not some sick joke, that your mutual attraction was not some mirage you chased for so long. 
He leans in and the world falls dead quiet. His breathing, shaky and unsure and deep, the only sound you can concentrate on as he nudges your nose with his own. Right where you left off half a year ago. Right where you imagined this in every dream. 
You nuzzle him, brush your lips against the corner of his mouth, his beard prickling and coarse, but his parting lips are soft, gently cupping your own between them, slow and careful and so goddamn sweet. He moves, hands reaching for you as you try to deepen this embrace, reciprocating the kiss, turning your body towards his. His fingers land in your hair, getting caught on the tangles like trouts on a net, and he cups your cheek with his other hand, so warm, it's like the sun is cradled in his palm. 
Maybe you're his sun. Maybe he's yours.
The kiss turns needy after a while, tongues dart out and teeth nip gently on plump, rosy lips. He keeps you close, closer, until your noses are squished together and his hair falls into your eyes and you can feel your lashes tickling his skin. He kisses you like no one ever did. He kisses you like it means something. 
Need awakens inside you with the force of a hundred galloping horses as his hands find your waist, the line of your spine, the collar of your dress, the outwards curve of one breast. They doesn't move further. It doesn't mean you don't want them to. 
Arthur pants against your mouth as you move away, the taste of tobacco and wild cherries still intense on your tongue. 
"Will ya draw me one more time?" you ask quietly, against the side of his face, your words tangling into the wild mess of his beard. 
"How?" you look him in the eye and he already knows, yet you make a show of it as you pull on your dress and slowly bare yourself to him. There's not a soul for miles, no one to disturb this bubble of peace and strawberry champagne haze you made for yourselves so you're not ashamed. And when you discover that wild flame burning in his eyes— 
Your body becomes alive with a meadow consumed by fire, overgrowing and rotting and oozing honey from every pretty flower. You shed your chemise. The shoes. Bloomers come last, already stained with grass and bright yellow pollen. 
You sit nude in front of him, a feast for his hungry eyes, yet he doesn't stare at you for long. He wants to commit this to paper. He wants to see this every day from now on—the curve of your breasts, the wide of your hips, the hair nestled between your legs, the smile you can't keep off of your lips. 
"For the road," you chuckle with a wink, watching how he scribbles away in his journal. "For lonely nights." 
"I could put this up in a gallery and take ya to Paris," he answers with a piece of charcoal in his mouth, smudging the powder on the paper. "Wanna see the world little dove?"
You know it's just gentle banter, but your heart aches the same. You both know it would be impossible. Him leaving this country, his family—a woman is not enough for that. 
"I think I have everythin' I wanna see right in front of me," you smirk, then move, not caring about the drawing anymore, and he doesn't care either, gripping your bare thighs as you rise to settle in his lap.
It's spring and you're a flower, and you bloom too, unfolding your body like petals, legs and arms slowly sliding away to reveal soft flesh. There's no shame when Arthur looks up at you like you're the goddamn sun and the stars and the wind caressing his face. Maybe you are when you reach down and slide a thumb over his brow, the downwards arch of his eyelid when he closes his eyes. Two gorgeous pools of blue-green look up at you when your finger slides lower, over his lips, to dig in and make them part, wet tongue darting out around a small kiss. 
You watch him. His eyes, his mouth. 
His long, golden lashes lower, a dark kind of fire ignited in his gaze, doin’ the only sin he does not regret committing— wanting you.  
He grabs onto your side, the flesh on your hip and stomach, leaves heat in his wake there, large palm-shaped sunspots that ooze light into your bloodstream. Christ, you want him to touch you more. To make you burn, to make you into a flame that needs his tending.
"You're so damn pretty, little dove" he murmurs in that low voice, watching how a single flower of forget-me-not falls from your hair and lands on the top of your breast, trapped in a bead of sweat like a fly in amber honey. 
The back of his head hits the ground, like it's a pillow woven from freshly sprouted grass and wild flowers and wet earth, and he moves you in his lap, lower, where you can feel him, hard and oh so ready but still waiting for your move. 
The spark is ignited. Your sun burns inside your ribcage for this man, a heart shaped from light, and you reach between the two of you to get him rid of his pants. Arthur doesn't move, but he lets you pull up his shirt, over a strong stomach and golden brown hair, over old scars that faded into silvery lines, to a ribcage housing a kind heart. 
"Will ya have me, Arthur?" you lean close to him, your bellies touching, your hand still restless at the buckle of his gun-belt, and he sighs into your hair, hips twitching at your eager request as he leans in to lay a gentle kiss on your temple, then the arch of your eyebrow. 
"'Course, sweetheart," he reaches up, cradles your nape as he curls his other arm around your waist, turning you until the soft earth cradles you like another lover.
Your bare legs fall open as he settles, with his hand on your knee, his thumb rubbing the spot where the broken grass stained it green. You should be shy. Ashamed. Vulnerable. You should clench your thighs tight, feel the need to be modest, yet your body betrays you even further when Arthur places his other hand on your side, making space for himself in the cradle of your hips. 
His shirt is gone. 
You watch him for a few eternal seconds, the way his eyelashes cast starlike shadows over his ruddy cheeks as he gets an eyeful of your flushed cunt. 
"Gonna have to work ya a little," he says, voice low and husky, thumbs drawing circles into your flesh, as if he's soothing a spooked creature. 
There's not enough time to get your fill of his body; the hair-dusted muscles of his chest and arms, the stubble-peppered neck that leads into a strong jawline, the strand of honey brown hair that carefully curls around his ear. You subconsciously nod instead, rapidly, sliding your hand over his own, tugging on his worn knuckles until he's blanketing you with his body. 
Arthur smiles into your hair for a second when his free hand trails up your side, up through the valley of your breasts and the bend of your neck until he can cradle your head, his fingers caressing, thumb parting your lips so when he arrives with his own you're already panting a shivering exhale into his mouth. Yes, kiss me. Conquer my lips. Conquer this monster that is my body. 
He kisses you, softly at first, cupping your upper lip between his, then the bottom one, and then, just then he lets a hot breath mingle with your own before his tongue finds its way around yours. He kisses you with all the need a starving man can feel, suckling on your lips until they are flushed, swollen, his worn thumb sliding over them once more, between gentling pecks of affection and softly opening eyes. He's mesmerized by the sight of you like this, oh so close, oh so pretty in the sunlight. 
You get bold under his stare, curling your fingers into the hair on his nape, into the coarse tangles of his beard before you give him the same treatment he gave you, mapping the plush, hot rise of his bottom lip with your thumb. He kisses the tip of it, then leans in to lay gentle presses on your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. You want to chase him, coax him into another kiss, but he murmurs something against your skin instead, hefting your leg higher at his side, and your belly aches with the burning sun that grows inside it, pressed flush to his. 
"Lemme show ya somethin'," he almost whispers, and he descends downwards, draws a curling vine of blooming ivy in the shape of kisses, at the hollow of your throat, at the top of one breast, then the other. He takes your nipples between the same lips you've kissed mere moments ago, still wet, and he almost makes a show of it when a surprised moan slips out from your chest. 
Arthur commits the shape of you into his memory, counting each rib, each valley and hill your body has, the soft of your stomach when he arrives there, a star-circle of hot lip-presses, and then lower, at the edges of a gentle trail of wiry hair that leads between your wide-open legs, and then just shy of your cunt, a place so sensitive the kiss wrecks your whole body with a shiver. 
He looks up at you for a second, lifting your legs over two strong shoulders, soothing you again with circling caresses on your thigh, even though his eyes are ravenous, chest heaving as he sucks in panting breaths . The want inside you blooms alive. If you could be a forest, you would burn gladly under his hands. 
The idea is no stranger to you, you've read your fair share of off-shelved romance novels, but experiencing such an act transcends every sweet worded description you've ever seen when Arthur makes his intention clear with a look full of promises. 
Not letting you suffer longer, he leans in and softly nuzzles his way between the folds of your cunt; kisses you there. 
Your body grows weak, open, and you helplessly grab into the earth beside you, clawing up dirt and fresh grass, sinking your fingers deep, like you could plant your roots here. A noise escapes you, surprised and breathless, and Arthur mutters encouragement against your mound, " beautiful… ", then strokes his tongue over a spot where nerves meet in a most sensitive bundle. 
He sucks and licks there, kissing your flesh like he had been kissing your mouth, with his eyes almost closed, cheeks flushed and beard scraping your skin. It tickles, it scratches, it makes a flock of burning butterflies flick alive inside your belly, it makes want trickle from your cunt when he arrives there. You feel like you're already unraveling, the foreign pleasure spreading through your body like fungi webbing a forest floor, and at every spot his skin touches you, you bloom.  
Like a meadow. Like a sun.
He hums encouragement, holds your thighs firmer, pushes his tongue against you harder. You try to squirm, hands scrambling, his mouth curling into a smile at your folds, and you moan, freely, maybe the first time in your whole life, just for him. 
He pleasures you so effortlessly, so gladly, and in all the tenderness he offers you feel like you could drown. His mouth is relentless. His kisses even more are. You can't help but wretch open your eyes to look down and find him buried there, in the cradle of your hips, face flushed red and eyes sparkling so pretty when they meet your own. You don't have control over your body anymore. 
You blindly reach for his hair, your head thumping back against the earth, spine arching, shoulders rolling into the dirt. "That's it," he murmurs between suckling kisses, and you grind your cunt up, up into his mouth because Christ, you're almost there. 
Your eyes flicker open, like candle flames, neck curved back, and you can see the Grizzlies like this, snow-capped, glinting like crystals, between blades of green and sky blue iris flowers. Your whole world turns upside-down. 
It's too good—his lips, his tongue, his hot breath fanning against your weeping opening, yet you can't get there, not really, not before Arthur lifts away and the world tries to right itself but turns out all wrong. He is panting, hair messy from all the torture your fingers did on his strands, glinting golden in the sun. 
Your thighs slip away, off his shoulders as he returns to you, hastily wiping his face in the back of his hand, lips already seeking your own, soothing you. He tastes tangy, more salt than sweet, like you, and the forest of emotions threatens to split your ribcage open when he presses his mouth to your temple. 
"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, whisper the question into his opened lips between two tender kisses, and he answers with a breathless "nothin'."
"Have to open ya up," his fingers squeeze you, harder on your side, and he brings his free hand up to his lips, licking his fingers. That same sinful hand returns to your belly, then lower, cupping your whole cunt in his palm before you feel it, the thick finger teasing at your opening, spreading the wetness, and then gently, slowly slipping inside without any resistance. 
Arthur nudges your nose with his own when your eyes flutter closed, lashes tickling his cheek, and he kisses you again, moving his finger inside you, a slow, purposeful stroke. 
"Look at me, little dove," he whisper-commands, curling that finger in, making you gasp into his mouth. "Look at me. Yeah, that's it." He almost smiles when your eyes meet his own, and your belly aches as he pulls out his finger and adds a second. They glide in so easy, you can feel his palm growing sticky against your cunt. You want to be embarrassed, but he just stifles a groan against your neck when your pussy squelches, your pleasure steadily rising with the clever thrusting of his fingers.
Shit, if his fingers feel like this inside you, you can't even imagine how his cock will. 
He builds you up steadily, like a castle, like a temple, like a stairway right to the sun, and he doesn't give you a warning when he crams in another finger, three now, stretching you truly and good, shushing you with his lips, kissing you breathless until your legs yield and shake. 
"That's it," he murmurs, kisses you thoroughly, panting against your lips as your cunt squeezes tight around his fingers. "That's good."
His name escapes your throat, a plea, and you're barely hanging on by a thread now. Arthur is tender in his movements, but not too gentle, making space for himself inside you, making your poor heart flicker and trash under your ribcage like a trapped bird. He kisses you again, with opened lips, tongue clashing with yours, your teeth catching on the side of his face, a right mess, and his fingers slow, then gingerly slide out to lay drenched in your slick on the burning skin of your thigh. 
You whine at the loss. Truly, desperately. Such an unladylike sound, yet it rings sweet against Arthur's neck. 
You feel so empty.
"Shh," he quiets you, then gently grabs your hand, caressing a thumb over your knuckles, and guides it down, over the still buttoned waist of his pants, where his achingly hard cock strains against the fabric. You gasp a surprised "oh" between his lips, but follow his hand eagerly, helping him with the buttons. "Touch me, darlin'."
You do. Jesus, you do.
You worm your hand between the fabric and his feverish skin, mapping out the shape of him with curious touches. Even though you're inexperienced, Arthur's body teaches you what feels good for him without a guiding word. You grasp him, gently at first, and then firmer, and stroke your hand over his cock until your palm curls around the flushed head of him, finding a bead of wetness there. His stomach jumps, muscles tensing against you, his breath hitching sweetly beside your ear when he kisses you there too.
Did he feel a similar curious excitement like you do now, when he stuffed you full of his fingers? 
"You're a natural, sweetheart," he smiles at you, cheeks blooming a pretty red, and you feel his hand returning between your legs, thick fingers pushing inside you again. "Ya think you can take me?"
You can't answer, not at first, too distracted by the stretch, by the burning want that blooms in your belly, by the idea of taking Arthur. You kiss him instead, stroke him faster until he has to break away from you to collect himself. 
"Fuck me," you whisper to him, sweet as wild strawberries, your lips brushing the side of his face and he smiles, truly, teeth and crow's feet and wrinkles and all, and Christ, you want him so much it almost hurts. 
"Now, you really want me to fuck ya?" 
You don't know if he wants to tease, or he's truly concerned about your decision, but you give him a very pointed look, releasing his cock and reaching for his hand that is still pleasuring you, slowly pulling it away until you're empty once more. 
"Arthur," you kiss him again, almost pleading and he can't deny you longer. He worries at your bottom lip for a second, then presses his mouth to your chin. 
"Spread 'em pretty thighs for me then," he murmurs as he comes closer, bracketing the backs of your thighs with his own, and then hefting your legs around his hips. You open yourself willingly, freely, feeling the heat of him oh so close, and you help him a little, push on his jeans until his cock is free, thick and heavy and hard against the inside of your thigh.
It's the first time you see it. It's the first time your cunt clenches on nothing and it makes you desperate. 
"If I hurt ya, say so and I'll stop, alright?" he says as he gives you one last kiss before leaning back and taking a hold of his cock. Christ, you want to watch. To know how he will fit inside you, but the strong bulk of his body blocks your view, sea-colored eyes going half-lidded as he watches your every reaction, sliding against your folds once, twice, and for the third time his fat cock catches on your slick opening. 
You gasp and pull him into a kiss with renewed hunger, and it's perfect to muffle your sounds as he slowly, carefully pushes into you. 
He has maybe an inch or two inside, but you're already feeling like you could burst, like you could rip apart at the seams and bloom into a bed of wildflowers oozing honey over black earth. 
It's— 
It's everything. 
You can feel his heartbeat race against your breast, and you can feel it inside you, lighting you up, making the unfamiliar stretch good, making it divine. You pant into his mouth, let him nuzzle your cheek as he murmurs praise, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw and caress your lips. 
"That's it, good girl," he whispers, as breathless as you, and you feel him move, deeper, making way for himself when there's barely any. It hurts and it doesn't. Aches like a good day of riding in the sun. Warm. Stretched. A funny sway in your head when it's over. A pleasure-pain so perfect you never want him to stop. "Ya fit me like you was made for me."
"Christ," you hiss, hands curling into his neck and shoulder, digging into the meat of them, almost drawing blood as Arthur's hips meet yours, his hot length fully settling inside you. "Arthur, Jesus I—,"
"Shhh," he quiets you softly, one hand cupping the back of your palm on his shoulder, massaging it until your fingers yield, no longer digging into his flesh, and he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. A distraction. A gesture so sweet your body warms even more. 
"S-sorry," you manage to say, out of breath and tingling all over. He's so deep inside you you can feel it. All the space he fills, all the ways pressure makes you twitchy and sensitive and ready to burst. He kisses your fingertips next, the inside of your wrist, all the while his other hand smooths over your trembling thigh. 
"Watchu sayin' sorry for?" his question is a mere whisper against you, a soothing rumble at the side of your face. He waits for you to settle, to let you calm like a rapid summer storm, keeps himself still until the way he holds you open becomes from an unfamiliar intrusion into a shivering spark of something. Can pleasure feel like this too? Can the joy of joining coat your bodies like crushed candy that melts in the sun? 
You can't focus on his question, not until he caresses your brow with a finger, and even then you don't know the answer. You just close your eyes and tremble, too lost in the closeness of him, too distracted by the spark of pleasure bubbling hotly inside your belly. 
"Tell me when I should move," he brushes your hair back, wipes the sweat that started beading at your temple. "Or tell me to stop."
"N-no. Don't stop, please Arthur. Jus'... just be slow," you murmur against him, your words slurred into his beard, lips brushing a scar there. 
He nods then, reassures you with a small kiss that says "I've got you, don't worry," and it's enough for you. Enough to brace for the inevitable outwards pull. 
You have to dig your fingers into his arm, have to cling to him for dear life, because even though his movement is careful, you still want to rip apart from the seams, just from his cock gently grinding into your cunt. 
You groan, dear Christ, and you clench on him, the pleasure-pain so intense it rushes you towards the edge with the speed of lightning striking a lonely tree out in the prairie. 
"Yes, sweetheart, open up for me," he praises you, licking the same fingers he stuffed inside you earlier and returning them between your legs, feeling where he holds you open, and then drawing a gentle circle on your clit, another sharp sparkle of pleasure, and you whine. "Can you come like this?"
You can't answer with words, your throat locks up and tears well in the corners of your eyes as you nod eagerly, racing towards an edge that ends in pure free fall. So he keeps his slow torture sweet, a purposeful grind of his hips and knowing touches with his fingers and you pant, into his neck and then into the soft grass, your head lolling to the side, and even though you're outside, up in the mountains, there's barely enough air to fill your lungs. The only thing you breathe is Arthur. He trickles into your every vein, every muscle and fat and bone, blankets you in honey and dew and the warmth of the sun. 
"Look at ya, little darlin'," he says, fond, as he reaches for your face to give your flaming cheek a gentle caress. Your back arches as he pushes in again, his movement turning into longer, truer thrusts. "Look how good you take me."
"Shit, Arthur I—"
"Gonna take care of ya," he murmurs and leans back, settling on his haunches with his cock still rooted deep and your thighs wide open around his hips. 
He looks down at your body, at all the imperfections you hate, at all the unique curves of your form, at all the unevenly smooth skin and marks and scars. Then, at your face that is softened by a deep frown of pleasure. 
Your eyes meet. 
You can see the want flickering in his eyes like blue flames in a marsh, alive and hot, and maybe your own burns the same, because he can't control a hard thrust then. You almost yelp, but your joining is slick now, you can feel wetness collect on your cunt every time he pulls out, so the pain is nonexistent. 
"That—" you pant, sucking in a hasty breath, "that felt so good."
"Christ, darlin," he exhales on a smile, and digs the meat of his fingers into the bend of your knee and the puffy flesh of your cunt and you almost scream, the good kind of scream, as he thrusts in again, hard and deep. "You're so goddamn beautiful."
It's your turn to tense up, to clench on him, hot and full and barely hanging on by a thread. He makes you run down the hill of pleasure until you trip, until you're falling, until the pressure becomes too much and not enough all at once. Like graphite grinded into dust and swept by the wind, that's how you float too, towards his calloused hands and sun-worn cheeks and you're a parchment laid out flat, your body the same, bare and vulnerable until his fingerprints stain you, in forms of lilac bruises on your hips, in never ending paths of grey sunlight. 
He lets go of your leg, puts a palm on the soft of your belly, just above your cunt, and he feels himself there, moving, filling you so full, so good, so whole, until there's no more air to breathe and no more hill to tumble down on, only the vacuum of a night sky littered with stars, the inside of his irises, watching you as you come. Sudden, violent. 
Your body shakes as it sweeps you away, a fire eating you alive like candlelight makes a moth catch aflame, and Arthur leans down to kiss you through it, still fucking you, still not stopping when the too much hits, but oh, he's a great distraction, the way his soft lips apologize, the way his tongue reassures you sweetly that you're doing good. He hums into the kiss, nips on your upper lip as your hands rise and dig into his neck, keeping him close, trapped in your body like a butterfly in sticky honey. 
"Ya okay?" he asks softly, whispering the question onto the corner of your mouth, his hands curling around your shoulders, the back of your head. An embrace. Butterflies growing in the same cocoon. 
"Feels so good," you whimper, clinging to him, feeling his cock hit deep again, resuming a lost rhythm like one replays a song on a guitar. The same chords flowing for a dance practiced by lovers. "Ar-Arthur."
He keeps on going and you keep taking him, the grass crushing under you bodies and you’re sure your whole backside is gonna be green, just like his knees and palms are. It’s blurry from that, your mind so fogged by pleasure that the world swims, a sea of light and wildflowers and clouds, pools of piercing blue-green eyes and crooked teeth that snarl into a smile. 
“Do ya have one more for me?” his forehead knocks against yours, his rhythm slowing. 
You don’t understand the question, not at first, but his fingers return between your legs, rough on the sensitive flesh of your clit, circling oh so carefully, and you know, Jesus, you know you want to give him everything you can. 
"Arthur," you pant, your lips buried in his hair as he plants a humming kiss into the crook of your neck.
"Hm?"
"Don't hold back. Please. Wanna feel you even when you're gone," your tighten your legs around his hips, answer his thrust with the rise of your own, meeting him halfway, like how the sun meets the horizon when pink dusk falls over the valley. 
"Don't ask me that I—" he chokes on his words at your interruption, a soft kiss, placed right on the plump of his bottom lip. 
"Please,” you encourage him, plead him. You want this so much it almost hurts. Not where he splits you open. Not where he hits deep as he picks up his pace. No, it’s the chest where you ache, the rapidly beating organ that pumps and beats and jumps and flickers, a mass of red, a cluster of muscle that somehow houses all the feelings you have for this man. A heart full of adoration. A heart full of love.
He kisses you so hard it makes you dizzy. Makes the doves caged in your ribs escape and tear you open, leaving only a wide wound in their wake, a door that leads straight down to the pocket-universe you handcrafted in the shape of a golden-haired, glacier-eyed man. 
You can feel him getting close, his hard thrusts falling out of rhythm, his fingers urgent on your abused clit. It sits there, the pleasure in your belly, bubbling, spilling over as he desperately chases your own orgasm, fucking you into the ground almost, planting you like a flower, to bloom just for him, just so you can weave your roots together. 
Arthur’s arms tremble as he groans into your neck, pulls back to leave a kiss on the side of your mouth, not focused enough for a proper one and you can’t help yourself. That choking feeling you felt rising from the start overspills, makes a landslide, an avalanche. You swallow and look up at him, mesmerized by his half-lidded eyes, glinting in the sun like twin-lakes, his hands holding you tight to him, his cheeks ruddy from all the loving you did to each other. 
You slip, and the world tilts. 
"Love you," you murmur, breathless, and there's a sudden shudder against you, Arthur's hands going bruising on your flesh, and he's coming, halfway on his way of pulling out. The warmth startles you, and then his grunt too, when he pushes back inside, because it doesn't really matter anymore, with his seed spilling out beside his cock, and some sick, possessive part of him enjoys how you whimper when he stuffs you full again, everything too wet and too hot. You tremble in his hold, terrified and riled up all at once, because feeling him like this makes you a little stupid and so sick with love it aches. 
You come again from it, softly this time. 
"I'm so goddamn sorry," he groans, trying to play the gentleman, trying to erase memories surfacing. This is not like it was then. He can still do right by you.
"'S okay," you murmur, almost feeling drunk, out of your mind with the way his cock twitches inside you, spurting one last time. "'S okay, Arthur." 
You pull him closer, with your fingers in his hair, in his beard. He sags against you, body weak from both his climax and emotions, and he presses his forehead to yours. It's a thing almost more intimate than a kiss. A thing full of the unspeakable truth, but you're not ready for it, and he isn't either. 
He watches you for a few seconds, his eyes flickering, a candle flame in a storm, but finally, finally he gives you a small smile. It's just in his eyes, a secret thing, a treasure so little and so precious it needs to be protected from the ugly cold reality. 
"I don't wanna awaken false hopes inside ya," he starts, gently, like calming a wild horse, "but I can't leave ya here thinkin' I don't love you the same." 
That's it. That's the time for a tear that sneakily bubbles from the corner of your eye and slides down to the calloused pad of his finger still caressing your face. 
"I ain't a good man," he continues, voice impossibly soft, "but I always wanted to do right by ya."
"Arthur," you tremble as you whisper, your hands on his nape, in his hair. Your mouth brushes his brow as you lean in. "Just come back to me. I don't care when. Jus' come back alive."
He nods, then buries his head into your neck, kissing your heated skin, writing a promise there with his lips. 
The sun moves and the surrounding mountains start to paint blue shadows over the blooming meadows so you move, first from the embrace, then from the flattened patch of grass and flowers you’ve tangled into each other on. You only put on your dress, no bloomers or shoes, his come still sticky on the inside of your thigh, and he leaves his shirt on the ground too, not ready to let go of this moment. 
He looks up at you, eyes sparkling, taking in the sight that is so pretty he wants to never leave. With flowers in your hair, a crown braided from daisies and forget-me-nots and marigolds, with dirt and grass on your skin, with a content smile in the corner of your mouth—you look radiant. 
Arthur sits with you in the grass, picking on wild-green blades and chewing on the end of one while he searches for the prettiest little flower blooming right next to your bare feet, nestled close to his. 
A perfect bud of white clover. Faith, love, good fortune.
He takes your hand in his, kisses your knuckles, and ties a ring around your finger from the stem, makes the flower sit pretty in the middle, like a chiseled, shiny rock of moonstone. 
What is this if not a vow? 
What is this if not a promise?
*
In the morning, after loving each other once more in the flickering moonlight, you wake up sore between the legs and dizzy from an intelligible emotion clawing deep inside your chest. The bed is empty next to you, the coffee that Arthur made still steaming on the table. You don't dress up, just pull the quilt over your body and run outside, onto your small porch to gaze down the valley bathing in golden light. A silver dapple mare gallops down there, on the spine of a mud-snake road. 
Arthur rides away. 
You stumble back to the chair on the porch, full with something bittersweet. Overripe cherries rotting on a tree. A black heart dripping honey. Your ribcage squeezing your lungs like a fist. You take a shaky breath and when he completely disappears from your view you lean back, almost sit down on a leather-covered book. It's a journal. Another one, smelling like fresh paper and horse hair and him.
You open it as you settle, the quilt drawn tight around your barely covered body.
There's a drawing on the first page, two wild doves huddled together, and a flower of white clover tied into a ring, pressed down into the page. 
Under it, scrawled hastily with Arthur's flowing handwriting:
I promise.
908 notes · View notes
mlmxreader · 3 months
Text
Don't You Shiver | Arthur Morgan x gn!reader
『••✎••』
↳ ❝ you already know what’s up. arthur morgan x gn!reader
"Do you want your hoodie back?" "Keep it. It's yours."
but instead of hoodie it’s one of arthur’s jackets? pls and thank u mwah mwah ^_^ - @mockerycrow ❞
: ̗̀➛ Arthur cares a lot about you, so it's no surprise that he does what he can to help when you come back to camp less than happy.
: ̗̀➛ swearing, smoking
•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•
Your hands smelled of cheap cigarettes and whisky as you wandered back into camp behind Charles, a little bit embarrassed that you had wasted his time on fool's gold.
You thought it had been a perfectly good lead at the time, and with Charles’ skills complimenting your own, you figured that the two of you would have had it done and dusted by noon the same day. But now it was dusk, you were shivering, and you felt like an idiot.
You kept your head down and your gaze on the ground, not even trying to talk to Charles even though he reassured you time and time again that he didn't mind - he enjoyed the nice day out with you.
It wasn't often that the two of you had much time to spend together despite your strong friendship, and even though you had been an idiot… you did admit, you appreciated his company at the very least.
Before he left you for the evening, Charles pulled you aside, and once again told you that he didn't mind; it happened, sometimes leads didn't work out and even he had had his fair share of bad luck here and there. He wasn't going to hold it against you.
However, you felt terrible when you snuck into Arthur's tent, going through your clothes as he sat on his cot and watched you for a moment, his head tilted slightly to the side.
It wasn't until he saw you shiver that he put two and two together and frowned; he got up and grabbed his semi-decent brown hunting jacket, and gently pressed it into your hands as he smiled.
“It's warm,” he told you quietly. “It'll help.”
You tugged it on, pressing your face against the collar of the coat for a moment and humming under your breath; you were always stealing Arthur's clothes, if you were honest, but he never minded.
He liked to see you wearing them, mostly because he knew that most of his coats were a lot warmer and a lot better for cold climates than your own. But he also… admittedly, he liked to think that everyone would realise that it was his jackets, and they would know that you and Arthur belonged to one another as well and that they couldn't do anything.
He ushered you out of the tent and over to the scout fire, letting you sit with your back against his chest and his chin on your shoulder, his arms around you tightly. He hoped that it would aid in warming you up, maybe even speed the process a little bit.
You didn’t even flinch, leaning into him and doing your best to steal some of his warmth  as you sighed and swallowed thickly; you brought the thick brown leather to your face, pressing it against your mouth and nose and inhaling the scent for a moment as you closed your eyes.
You were a little warmer now, but you still couldn’t shake the icy feeling deep within your bones and in your shaking hands as you grumbled softly and shook your head.
Arthur turned to look at you, frowning as he gently tugged you a little closer. “I’ll get you some coffee and-”
“Wait,” you murmured softly, almost under your breath as you tugged at the sleeve of his blue denim-coloured shirt. “I don’t wanna be alone in the cold.”
He sighed, nodding as he settled back down; he did his best to think of a few ways to get you to warm up, but unfortunately for him, all of them would mean leaving you, and you didn’t seem so keen on the idea.
So he pulled out two cigarettes, lighting them before handing one to you and doing his best not to smile at how you tried to get closer to him, almost straddling his waist as you squirmed. He grumbled, his grip on you tightening as he kept your back steady against his chest and shook his head.
You stopped shivering eventually, pulling away from him so that you could shrug the jacket off, holding it in your hands as the flames seemed to follow you wherever you went. 
“Do you want your jacket back?”
“Keep it. It’s yours, now,” Arthur told you with a short shake of his head. “Looks better on you anyway.”
You rolled your eyes as you smiled, a glint of something mischievous in your eyes. “You say that about everything of yours that I borrow.”
He shrugged, leaning back slightly to get a good look at you; with the flames so close, Arthur could have sworn that you looked just like something out of an old folktale.
A great, fair king; beloved by his people and as just as he was humble. He wanted to grin and to laugh at the thought, but he could only hum as he pulled out his journal and held it up for you to look at for a moment.
“Mind if I…”
You shook your head. “Not at all, where’d you want me?”
Arthur balanced his journal on his knee as he looked up at you, the tip of his tongue pointing out of the corner of his mouth. “Just stay there.”
You did as you were told, running your thumb across the lapel of Arthur’s jacket as you stood patiently. You could hear the scratch of his pencil against the paper, and how he hummed under his breath as he stole a look at you every now and then.
It was never uncommon for Arthur to draw you, you caught him doing it often enough that you knew he had pages of it; yet every time he actually asked, every time he told you to stay still so that he could do it, you couldn’t help but to feel rather giddy.
To know that you would forever be immortalised by his fair hand, to know that he loved you to the point of creation. You bit at the inside of your lip, doing your best not to grin in case it spoiled his latest masterpiece. 
298 notes · View notes
thisfanisgonesorry · 3 months
Text
relaxation — charles smith
a camping trip, some stress relief  kinktober day 3: size kink
tags: smut, size kink / stomach bulge, breeding, ambiguous timeline, petplay/hybrids? use of bunny/bear
🐇
His large arms wrapped around my torso, his hands grabbing the flesh of my stomach and his chin resting on the top of my head. “Evenin’, baby. Any chance you’d wanna come hunting with me?” He spoke casually.
“Hi.” I smiled, not turning my head as I rinsed bowls in the lukewarm water. “We’re going hunting?”
“Of course. You’re always helpful.” He spoke sweetly, biting his tongue and pressing a kiss onto my temple. “Prefer you to anyone else.”
His large hands grabbed hold of my waist as he helped me down from my steed. “You know I can do that myself, right?” I laughed softly, 
“But why would you when I’m right here?” He placed me on the ground and hitched my horse to the nearby tree.
He started putting up the tent casually, like nothing was going on beyond a simple day out and it was beginning to feel like exactly that.
“So what’re we hunting?” I attempted to scrounge together as many sticks as possible, trying to start a small campfire, and I slumped down on the ground, striking a match against my boot and letting it light.
He shrugged as he put the tent up, tying the entryway flaps open with a clip. I shrugged, handing him the bedrolls and he laid them down side-by-side. He let out a small laugh at my actions, watching me sit back down next to the small fire.
“Nothin’. Just needed to get you out of camp.” He admitted once he climbed out of the tent, he sat by the edge and crossed his legs.
“And to think you were being helpful.” I scoffed slightly, though he simply patted his thighs, gesturing for his intentions. I crawled towards him, and eventually took a perch on his lap. 
“That’s my good girl.” He cooed.
“You’re predictable.” 
“You’re beautiful.” His chest rumbled slightly. “I had to take care of my sweet bunny, hm? I could tell you needed time away.” His words were sweet, and each sentence was met with a kiss to the face.
I wrapped my arms around his strong shoulders, nuzzling myself into his neck. “Maybe you got one thing right.” I commented, legs sprayed across his large thighs. His hands run up and down my back, holding me close to him.
“Such a good bunny.” He cooed, removing my boots softly and placing them to the side.
He moved us further into the tent, moving swiftly to lay me down flat against the soft bedroll. He shut the tent flaps behind us and pressed a kiss on my shoulder.
The sun was setting, and his hands fiddled with the edge of my pants. “Chose here on purpose. Don’t be afraid to make some noise.” He spoke sweetly, his large hands moving to remove my pants and bloomers, folding them neatly to the side before he unbuttoned my shirt. 
He then pulled at his own shirt, throwing it haphazardly to the side, before dipping his head down and pressing a kiss onto my stomach. “Tell me you missed me. You missed this.”
“I missed you.” I moaned out as his lips pressed a firm kiss on my clit before leaving a light suckle, then running his tongue up the length.
His soft eyes watched me carefully as he slowly buried himself deeper into me, his nose brushing against my clit until he’d move up and swirl his tongue around it, taking it between his lips and moaning as he sucked, wet sounds filling the air, and then letting it pop loudly.
He let a low chuckle at the pink tint covering my face and he hunched over, his head dipping lower and part of his hair covering his eyes. “Smother me.” He groaned, his hands dug into the plush flesh of my thighs, pulling me closer to him.
I gave a light tug onto his hair, writhing under him and my fingers closed tight with his locks trapped within my fist. “Charles—” I whined, pulling him away from me for just a moment.
“What can your bear do for you, bunny?”
I dug my feet into his back with a strained whine. “Fingers, please.”
“Aw, that’s it.” He cooed. “You just want your tight pussy stretched out.” He smiled, not faltering his movements as his two large digits rubbed against the entrance.
He started sucking on my clit again harshly, and slowly pushing his fingers in. I sobbed against my palm, muffling the sound. “Don’t.” He growled. He reached up, taking my hand away and after carefully untangling my hand from his hair, he pinned my wrists together under my sternum, my elbows digging into the bedroll.
He listened to the symphony of moans that fell from my mouth at his movements, intentionally making it agonisingly slow until he reached the hilt.
His movements began slow and steady, a gracious pace while his tongue swirled against the bundle of nerves. “Sweet girl.” He groaned to himself, pushing the pads of his fingers to the perfect spot that made me clench around him.
“Charles, I’m—“ And he pulled away, placing one last kiss on my stomach before crawling up my body, his fingers still working to stretch me apart for him.
“I know, I know.” He purred to my whines of protest, the sudden lack of stimulation causing me to spasm around him.
I threw my head back against the bedroll, squirming against his hands for friction and earning a small, pitied smile in return. 
He leant closer, his lips ghosting mine. “Taste yourself.” He waited for me to lean forward, pressing his against mine, and he was smiling into the kiss at the sounds of my moans. 
His hand left my wrists, and wrapped around my throat loosely, holding me in place as his other quickened, going at an inhumane pace. My eyes rolled back as I struggled to keep kissing him. 
He groaned, not relenting on its speed. “Fastest way to stretch you out, yeah?” He teased, sounding incredibly smug at the desperation. “You sound so pretty.”
“Charles—!” I sobbed into his mouth, my hands grabbing onto him, my fingernails threatening to break his skin.
“You’re a needy girl, beg me to split you apart on my dick.” His soft smile never faltered despite the sweetness not being in his words. His kiss stayed tender as he waited for the fog to lift and for words to spill from my lips.
“Please.” I managed out once I could see through the haze. “Oh my god, please. Charles, need you. Need you to split me open.”
He let out a pleased hum, enjoying the way the words caught in my throat at the brutal pace he’d set. His hands slowed gradually before pulling out completely. “You’re my good bunny. So good at begging.” He cooed, removing his pants gradually, kicking them off and wrapping his slick fingers around the length.
I whined, squirming under his touch as he rubbed the tip up and down the folds. “Please, give it to me.” 
“You love how big I am, yeah? How small you are compared to me?” He commented, rubbing his head up and down a few more times before slowly pushing in until he felt resistance. “How I can only— Fuck, get so far in at first before it starts to hurt you.” His voice was a low growl as he slowly began to thrust what he could. “Always gotta stretch you out more ‘till I fit.”
His thrusts were shallow and slow, and he let out short groans, his face scrunching up occasionally as he tried to restrain himself from bullying himself into the small space. 
The wet sounds that filled the tent only beckoned the various moans from both of us to become louder and filthier, causing my ears to perk up. “You.. You’re sure no one’s gonna— fuck— hear us?”
“Mhm.” He nodded. “We’re miles away from a town. There’s no chance anyone will come here.”
“What if they ride past the road?”
“They’ll only see a tent. I made sure. They won’t hear a thing. ‘Nd baby, you’re clenching around me too much, can’t fuckin’ move.” He hissed, his palm soothingly running up and down my thigh. “Just trust me and calm down. It’s in no one’s business to come up to us.”
“What if they try to rob us?”
“Then they won’t be alive much longer.” He spoke sternly, his other hand cupping my face. “Take a breath ‘n’relax f’me.”
I took a sharp inhale, sucking the air into my lungs as I tried to untense my muscles. He sighed softly, squeezing my thigh and nodding reassuringly as he continued his ministrations.
“That’a girl, let me just fuck those thoughts out of your head.”
He moved my legs to wrap tightly around his torso, hooking my fit together as they dug into his lower back, pulling him closer to me though he was met with resistance when he didn’t fit just yet. He let out a guttural groan and I winced at the intrusion. His fat head pressing against the deepest part of my walls, threatening to push deeper into my guts, tearing me in half. 
“You don’t have to worry about anything.” He crooned, his voice low and rumbling in his chest. A mewl crawled out of my throat, a choked cry of pleasure. “Shh, that’s it, all wound up. Unwind.” He took a handful of my hair, making a messy ponytail in his fingers, tugging back my hair slightly to display my neck to him.
Gentle kisses were littered on my throat and chest as he was grinding his hips into mine, trying to push himself deeper. “Charles, it’s too much.” I struggled against his sheer size. The humiliating lingering thought of someone overhearing filled my senses as he filled my tightness.
“Ah, just open up for me, bunny.” He whispered with feverish need, reassuring me gently as my heels dug sharply into his thighs. I moaned, wanting to cover my mouth again but he caught my hand before I could, a short glare of daggers that said ‘don’t’ filled the air and I closed my eyes tight, my eyes half-lidded and glancing down at him.
His strong chest held me down, pinning me to the bedroll. His movements slow and careful as he was grinding himself into me with short thrusts. It chased little pleasure besides the feeling of fullness, the warmth taking him wholly and perfectly.
“Always so surprised by how you take me so well.” He praised sweetly, his words lingered as he eased me open, still kissing and lapping at the skin in front of his eyes. “You’re doing so—” He choked on his words briefly as he finally pushed to his hilt, a short groan leaving his lips as his eyes forcibly fell shut. “—So fucking good, sweetheart.”
I let out a short yelp of surprise, before it subdued into moans. He continued grinding into me slowly, letting me clench helplessly around him. His scratchy, well groomed pubic hair brushed against my clit and his muscles tensed as he watched me carefully.
“Oh my fucking god.” I cried out, my body arching up into him. His mouth grazed across my chest. He watched carefully, his eyes drinking in every detail of the scene, before he wrapped his lips around one of my nipples, earning another strangled moan. “Ah, Charles—”
“No. What’d I say?” He interjected. “No thoughts. No thinking. All you have to do is lay back, relax and take it.” His slowly began to move more, sliding in and out at an everlasting slow pace, letting the largeness consume my thoughts as I felt every aching inch of him fill my pulsing walls.
My head was clouded and fuzzy as all the stress melted away. “I want more.” I whispered, pleadingly. “Please.” I added as an afterthought. “Please, bear.”
“You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby.” He groaned in response, the ball of his palm pressing into the bulge through my stomach. His hips snapping into place, enough to make my tits bounce in place. “Such a good bunny, hm? All tight ‘n’warm for her big bear.” His words bordered on animalistic grunts.
“All f’you.”
“That’s right, all for me.” He nodded, pressing his lips against mine quickly. “What do you need to cum?” He asked tentatively. His hips moved, a gracious but deep pace, his body itching to go brutally with sharp movements, to press his head against my cervix harshly and fill it without a second thought.
My eyes blinked at him, bleary as I squeezed him like a vice. “Fuck me deeper.” I rasped out.
“Deeper?” He laughed, his thick digits reaching down to my middle. He rolled his neck hesitantly before abiding. He pulled away, his chest no longer pressed against mine and he took in the view of a heaving chest, arching upwards.
“Mhm, more.” I nodded blankly. His hips moved, dragging himself from the slickness and harshly bullying himself back to the hilt, moving his hips to attempt to move his tip deeper into the heat.
“Unwind.” He repeated softer, keeping the punishing pace as shameful sounds filled the tents air. “Y’re so wound up, baby, relax and you’ll cum like that.” He commented with a figurative click of the fingers.
I whined incessantly, nearing closer to the edge. “Can’t.”
“You can.” A smile spread across his lips but his eyebrows knitted. “I want you to.” He continued, his voice gentle, unintended to come across as any form of pressure. “There’s no expectations for you here. I will do what you want.”
My words caught in my throat once again, and his hand ran over my torso, squeezing my breast before pinching at the nipple. “You wanna sit on my face? I’ll eat you up ‘til you’re creamin’ all over me.” He whispered, trying to beckon some form of command from me. “You wanna ride me? I’ll get the saddle all ready for you. Whatever it takes.”
“This’s good — don’t stop.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep fuckin’ you like this.” He reassured with a hiss, his movements faltering. He let out a brief huff of amusement, taking in every detail he could. “You’re right there, bunny.”
“So close.” I croaked out, pleading with him.
“Haven’t fucked those thoughts out yet though.” He spoke quietly, a short hum and a sharp slap to my thighs. “People just ask so much from you, but you’re away.” He spoke the obvious, I wasn’t at camp currently, though I was still tense and acting like I was.
My thighs flinched at the contact, a slight sting and the flesh turning into a pink handprint. I whimpered, a good sign to his ears, my fingers grasping onto his shoulders and pulling him closer however he stayed still as a statue. His hands were occupied, one circling my clit and the other pinching and squeezing at my chest.
“What else do you need?” His words of affirmation melted away as his own orgasm approached. “Let me get you there.”
“Cum in me.” I blurted out, the first words that came to mind when I pleaded with myself to figure out what would work. I tightened my legs around him to prove a point, and he hissed, trying to pull away briefly to test my strength.
“Yeah?” He leant over me, his hand leaving my breast to hold himself up as he had a reborn vigour, using his knees to push my hips into position, moving it so he could hit deeper, his tip nudging against the cervix. “Want me to fill you up?”
I nodded, and his ragged breathing paused as he took in the utter desperation in my eyes. “You need this, bunny.” He nodded in understanding. “You deserve it.”
His thrusts staggered, short gasps and grunts leaving him. He put his sentences behind him, his eyes threatening to close each time he felt himself brush against the spongy opening to the womb, a shooting pleasure each time he did.
“Gonna cum.” He rasped out. “Y’gonna cum with me.” It wasn’t a question in the slightest, though I nodded in agreement, trying to itch myself closer. My hand met his, and I pushed his hand to move faster.
I gasped, a silent squeal leaving my throat. “Don’t stop.” I pleaded. Another choked cry, I pressed myself up to meet his chest again, my hand digging into his shoulder, pulling his body closer to mine.
My eyes squeezed shut as I clamped down on him. “That’s it, right there.” He crooned with a shaking voice, “Good breeding bunny.” He hissed with a sharp inhale, feeling the spasm around him.
“For the love of god, don’t you dare—”
“I won’t stop, bun, go on. Cum all over me. Squeeze my cock dry.” He whispered carefully, his hot breath on my face. His breathing was ragged, his hips continued to stutter. 
He held my hips firmly, angling the waist. He pushed against my cervix once again, his cock twitching with low groans. He twitched, a pornographic moan falling from his lips before he could give a warning as he pressed a rough kiss onto my mouth — messy and wet, lips clashing together as his movements slowed down, grinding harshly in place as he weakly spurted cum with guttural groans.
“‘M not done yet.” I managed to choke out.
He nodded blankly, a glazed over look in his eyes as he continued his movements through our orgasms, his overstimulation beginning to sting, but he ached for my pleasure. His cum threatened to seep out of me, coating his length and our thighs, his weak thrusts trying to push the cum further inside. “That’s a good cocksleeve, take it, bunny.” 
I slumped down limply, pushing myself up onto my elbows and he pressed a kiss onto my temple, nuzzling the sweat-slicked hair out of my face, I panted lightly and he had a low groan, still grinding his hips idly. 
My eyes were hazy, I watched him with a lop-sided grin. “Thank you, bear.” I hummed.
“Course, sweet bunny girl.” He pressed another kiss onto my temple. “Gotta make sure you’re taken care of, hm?”
I gave a short laugh, a kind smile of adoration. “Appreciate you.” I spoke quietly, yearning for the closeness between us. “Y’re too good f’me.”
“Wanna keep my cock in you?” He whispered, scooping me up in his large hands, and laying on his side, keeping me close. “Keep all that cum in place.” A low hum, his face buried into my neck, a deep inhale of my scent.
“Y’gonna fall asleep?” I murmured.
“Mhm, I’ll only ever rest when you’re sated.”
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outlawwithaheart · 1 year
Text
How clingy are the rdr2 boys?
No warnings! Just some kinda fluff relationship headcannons! Asks are open! :) Not proof read really just a lazy post. Pretty sure I got all of them. If you want a separate post for any of them just ask :D
Arthur
He's not clingy
Of course, he gives you all the attention you want
So if you're clingy, he's going to give you a lot of attention
But, he leaves camp for days at a time and what not, and usually doesn't want to to come along because it can be dangerous
He makes up for lost time though!
He leaves you drawings of yourself at where you sleep
Dutch
I'm sorry y'all saw the way he treated Molly
Sorry Dutch simps let me be optimistic
So let's say he actually loves you
And let's say.. hypothetically that you love him back
He's a perfect amount of clingy
It depends on the day though
If you leave for a day, he's okay
He of course showers you with compliments all the time
Javier
He's a little clingy!!
Well, on a scale of one to ten.. maybe a 6.792
Most days you're already chillin with him anyways
He's always touching you
Holding your hand, shoulders touching, his hand on top of your hand, his hand on your thigh, his arm around you, etc.
But if you're gone for a day or so he'll be all over you
Charles
Not clingy
If you want affection.. well he'd do anything for you
It's not that he's not affectionate, just not clingy
He does enjoy his alone time, and his quiet time!
He of course does like just being next to you in a comfortable silence
That's actually his favorite way to spend time with you
Just doing your own thing in the same space :)
Sean
Very clingy!!
He highkey follows you around like a lost puppy a lot of the time
It gets worse when he's drunk
He's all over you all the time
God forbid you leave for a few days
He will not detach from your body LMAO
He rambles on to you about nothing and everything
Micah
He's not clingy
But if you want affection
He'll complain a lot a lot
But he still gives you affection
Just for his little cowpoke awee
He secretly enjoys you begging for his attention so it's fine
John
He's a little clingy when he's drunk
But other than that he can hold off on his own
He's okay with you leaving for a few days even
He does ask for your attention sometimes though
Not outright though
He's kinda awkward but it's okay
Hosea
He's not that clingy
Occasionally though he can be
He's less of a touchy guy, more of a words guy
He's always telling you how much he loves you
Bill
Are there any Bill stans out here? Does ANYONE LIKE BILL?
Show yourselves
Anyways
He's very clingy when he's drunk probably
Any other time he's usually just fine
986 notes · View notes
bimrsadler · 11 months
Text
Goodnight and Goodmorning: Part Two
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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female reader
Word count: 1,700
Warnings/tags: high honor Arthur, smut, wet dream, dry humping, hand stuff, first time together, unprotected piv, praise kink (what else is new), language, fluff
Notes: Smutty part two of a request for Arthur sneaking into readers tent after being away, fluffy part one is here
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A soft morning sun peeked through the tent while birds chirped cheerfully and the horses huffed at the edge of camp. There was a chill that came with the early spring morning but it was hardly felt given how tightly Arthur was wrapped around you.
Sometime during the night he moved behind you, pressing his thighs against the back of yours and pulling your back to his warm chest. You couldn’t recall the last time you woke up so peacefully.
It was clear through Arthur’s deep, slow breaths that he was still asleep. He needed it and you didn’t want to disturb him, but it was hard to ignore the hard line in his union suit pressed against your lower back.
You knew it was possible he wasn’t dreaming of anything intimate and was just his body doing what it does naturally — but your mind certainly did wander.
Was he dreaming about your kiss the previous night, where it could have led? If you had asked him would he have taken you right then and there? Given what you felt of him behind you, it was all too easy to imagine how full he would make you feel, how deep it would go…
The wetness between your legs gathered and your hips instinctively rolled against Arthur; eliciting the smallest whimper and twitch of his manhood. Good God, now your mind wandered further.
Did he know on a subconscious level that your body was aching for his? Was he dreaming of burying his cock in your wet folds? His hand was tantalizingly close to your chest, thumb brushing lightly against your hardening nipple.
Arthur’s breaths quickened against your ear with another whimper, suddenly grinding against your backside. Well…maybe he was dreaming about that after all.
This had never happened before and Arthur surely would have been mortified if it had. It was difficult to tell if he knew what he was doing or was merely acting out his wet dream while still asleep. But the pleading “sweetheart” he let slip out against your ear was torture — you needed to know.
Testing the waters, your fingertips trailed along his forearm as you pushed your backside to meet his thrusts. With a shudder Arthur slowly woke, pushing himself away from you at the realization of what he was doing.
“Jesus…darlin’ m’so sorry, I didn’t mean — I… I’d never,” he stuttered apologetically.
“Arthur…”
“I’ll uh I’ll head back to my tent and,” he continued with a “dammit Morgan you fool,” muttered under his breath.
“Arthur please…” you gently stopped him as he began to sit up.
“It’s okay, you didn’t know what you were doing, but…” you paused nervously, hoping to sooth but also let him know you wanted more.
“…I liked it,” you admitted sheepishly. “Hope you don’t think less of me for saying so.”
Arthur took so long to reply you began to fear that he did, but eventually he whispered softly, “’course not.” He cautiously brought himself back to his original position behind you, “but I’d have a hard time believin’ ya.”
A pang of sadness hit your chest upon hearing that. He deserved to feel good, to feel wanted.
“Well you should, Arthur. I was just biding my time this morning thinking about all the things I want you to do to me…”
You felt his chest rise against your back, “that so?” You nodded silently with a smirk.
“Well maybe you should show me then…” His husky drawl was thick as honey and smooth as a good whiskey.
Reaching an arm behind you brought his face to yours, “oh I would love that Arthur,” pulling him in for a kiss far more heated than the night before.
You moved Arthur’s calloused hand along your stomach and between your thighs, warming him up slowly. He broke the joining of your lips to instead kiss your neck, covering every inch of skin tenderly. “Goddamn you feel so soft…”
“C’mere sweet girl, wanna see that pretty face.” He grabbed you by the hips and took control for the first time, moving you to face him. Gingerly running his knuckles down your cheek he cooed, “that’s better.”
The sunlight hit his bright eyes as they wandered along your body, taking in every inch with disbelief.
“Touch me Arthur,” you brought his hand to the swell of your breast — encouraging him to take over from there. He moved his thumb along the stiff peak showing through your thin chemise.
Your hips jolted forward, moaning timidly at Arthur’s touch and the feeling of the satin material rubbing against your sensitive nub.
Leaning down he planted kisses to your collar bone while massaging your breast in his shaking hand. Kneading gently, he let out soft groans into the crook of your neck.
Exploring further his hand traveled to your upper thigh, touching your ass in the same strong yet tender way. Clenching around nothing, Arthur took notice to your thighs squeezing together to relieve the ache between them.
He looked there where his gaze lingered, towing the line between lustful and proper. “Want me to touch you there?”
Smiling, you parted your legs ever so slightly with a shy smile, inviting him to feel what he did to you.
Positioning himself above, he kissed you slow and deep as his fingers gingerly slid down your folds, collecting the slick. “Jee-sus sweetheart,” he laughed in disbelief, “you tryna kill me?”
You felt your body flush with heat and let out an embarrassed laugh as you hid your face in the blanket, suddenly overwhelmed that Arthur was touching you there, when it was so obvious how aroused you were. The intimacy of his attention left you dizzy and buzzing.
“Hey — you don’t ever have to hide from me, beautiful.” Lifting your face to meet his, his lips pressed to yours while sliding a finger inside of you; swallowing your moans as he did.
If it weren’t for Arthur’s passionate kissing, the whole camp would have heard your ecstasy as he pushed another finger into your pussy, moving gently in and out with his thumb circling your clit. “Just like that baby…” you mewled.
It was for Arthur’s benefit too though, his raspy groans getting louder every time he stopped to breath. Somewhere between massaging your tongue with his and massaging your inner walls, he draped his leg over yours; desperately rutting against your thigh.
Feeling his hardness move against you was enough to finish the job. The waves of pleasure rolled through your clenching abdomen, breathy whines escaping as you pulsed around his fingers.
Arthur watched you come undone with murmured expletives and a hungry stare. “That’s it sweetheart, I gotchu.”
Not interested in waiting any longer, you urged him on top of you and pushed him up on his knees to unbutton his union suit — stroking the hard line straining against it as you did.
Arthur towering over you this way was something you never thought you’d see, masculinity and strength filling the air around him. Yet the quiet whines and softness of his touch brought together the best of both worlds.
Kissing his chest and stomach as more skin was revealed, you admired his form and the hair that nestled around it. The lower buttons practically undid themselves as his hardness broke through. Taking it firmly you rolled the velvet skin in your palm, thick and heavy.
Running your other hand along his muscular thigh you purred, “how’s this baby?”
Arthur’s head was thrown back atop his heaving chest. “So good, yer doin’ great sweetheart.”
Drunk on his praise you stroked him more fervently, Arthur shuddering and swearing as you did. “Dar — oh darlin’ I ain’t gonna last.”
Slowing your momentum you instead laid down, coyly pressing your legs together while rocking them back and forth. “Better take me then huh?”
Arthur parted your legs with a hand on each thigh, waiting at your entrance. Nodding gave him the permission needed to bury his cock in your heat, bottoming out as he did.
After the time spent teasing yourself while Arthur slept behind you — and his bringing you to orgasm, it was an exquisite relief to finally feel him inside of you.
Falling forward with an arm on either side of your head, Arthur whimpered your name. He stilled for a moment to let you adjust before finding his rhythm; fucking you gently into the cot with slow and sensual movements.
You gripped his arm with one hand and threaded your fingers through his hair with the other, tugging gently. White hot pleasure rippled through your core, still sensitive and swollen from Arthur’s handiwork.
“Y-you feel so good darlin’ everything boutcha feels, fuck — so good,” he rambled praises into your ear, unable to control his stream of consciousness.
His bicep flexed under your fingertips with each thrust, turning you on all that much more. Writhing beneath him you wrapped your legs around his waist and met his bucking with equal enthusiasm.
“Just like that Arthur,” you keened as your walls fluttered around his pumping cock, pushing him closer to the edge.
The small tent filled with the sounds of your stifled moans and amorous whispers. Arthur buried his face in the crook of your neck, hot puffs of breath hitting the skin he had gently marked, his full weight rocking your body as his bucking reached an erratic pace.
Without using his hands Arthur pulled out, thrusting his pulsing cock between your wet and swollen folds. Gruff groans disappeared into the pillow, Arthur’s body trembling on top of you with stiffening muscles, hot ropes coating the skin where your stomachs met.
Arthur took his time in leaving your embrace; drawing out languid kisses and quiet questions of if he did well and how you liked it. Blissful and satisfied, it was easy to reassure him.
When the time came to part, Arthur cleaned you thoughtfully with a bandanna — wondering how you got so lucky as he tended to you.
“It’s good to have you back, handsome.”
Arthur chuckled, “well it’s good to be back gorgeous. You have no idea.”
After moments passed tangled up together, you began to gather your clothes with a heavy sigh. It was — unfortunately, another day with more camp responsibilities.
“Where ya think yer headed to?” Arthur playfully grabbed your wrist and pulled you back down to the cot as you landed with a giggle.
“Told ya we were gonna take our time this mornin’.” He kissed your knuckles and pulled the blanket over your lower half. “Now get comfortable again and I’ll bring ya coffee.”
540 notes · View notes
Gossip
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Masterlist Word count: 550 Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader
Summary: You know that John likes you. You know that Arthur likes you. They know about each other, but the others don't. Gossip spreads and, what feels like a ticking time bomb, turns out to be unconnected. 
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'I don't think he knows,' Abigail says as she sits, knitting with Mary-Beth and Tilly while watching you and Arthur talk. John has gone out hunting with Charles to learn how to use a bow as he is useless with it. Arthur had asked Charles to do so but Abigail suspects he had other motives for getting John away from camp.  'I think he does,' Tilly argues with a grin, 'why else would he ask Charles? Everyone knows John is too impatient to learn how to use a bow.' She's got a point, Abigail figures.  Things had been weird ever since you joined the gang. Sadie had found you in Valentine and recognized you as an old friend. In fact, the friend who set her up with her husband. She told the others you seemed lost and needed some place where people have your back. Most were sceptical but your turned out to be a hard worker and a great hunter, bringing in huge game for the camp whenever you went out. Dutch had almost considered letting you take a wagon along so you could bring enough to sell it.  That great aim of yours also pulled in different attention. Both John and Arthur became more than smitten with your friendly and kind demeanour. Mary-Beth had suggested that Arthur liked you for your kindness and willingness to listen while John liked you for your viciousness and rough edges. Both great attributes that make you who you are.  'Well, either way, they're both fools,' Mary-Beth claims, ending the argument.  'Do you think she knows,' Tilly questions.  'For sure she knows,' Mary-Beth answers as all of them watch you gently touch Arthur's shoulder as he makes a joke not worthy of the laughter that comes out of you.  'She's really toying with them, ain't she,' Abigail grumbles. Despite liking you quite a bit, she fears what it might do to the gang if Arthur and John are pinned against each other. It's a bad predicament to be in and since the year that John left the gang is still a sore spot for Arthur, Abigail fears things might explode with the littlest of meddling. When her and John put an end to it, she was slightly relieved, but this is just insanity. 
'Do you think they know,' Arthur questions you. You shake your head with a grin.  'No, they probably think I'm hopping between you two. They wouldn't be gossiping about us as much if they knew.'  'Fair point.' He puts a gentle hand on your waist to pull you closer and watches at the jaws drop across camp.  'Are you trying to rile them up, cowboy,' you tease as you take a step closer to him. He shrugs. You roll your eyes and press a kiss to his jaw. 'Come on, let's go join Charles and John.' Arthur looks over at the women once more as he leans towards you.  'If only they knew about Charles.' You shove him away with a laugh.  'Oh, stop it. I liked you better when you were still being shy about liking me.' 
83 notes · View notes
davidlcki · 11 months
Text
payment
pairing:low honor! arthur x reader
warnings: cursing, arthur is mean, being forced to drink, age gap, game typical violence. i think that’s it
summary: your parents take a loan from strauss, and when they can’t afford it, they send you off as payment instead. it’s a 3 day journey back to the van der linde camp. will you turn the notorious gunslinger soft?
an: please let me know how you guys feel about this one! i’ve been dealing with severe writers block so this took me MONTHS to write. it might not be my best, but i’m just happy to get something out. enjoy, i love you all! ❤️
words: 5,562 (my longest yet i think)
part 2
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shouting from downstairs violently ripped you from your deep sleep, and quickly, you hopped out of bed. your hands shook as you slowly opened your door and made your way to the top of the steps.
“the money. NOW.”
you flinched at the harshness of the man’s words. instantly you knew it was the debt collectors, and that your family had nowhere near the amount needed to pay it off. you listened to your mother and father plead with the man for another week, but he wasn’t having it. at the sound of a gun cocking, your legs began to move on their own. you were bolting down the stairs.
“STOP! please, please don’t hurt them!” you hold your hands out desperately, standing between the man and your parents, who were dead silent. the man paused, the anger in his features seemed to be replaced with amusement. this was the moment that you recognized who this man was. you had seen him in many bounty posters around strawberry, he was arthur morgan.
“well now, why didn’t ya tell me about this fine young lady?” arthur’s gaze drifted from you to your parents, who were looking at each other with a look you couldn’t read. nervously, you looked between your parents and arthur. why weren’t they saying anything?
“she’ll do as payment just fine” arthur shrugs, holstering his gun and giving an easy smile, as if this was no big deal, just another day. you turned to your parents quickly, shaking your head and backing away from arthur.
“please don’t…” you looked between your mother and father desperately. finally, your father speaks.
“take her. if it works as payment, take her.” time seemed to slow as you stared at your father who wouldn’t look you in the eyes. your mother was looking down, you could tell she was holding back tears, but she stayed silent.
“what? wait, wait just-” you glanced at the door quickly, thinking of ways to escape. arthur, was quick to place his hand on his holstered gun.
“i wouldn’t, if i were you.” arthur’s voice was suddenly much lower, and his easy smile was gone in an instant. you knew there was no other way. you turned to your parents, lips in a flat line as you stared at them. you were thinking of what you could possibly say to them, when arthur’s rough hand had a grip on your upper arm.
“your own daughter…for some fucking cash…” your voice was shaky as you were being pulled towards the door. barely having time to slip your boots on, you give your parents one last look before you were out of sight.
for a while, it was silent. you were too in shock to cry or do much of anything, but think.
“we’ll camp here for the night” arthur’s voice startled you out of your thoughts, most of them being how to escape this situation. for now, he had at least some form of trust in you, considering your hands were untied.
arthur morgan was more of a myth than a person, to you. you heard the stories of the hundreds he’s killed and you knew this was probably a bad idea, but you needed to try an escape. once he hopped off his horse, you grabbed onto the reigns and kicked your heels into its sides, but it didn’t budge. the damned horse stayed dead still. the air seemed to thicken as you continued to attempt to get the horse to take off with a series of ‘hyah’s’ and ‘go’s’, but his horse was loyal, seeming to listen to him and only him. when you looked over, you swore you saw flames in arthur’s eyes.
plan b.
from the horse, you deliver a kick into arthur’s chest with all the power you could muster. just as his horse, he dosent budge. arthur lunges forwards, pulling you off the horse roughly and ignoring the protests coming from you as he threw you over his shoulder. you pounded relentlessly on his back, but he didn’t so much as flinch. instead, he tightened his grip on you, nearly squandering your ability to breathe. once finding a clearing about 30 feet into the woods, he throws you onto the grass and pulls out his lasso. you take a few seconds to catch your breath, but you don’t have time to move or get any words out. effortlessly, arthur ties the rope around your wrists and ankles before you could flip over, rendering you immobile.
“bastard! you let me go!” you finally manage to turn yourself onto your back and struggle against the rope that dug into your skin. arthur, clearly unamused at your shouting, sinks down to your level on the ground. his hips were nearly straddling yours as he kneeled and grabbed your face with a rough hand.
“watch it girl.” his voice was drawn out and easy, giving you the impression that he’s done this many times before. he releases his grip on your jaw, and brushes a strand of hair from your forehead. “don’t forget i know where you live. dont try nothin’, less you’re fixin’ to watch your parents die”.
“i don’t…. i don’t care about them anymore. they sold me. pawned me like trash.” your voice was shaky as you spoke up at him, and for a while the both of you sat and stared at each other, heavy breath fanning over your faces. arthur almost had a look of understanding for a moment. it was true. you were angry at them for so carelessly giving you away for their own benefit. in fact, you didn’t know who you were angrier at. arthur, or your own parents. finally, arthur hums and stands. you didn’t dare move from your spot on the ground, instead, you silently watched arthur set up camp. you really were afraid that he’d kill you if you so much as moved. you could see in his eyes that he was only going to let that trick you tried slide once.
you shivered and let out a ragged exhale, still catching your breath as the wind was knocked out of you not long ago. you were desperate for fire, for any kind of warmth. you were only in boots and a thin nightgown, that did much of nothing as the cold from the ground seeped into you.
“cold?” arthur stands next to your shivering frame on the ground. you say nothing, instead giving him an unamused glare. you refused to let him see you cry, so you threw on your best angry facade. you stiffened as he leaned down and lifted you, not letting out a breath of air until you were put down again. now, you were resting against a tree in front of the fire. you let out an inner sigh of relief at the warmth. arthur sits across from the fire, taking a bite of jerky from his satchel.
“so, that’s your parents farm huh? pretty nice, all considering.” arthur pauses, but you say nothing. “live there your whole life?” you didn’t even really hear his question as you asked your own.
“where are you takin’ me?” you watch arthur’s face carefully as he takes a drag from his cigarette.
“you’re joining the gang” arthur flicks the end of his cigarette, the ashes slowly float to the ground. “we need more hands. more people to help fight.”
“i’m no good at fighting” your voice was quiet, you were starting to realize you weren’t getting out of this.
“you will be. now,” arthur stands up and pulls more rope from his horses satchel “rest up, got a long day of riding tomorrow” you scoff as he begins to wrap the rope around you and the tree you were against.
“is this necessary?” arthur says nothing, instead pulling the rope tighter. after, he goes back to his spot, pulling his hat over his face and letting out a rather large sigh. for a long time, you didn’t sleep. instead, you relentlessly tugged and pulled at the rope restraining you. you knew it was pointless, but you couldn’t help trying. your face twisted in pain as your arms scratched against the rough tree bark. arthur must have been very confident in the knots he tied, because you very quickly heard soft snores drifting from across the fire. after what seemed like hours, and a few shed tears, you fell into a restless sleep.
•••
when you awoke the next morning, arthur was up, packing supplies into his horses satchel and humming to himself softly. you stayed silent, observing the man who was so mean to you do a task so mundane. when you looked down, you noticed arthur’s brown coat was thrown over your frame. it smelled like tobacco and gunpowder. when arthur noticed you were up, he quickly took his jacket back and went over to untie the rope holding you to the tree.
“morning sunshine” he throws you a smile as he pulls the rope from around the tree off, along with the rope on your ankles.
“i trust you won’t run”
“no” your voice was hoarse and you shivered violently as the wind attacked your bare skin that was previously covered. arthur stopped, thinking for a second as he took in your frame with a slow look from your head to your ankles and back up again. he pulls you to your feet, letting you catch your footing on wobbly legs as he rummaged around for his canteen. he flicks the cap off and grabs your jaw so roughly and suddenly that you let out an involuntary gasp of shock. he turns your face towards him and inspects you for a second before continuing. you could only wonder what he was thinking, his lip twitching ever so slightly into the ghost of a smile as he continued.
“drink” he puts the canteen to your mouth and watches as you desperately gulped down the water. after about 5 seconds, he pulled it away, taking a swig of the liquid himself before stowing it back on his horse.
“long ride ahead,” arthur lifts you onto his horse before hopping in front of you in the saddle, “gonna take a few days i reckon, so get comfortable”.
arthur wasn’t lying. you rode all day, so long that you couldn’t remember what direction you came from or how to get back home. although that outcome was unlikely now. desperate to escape the cold, you pressed yourself against arthur’s back. you felt him stiffen at the contact, but were too cold to care. you couldn’t count the hours it’d been, and for a while you were pretty sure you fell asleep. throughout the day, you only made a few stops. one for bathroom breaks, and one for his horse to rest. the rest of the day was a blur, not much was said, and the only noise you heard was the trotting of hoofs on the ground and the rustle of trees in the wind. when the sun began to set, arthur finally pulled to a stop.
“seems like a good spot” arthur observes the clearing, giving you a stern look before hopping off of his horse, remembering the stunt you pulled last time.
“gonna tie me to a tree again?” your voice was dripping in sarcasm as you allowed him to pull you off the horse.
“you gonna make me?” arthur’s tone matched yours as he pulled out his bedroll and some other supplies. you waited for the extra rope to come, but it never did. arthur instead unties your hands, then reties them in front of you. you audibly sigh at the discomfort that began to dissipate, and you rolled your shoulders a few times in satisfaction.
“y’ dont wanna run off in these parts,” arthur warns as the fire lights up the clearing. “the people will get to ya before the animals do.” you said nothing in response. for a few hours, you stayed dead silent. ignoring arthur’s snarky comments and nothing more than blinking when he’d toss the end of a cigarette or a twig off the ground at you. arthur began to heat a small can of stew, smiling teasingly as he watches you eye it. he pulls gin out of his pocket, downing a hefty swig.
“if you want some, you gotta speak, girl.” arthur eats a large scoop of stew, groaning dramatically in satisfaction in an attempt to tease you.
“fuck you. that enough?” arthur snorts a laugh at your response, deciding to give you a bite. you quickly chew and swallow it, savoring the taste.
“what’s your name anyway?” arthur pauses, scooping out some more stew and holding it up. “you answer me if you wanna eat.”
“Y/N. Y/N L/N” arthur feeds you the stew and downs more gin. halfway through the bottle now.
“Y/N” the way your name rolled off his tongue sent a chill down your spine. “you gotta pretty name, Y/N. how old are ya?”
you eye the man for a while, before looking back down to the tempting spoon of stew. “i’m 22. now can you feed me the god damn food?” you were getting testy now, watching arthur eat and down almost an entire bottle of gin while you’ve had nothing for over a day will do that to you.
“you got a mouth on ya!” arthur let’s out a laugh, feeding you another bite and finishing the rest of the stew himself. he stands up, stretching his legs and yawning, before walking over to you casually. nervously, you watch as arthur squats down to be eye level with you.
“sleep” a small smile crosses his face, confusing you. then, he places a hand on your shoulder and shoves you to the side so you’re in a laying position in the grass. a yelp escapes your lips as you hit the ground. “night”
you watch in disbelief as arthur goes to his spot on the bed roll, very quickly falling asleep with his hat on his face as usual. now was your turn. you thought about running, but had a feeling that arthur wasn’t lying about the people around these parts. slowly, you drifted to sleep in the damp grass.
•••
you woke up to the sound of footsteps crunching in the dead leaves. instantly you were alert. when you looked over, arthur was still passed out. you guessed the gin running through his veins was doing its work. you stayed silent, sitting up slowly and looking into the dark of the forrest around you. the fire was almost out at this point. you tugged anxiously at the ropes binding your hands. there were the footsteps again, from behind you this time. you knew those weren’t from an animal. before you could react, a man came running out of the woods. he was on you in seconds, knife in hand. you let out a scream of terror as you were slammed onto your back. you squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the knife to be plunged into your chest, but it never came. instead, there was a gunshot that seemed to shake the forest. when you opened your eyes, there was a bullet hole between the eyes of the man as he crumpled on top of you. the weight of him smothered the cry that you tried to let out. arthur was over in seconds, shoving the body off of you and pulling you to a sitting position. there was genuine worry that you saw for a mere second in his face.
“y’ alright?” he was still blinking the sleep from his eyes as he looked you over for stab wounds. he was half awake, trying to make sense of what was going on. as you opened your mouth to speak, another man emerged from the dark of the woods. he shoved arthur over, effectively knocking the gun from his hands. you were in a trance, looking between arthur, the man, and the pistol laying right in front of you. arthur’s voice startled you out of it. his voice was strained as he called your name out, he was using all his strength to hold the knife mere inches away from his chest. with your tied hands, you picked up the pistol. it was heavier than you expected.
“do… it…” his eyes pleaded with you, meanwhile, the tip of the knife was beginning to sink into his chest. without anymore hesitation, you aimed at the attackers head and pulled the trigger. your ears rung more than the first gunshot that was fired earlier, and you noticed the almost painful vibrations that flowed through your hands. arthur let’s out a sigh of relief, pushing the body off of him and sitting up, before quickly freezing again. he stared at you blankly as you continued to point the pistol at him.
“Y/N…” he holds his hands up and shakes his head. “y’ don’t wanna do this”
you looked at him for a long while, tears were dripping down your cheeks and your hands were shaking violently. you were debating killing him right here and now. but how would you make it in there woods? how would you find your way back? then, you remembered why you were here in the first place, and how your parents threw you out without a thought. finally, slowly, you lowered the gun, arthur took this oppertunity to snatch it from your hands, before audibly exhaling. he watched carefully as you broke down in tears, hugging onto yourself the best you could with tied hands and trying to wipe blood off of your nightgown.
“hey… i uh…” arthur didnt know what to say as he placed a hand upon your shoulder in attempted reassurance. to his surprise, you threw yourself into his embrace. slowly, he wrapped his arms around your frame and listened to you cry. he noticed the red marks on your wrists under the rope, and was shocked at the pang of guilt he felt. without thinking, he takes out his hunting knife and cuts the rope off of you. you use this time to wrap your arms around his waist. arthur slowly runs a hand up and down your back as you continued to sob.
“i’m scared, arthur.” was all you could get out. you had never killed a man before, and the reality was setting in. all arthur could do was mutter an awkward series of ‘it’s alright’ and ‘i’m here’s’ until you calmed down enough to let go. arthur was almost sad at the loss of your presence, and he wished he could rip this part of him out. this part that yearned for love and affection and what he was just finding out, you. half of him screamed as he draped his coat around your shoulders, while the other half cheered.
you avoided eye contact with the gunslinger as you attempted to get your tears under control, pulling his coat around yourself gingerly.
“thank you… for not letting me be killed” you kept your eyes on the fire, too afraid to look at arthur or the bodies or the blood on your skin.
“and thank you, for not shootin’ me along with this feller” you let out a scoff, lips twitching up into a small smile you mustered up. arthur took the time to move the bodies away from camp and your sight, eventually returning and sitting down again. there was a new feeling in the air between you and the gunslinger. a bond forged in blood and death. arthur never tied your hands again, and he kept watch the rest of the night. though neither of you got another wink of sleep, you stayed close to each other, shoulders touching as you sat side by side. you asked arthur plenty of questions about his gang. you were genuinely curious what it was like. you could tell he was fond of them by the way his features softened at just the thought. you realized, they were family, and it didn’t sound so bad. after hours of trying to will the sun to come up faster, it finally rose, and you were more than glad to keep moving.
you couldn’t tell how long it’d been now. you slept for a while the way you have been, your face pressed against arthur’s back in a somewhat comfortable position, but when you opened your eyes again you were in a town. upon reading the sign, you realized it was valentine. you could hear the chatter in the distance, and your eyes lit up with surprise. it had been days since you’d seen another person besides arthur. arthur must have felt you sit up straighter, because he quickly stopped his horse and looked back at you.
“i trust you’re not gonna try no shit?” he asks, exhaling cigarette smoke from his lungs. you hold back the urge to cough as the smoke wafts over your face. he observes you for a second more before straightening your messy hair. you knew it was so you looked more presentable to the town, but it was oddly gentle, intimate.
“no, but people are going to ask questions, arthur.” you spit his name out, and reference down to your now dirty and tattered nightgown. you were upset at the shift between you both after what you went through the night before, and it was hard for you to contain your anger as you spoke. the lack of food and clean clothes was starting to get to you. arthur stares at you for a while, before sighing heavily. though he still gave you attitude, you were surprised with the patience he was beginning to keep with you.
“okay… here” after a second of thinking, he pulled his coat off and placed it around your shoulders once again. casually, the two of you trotted into town, slowing to a stop at the hotel. you ignored the stares the townsfolk gave you as you walked inside. being in a tattered gown and a jacket two big was definitely turning heads.
“one bath for the lady please” arthur tosses the owner a coin and nudges you towards the bath house. once in front of the door, he grabs your wrist and turns you towards him.
“you clean up, i’ll be right back. dont get no ideas of runnin’ off now, because i will find you.” his voice was low as he looked down at you, though you were starting to notice the facade he was putting up. the way he gently held your wrist told you all you needed to know, and unbeknownst to him, you weren’t really planning on leaving. the last place you wanted to go, was back home.
“wouldnt dream of it” your voice was dripping with sarcasm as you pulled your wrist from his grip and pushed your way into the bath house.
once you finished cleaning up, you pulled the towel around yourself and waited awkwardly, leaning from foot to foot as you waited for arthur to come back. the last thing you wanted was to put your old clothes on, so you stood by the fire and slowly dried off. finally, arthur pushed his way into the bath house holding a bag. he froze for a second as he took in your frame, only covered by the small towel. once you started walking towards him, he looked anywhere but at you as he handed you the bag. you say nothing, pulling the clothes out and dropping your towel as you began to pull them on. it was a simple brown dress with yellow detailing on the sleeves, collar, and bottom. you could tell arthur had picked it out, considering how it matched to his own clothes. there was also a new night gown in the bag, and you smiled to yourself.
“could you?” you turn away from the man who was doing most anything but look at you. when he shifted his gaze to you again, your back was turned to him, revealing an unlaced corset.
“yeah… yeah sure” arthur’s hands gingerly fiddled with the string, trying his best to will away the reddening of his cheeks as he observed your exposed back. it had been forever since he had been with another woman, and he cursed the feelings arising in him for you. you turned towards him afterwards, unable to help the smile of relief from being in clean clothes.
“you… you look nice” arthur looks down at your dress, then quickly he turns and pulls you out of the bathhouse with him before you can utter a ‘thank you’.
“you hungry?” arthur wasn’t really asking as the two of you headed towards the saloon, though you almost cried tears of joy at the thought of food. with a glance to the clock on the wall, you realized it was already 6PM. the scent of food that floated through the saloon nearly made you drool. eagerly, you sat at the bar and waited for your steak and potatoes that arthur ordered to arrive.
“2 whiskeys please” arthur tosses a few coins at the bartender who nods in compliance.
“oh i… i don’t drink” arthur looks at you straight faced, sliding the shot glass to you.
“drink” his eyes stayed trained on you all the way until the shots were taken, the burning liquid slides down your throat roughly. arthur let out a hardy laugh as you coughed, instantly digging into your food as it arrived to get rid of the taste.
“another” arthur tosses more coins, not batting an eye when you protest.
“i’m not drinking anymore, arthur!” you glare in his direction angrily. arthur pauses for a while, before leaning in close and bringing the shot to your lips.
“drink the damn whiskey girl.” his voice was low and gravelly as he parted your lips with his thumb, before tilting the shot glass forward. nervously, you swallowed it. this moment reminded you that you were still technically being kidnapped by him, and that he wasn’t messing around. arthur smiles a little, taking his own shot.
“good girl.” you silently turn back to your food, eating slowly and trying to keep track of the amount of shots he was taking. eventually it became too many to count. luckily, he didn’t make you take anymore, too preoccupied with himself.
“arthur that’s enough, let’s go” it had been an hour now, and arthur was shitfaced. the wooziness you had began to feel went away quickly as you scarfed down your food. “you’re drunk”
“am not” arthur smiled lazily, attempting to order another drink, but you snatch the coins from his hand and tell the bartender we’re done. arthur gets up angrily, towering over your frame that was still sat on the stool. he opens his mouth to speak, but instead bumps shoulders with another man who was walking past.
“you bastard! watch it” arthur shoves the man back, sending him tumbling into another man behind him. shit.
in a flash, it was an all out fight between, well, you couldn’t count how many men. you stumbled back, trying to look for arthur in the crowd of men. finally, you spotted him falling to the ground and out of sight again. you debated for a while. do you wanna keep saving this fool? you bounced from foot to foot anxiously, cursing under your breath before bracing yourself and shoving your way through the fighting men. you dodged punches left and right, some of them had to have hit you, but your adrenaline blocked out the pain. finally, you spotted arthur on the ground unconscious.
“son of a bitch!” your voice was drowned out by the shouting, but you finally managed to hook your arms under arthur’s and drag him from the fighting, all the way outside, to the hotel across the street.
“one room please” you spoke to the clerk between heavy breaths, fishing into arthur’s pockets and pulling out the last coins he had for the room. you realized how bad this looked, so you tried to explain yourself. “i- i know him, i swear.” the clerk just nods wearily, recognizing the two of you from earlier and handing you the key. with help of the clerk, you got arthur into the bed.
the next hour or so you spent wiping arthur’s face down with any cloth and water you could find. he looked bad, face bruised and bloody, clothes ripped, you couldn’t help but think he looked beautiful even in this state. finally, you turned to the mirror to tend to your own wounds, which happened to only be a few bruises on your arms and ribs. you sigh in frustration at the new rip on the side of your dress. you almost didn’t notice as arthur began to wake.
“oh… what… happened?” arthur’s voice was slurred as he sat up slowly, wincing in pain and blinking hard.
“you almost fucking died, that’s what!” your voice was nearly bubbling over with anger as you stormed from the mirror over to him. “and so did i, pulling you out from all those men. you’re lucky i haven’t ran off or killed ya! you’re a fool, arthur. a damned fool.” you were tired of holding back your anger, you were pushed to your limit with him. arthur was looking at the bruises on your arms and your waist through your ripped dress, then up at you with the most puppy dog eyed look you’d seen on him.
“m’ sorry.” arthur’s voice was quiet as he spoke and you watched as a drop of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. “really, you can go. after the hell i dragged you through…” arthur scoffs a laugh and looks to the side. when you don’t speak, or leave, he looks back at you with confusion.
“i’m not gonna leave.” you paused for a while, trying to decide if this was the right decision. “i wanna join the gang.” arthur’s eyes widen at your words, but he nods slowly in response.
“i knew you’d come around” he smiles what you assumed was a genuine one. he then begins to stand, nearly toppling over on you before you grab onto him, steadying him.
“jesus, take it easy!” you push him back down into a sitting position on the bed and lean closer to his face. “i hope you have some doctors in your gang. you’re going to need stitches” you wipe at the blood on corner of his mouth with your thumb and sigh as you observe his wounds once more. when you went to pull away, arthur grabbed your wrist gently. your breath caught in your throat as you looked into his eyes nervously. you didn’t know what he was thinking. his face was unreadable. was he angry? you couldn’t tell. you opened your mouth to speak. you were going to utter your best form of apology for your assumed anger on his part, but arthur silenced you by leaning forwards and pressing his lips against yours. you let out a smothered gasp against his lips, taking a stumbling step back and tilting your head up as arthur stands again. a quiet moan of pain escapes his lips as he leans some of his weight against you. after a few moments of silence, that felt to you like minutes, you pull away, turning your head from him in uncertainty. you didn’t know what you wanted. if this was right. he was dangerous, you knew that, but something about him drew you in dangerously.
“i… i just” you tried to find the words, anything to say to him, but your feelings were like a big tangled ball of string and you couldn’t figure it out.
“i’m sorry.” arthur cuts you off, letting out a cough of pain as he backs off, limping his way to the other side of the room.
“let’s rest. we can talk about things tomorrow.” you watched in disbelief as he laid himself down on the floor by the entrance of the room, pulling his hat over his eyes and breathing deep. you could taste his blood on your lips. you took this time to change into your new night gown and toss your dress to the side. you assumed it would be trash, being unable to sew or afford a tailor.
upon crawling into bed, you fell asleep almost instantly. you missed the feeling of a bed after sleeping on the ground for days. you slept through the entire night, ignoring the throb of your bruises and the commotion of the streets of valentine. when you awoke in the morning, the first thing you noticed was that arthur was gone. the second thing you noticed, was your dress, folded neatly at the end of your bed. slowly, you crawled over and unfolded it, noticing the rip had been carefully sewn shut. with it, there was a piece of paper.
“i’m sorry for what i put you through. you deserve a choice. if you want to run with us, i won’t stop you. if you want to go back to your family, you have my word you won’t see me again.
-A”
upon flipping the note, there was the location of the gangs camp. you knew what you were going to do.
part 2
374 notes · View notes
concretevampire · 1 year
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Early Morning Breeze
arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes
A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged
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You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes. 
A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight. 
“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight. 
“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky. 
Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily. 
Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat. 
Swallowing, you return to chopping onions. 
Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet. 
Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin. 
Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name. 
Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it. 
And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal. 
He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind. 
You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that. 
Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child. 
But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith. 
The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.
The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly. 
Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass. 
It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago. 
A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women. 
Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure. 
Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse. 
You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.
When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm. 
“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?” 
Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste. 
“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.” 
You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots. 
“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.” 
“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning. 
His smile widens. 
He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?” 
“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.” 
“So that’s how I get you to talk.” 
You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive. 
“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel. 
He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue. 
Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.” 
Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?” 
“Jealous she ain’t with you.” 
Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air. 
Both of them have stilled, turning towards you. 
“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads. 
And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth. 
It’s quiet again. 
You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.
“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember. 
“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work. 
Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily. 
Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss. 
Abigail’s raised him well. 
“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.” 
You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.” 
Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?” 
“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.” 
She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.” 
“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile. 
“So you are worried.” 
“Whatd’ya mean?” 
“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.” 
You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose. 
“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.” 
Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.” 
“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.
She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile. 
That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles. 
The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking. 
His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted. 
“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals. 
“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers. 
“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling. 
And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp  looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart. 
You help Tilly with the laundry. 
Karen and you care for spare guns. 
Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love. 
It makes you snort.
Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.  
You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it. 
You don’t blame her. You used to too. 
And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning. 
Javier and Bill from a home robbery. 
Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis. 
John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand. 
But no Arthur. 
It’s a bit disheartening.  Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then? 
You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave. 
Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet. 
You thank him with a glance. 
And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.
But you go.
You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week. 
And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide. 
And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out. 
You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.
Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for. 
It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.
The promise of his return. 
“Yer mutterin’.” 
The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore. 
You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.” 
“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you. 
His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most. 
You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing. 
“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now. 
“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning. 
“Yer mad.” 
“I am not mad.” 
“Sure ya are.” 
“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct. 
“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you. 
His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello.  Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike. 
He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning. 
“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message. 
For a second, you think he doesn’t. 
But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry. 
“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants. 
His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze. 
You’re sure he wishes. 
“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines. 
He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning. 
And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.” 
You look up, raising a brow. 
“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words. 
The only way he failed Hosea. 
“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again. 
Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.” 
You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better. 
And you look up, less angry this time. 
He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills. 
Finally, you acquiesce. 
Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.
You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat. 
“Your hair’s gotten long.” 
Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does. 
“Want me to cut it?” 
You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles. 
“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?” 
“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.” 
Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly. 
And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too. 
“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks. 
“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained. 
“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder. 
“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.
Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.
And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like. 
But you don’t. You never would. 
Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. 
Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another. 
Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours. 
“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out. 
“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return. 
Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you. 
Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead. 
But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other. 
That was you. 
Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people. 
Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together. 
And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie. 
“You’re not gonna ride?” 
He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you. 
“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.” 
You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?” 
The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking. 
“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.” 
He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.” 
You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang. 
They make Arthur laugh. 
“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.” 
Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.” 
“You would if there was money in it.” 
“Is there?” 
“I’ll say no for my own sake.” 
Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch. 
“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame. 
“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge. 
“You gotta get out more.” 
“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.” 
All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.” 
An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.” 
And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh. 
“What do you mean I’m not?” 
“You hate Saint Denis.” 
“I know but-“ 
You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.” 
He pouts. “It ain’t torture.” 
“Mhm, sure.” 
Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder. 
And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do. 
Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way. 
And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room. 
You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself: 
Talk to Dutch. 
Contribute money and check the ledger.
Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen. 
Help with any last minute chores. 
Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too. 
So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard. 
And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization. 
Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched. 
Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times. 
He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper. 
It’s strange when he gets like this. 
It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head. 
“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse. 
Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan. 
“Are you serious?”  But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees. 
You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there. 
Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again. 
When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar. 
“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything. 
“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.” 
Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles. 
“And whose fault is that?” 
He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it. 
“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly. 
“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.” 
“When,” he amends. “When they get better.” 
“Sure.” 
He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“ 
“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.” 
He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated. 
A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul. 
But you let go, and turn away. 
Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten. 
You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before. 
And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair. 
He’ll need a wash tomorrow. 
You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade. 
Obviously, you wake before him. 
Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams. 
His soft snores ensue. You drift away. 
And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted. 
And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee. 
At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze. 
He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard. 
At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it. 
Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back. 
He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.
Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically. 
It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue. 
Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once. 
You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all. 
But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always. 
“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.
He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?” 
You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?” 
“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).
And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.
He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him. 
But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been. 
But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family. 
“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron. 
“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?” 
“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other. 
Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery. 
“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts. 
“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.” 
He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?” 
And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power. 
In hatred. In violence. 
You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land. 
It had confused you. Hurt you even. 
And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die? 
And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you: 
“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.” 
And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too. 
You stare at Dutch. 
“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth. 
Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch. 
“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked. 
“Read it.” 
“My, aren’t you full of surprises?” 
“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?” 
He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense. 
“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.” 
Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?” 
“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking. 
“And how often is that?” 
“More than I’d like.” 
Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up. 
“Isn’t that the truth.” 
Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains. 
You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye. 
And it’s all very domestic. 
A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary. 
When dreams rule the plain of existence. 
Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months. 
Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret. 
And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it. 
“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.
“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have. 
Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay. 
Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile. 
He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.” 
“He does, doesn’t he?” 
“Where did Uncle Arthur go?” 
Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.” 
Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!” 
You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket. 
“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.” 
Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.” 
And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.” 
“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks. 
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.” 
Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?” 
And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.” 
And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt. 
Little brown capped soldiers. 
“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?” 
You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.” 
“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?” 
“It was before you were born.” You add gently. 
“Ohhh. Was it scary?” 
“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.
Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?” 
A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.” 
Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is. 
And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says, 
“There she is.” 
Micah’s back. 
Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside. 
Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated. 
“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?” 
A sock is hung up, next a union suit. 
“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?” 
You’re running short on clothespins. 
“You gettin’ tired of him?” 
There’s still enough for now. 
“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?” 
You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung. 
“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.” 
Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins. 
“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.” 
You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly. 
And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.
You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean. 
Washed away of filth and stress. 
An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over. 
“Good afternoon,” you say. 
“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers. 
You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?” 
He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.” 
You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.” 
“We could rent a room.” 
“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide. 
He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.” 
“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.” 
That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate. 
“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly. 
And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page. 
But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words. 
And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what. 
Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more. 
Not until night falls. 
You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night. 
Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out. 
And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave. 
Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.
And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped. 
In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.
“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?” 
You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.” 
A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose. 
“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.” 
“Was he angry?” 
“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.” 
And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars. 
You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight. 
“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves. 
You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out. 
“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.” 
“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts. 
“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?” 
Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together. 
“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.” 
Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him. 
Only him. 
And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something. 
But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light. 
He’s struck gold. 
Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche. 
He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers. 
The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers. 
The gift of walls. 
And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets. 
“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties. 
Not since Mary. 
And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered. 
And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent. 
But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to. 
Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name. 
And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too. 
It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started. 
Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. 
He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts. 
And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second. 
For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache. 
Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily. 
There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good. 
A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop. 
Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress. 
To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.
Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does. 
And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea. 
You’re a woman, of course you have. 
But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer. 
Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint. 
Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.
He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch. 
It’s intoxicating.  
For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple. 
A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier. 
You all but melt. 
You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly. 
You’re oversensitive and overstimulated. 
When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.
His trousers have become a hindrance. 
Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.
And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants. 
“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.” 
You ponder him for a moment, then nod.
The trousers are off in an instant. 
And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper. 
Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do. 
He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off. 
And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm. 
Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset. 
Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further. 
Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him. 
And finally, you slide onto his length. 
It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely. 
He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist. 
Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again. 
The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you. 
To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being). 
And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder. 
You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else. 
You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck. 
And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach. 
“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown. 
His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him. 
“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out. 
In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful. 
Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress. 
Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves. 
Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does. 
And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress. 
And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him. 
“Please,” you beg. 
“Please, what?” 
Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.
He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours. 
A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum. 
Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set. 
And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen. 
Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy. 
He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot. 
Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.
The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation. 
Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would. 
He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant. 
But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly. 
It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck. 
Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself. 
But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over. 
Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock. 
He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties. 
And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated. 
He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders. 
It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is. 
And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.
After a while, he mumbles your name. 
You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss. 
“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.
You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like. 
“You heard him today I’m guessing.”
“When you were doin’ the laundry.” 
You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say. 
“No it ain’t.” 
You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.” 
Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created. 
“Okay.” 
649 notes · View notes
immajustvibehere · 6 months
Text
Touch Starved Arthur x fem!touchy Reader
Pairing: hh!Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader (fluffly)
summary: Arthur wonders why you, the most touchy person who doesn't mind hugging and being close to everyone in the gang, avoids him. Then you catch him alone one night and he finds solace in your closeness.
warning: Mentioning of Micah's abuse, it's platonic now but maybe second part for some lover action if y'all want?
2400 words, about 10-13 minutes reading time
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Arthur didn't understand how you could be so open, giggly, and affectionate with anyone in the gang but him. Your willingness to engage in physical touch made no difference of man, woman or child. He had started to observe your interactions with others more closely, ever since he had found out that they gave him a bitter feeling of jealousy. You held hands with the girls, play-wrestled with Jack, leaned into Hosea's hugs at the cam-fire or happily jumped on Sean's back for some piggyback rides. Even when talking to someone, you'd stand unusually close, a hand on the arm of whoever you were conversing with.
Everyone came to you with their problems, because they knew they could expect hugs or soft caressing. Your role as source of comfort and support within the gang was truly valued, but you weren't stupid or overly naive when it came to intimacy. When you found it not appreciated or uncomfortable, you'd soon let it be. After Micah had joined the gang, Arthur had kept a close eye on how you proceeded around him. For a couple of weeks, until he had settled in, you had kept your distance before approaching him. Arthur almost boiled when he saw how gently you rested your hand on his arm and he almost intervened when he saw Micah's prudish reaction of pulling you closer, groping you and asking if you were the camp's whore. After this encounter with Micah, you wisely chose to keep your distance.
Arthur wondered if he had done something wrong, but he coulnd’t remember any occasion where he would have abused your trust. You had been closer to him before, but it seemed a long time ago. You'd lean into him during story times or greet him with a hug after coming back from a big score…but eventually, it had stopped. Had he given an unintentional signal that he didn't want to be touched?
Those were Arthur’s thoughts as he sat opposite of you at the campfire. You were seated on the log which Javier used as backrest. You sat exactly behind him, your arm and head resting on his shoulder. Sometimes, Javier would snuggle his cheek against your arm. A lover's touch, Arthur thought. He wondered about certain situations that felt needlessly…loving. Keeping in mind that you weren't as restrained and conservative when it came to touches, he thought that some people tended to abuse that. Dutch, especially. You'd sit on his lap and while Arthur was sure your thoughts were naive and you'd just figured out that Dutch likes the attention and you saw nothing more behind it than similar physical intimacy you granted the others, Arthur was convinced that Dutch's thoughts weren't as pure. It was he who had picked you up from a saloon one day, praising your carefree and happy character, warning everyone to respect you. But when he pulled you onto his lap, Arthur swore it was a patronizing move with afterthoughts. Not that he thought either one of you would act upon it.
But it riled Arthur. You'd hold Lenny's hand when he had a bad day and even massage Uncle's back if he asked kindly enough…but Arthur had been ignored for a while now. Arthur had been starring at you and Javier, at your arm that rested so comfortably on him, but as Arthur's eyes wandered up with the intent of studying your face, he found you staring back at him. Slowly, you receded your arm and sat up straight, no longer in contact with the man in front of you. Arthur felt like you had caught him daydreaming. Then you nodded towards the outer rims of camp, standing up and signalling Arthur to follow. He waited a few moments and gave you a head start, before following you into the darkness, away from the group and the campfire.
Arthur had soon caught up with you, as you headed straight for the little patch of wood.
"What're ya up to?", he asked, watching you curiously as you made your way through the forest.
"Nothing specifically, will you join me for a walk though?", you invited with a kind smile.
"Sure. Ain't exactly safe to wander away from camp in the middle of the night", Arthur commented and stomped through the dry leaves on the ground, right at your side.
"How have you been recently?", you asked, your eyes trying to catch his.
"Jus' fine."
"Mh, don't you lie to me, Mr. Morgan. I can tell you have something on your mind."
"Yer that good at reading people?", Arthur said surprised.
You giggled: "Not particularly. But you always have something on your mind, so that wasn't a far-reaching guess."
"Suppose not", Arthur chuckled warmly.
"So?"
Arthur shrugged and caringly extended his arm for you to hold onto, as you climbed over a fallen dead tree. For a moment, he was very focused on your warm and soft hand that had a tight grip on his arm as you tried not to lose balance. Though as soon as the obstacle had been crossed, your touched ceased from his arm, only its memory remained a while longer.
"I don't like 'round here. The way we are foolin' with both of 'em families. I don't think it'll work out,” Arthur said truthfully, "Besides, I don't like the stifling weather."
"I understand", you answered. You never argued when someone was confiding in you, neither did you come up with solutions, if not requested. But you listened, and this was enough.
By now, you had crossed the woods and had reached the meadow with some old ruins of houses and fences. You strolled towards a wall barely higher than a log and watched as Arthur sat down on it. You stood in front of him, carefully inching closer between his legs. Then you reached out and fixed his collar: "Has been annoying me all night..."
Arthur blushed profusely at this domestic gesture, but you barely noticed as you sat down next to him.
"You saw Mary Linton back in Valentine, didn't you?"
"I did", Arthur admitted briefly.
"So tell me more! I bet it's been on your mind", you said.
"I don't know,” Arthur sighed, “I think I miss what we had, but I'm no idiot. It didn't work before, and it wouldn't work now… Maybe I am an idiot, 'cause I keep entertaining those thoughts."
"Why wouldn't it work?"
"Ain't the best time to go off and stay away from camp. There's always something happening, I'd feel like a fool if I pursued her. Besides, her daddy never liked me and that for sure didn't change."
"What would make you happy, though?", you asked and looked at him. Arthur looked you in the eye.
"I think I just miss having a woman by my side. Marston is a damn fool to behave so cold around Abigail and little Jack,” Arthur complained. His gaze wandered off in the distance, searching for a landmark to focus on.
"He'll come around eventually", you smiled, knowing a lot more about John's situation after he had confided in you only a few weeks prior.
"I hope. I just want him to do right by her and the boy,” Arthur said.
"There it is,” you smiled and bumped your legs into his, "big, bad outlaw – lovingly caring for his friend’s wife and kid."
"Yer a damn tease, don't know how they all flock to you talking about their problems", Arthur quipped, now bumping his shoulder into yours. To his surprise, you stayed leaned against it, sighing happily and watching as he lit himself a cigarette.
Suddenly, your hand now rested on his arm, very lovingly and gently.
"All of a sudden, huh?", Arthur commented.
"All of a sudden what?"
"The touchin' and listenin' and stuff. Thought you'd keep ignoring me."
"What? Ignoring you? I'm sorry if I gave you this impression...I thought you didn't like that with other people around."
Your hand had disappeared from his arm, which pained Arthur.
You were right, of course you were. Arthur wasn't too big of a fan of showing that he needed loving attention as much as anyone, but you had figured it out. And now he realised why you had stopped, because you always felt him tensing up, shutting down and avoiding your gaze when you initiated some intimacy.
"Oh", Arthur mouthed. Now he took your hand and placed it on his thigh, squeezing it lightly, "I'm a moron, Miss y/n. I didn't realize you had picked up on that."
You smiled, satisfied that you'd been right, and leaned your head against his shoulder.
"I feared I had said something improper to scare you away", Arthur admitted in a quiet voice.
Of course not, you thought, if anyone in the gang was as gentle, pure and seemes the revel in those little touches, it was Arthur. And it was rewarding to see him soak up those little attentions like a sponge.
"Then you're right about being a fool. You haven't done anything wrong, Arthur", you said and squeezed his hand to emphasize those words. Hearing his first name roll from your lips had something very comforting. Arthur felt right at home, though he was sitting in a field.
"Yer a good person", Arthur said, "I'm damn sure you're the person holding this gang together. We'd have crumbled if it wasn't for you."
"You're giving me too much credit. You work way harder to keep us on track", you admitted and snuggled your face on his shoulder. Your thumb was slowly stroking his arm, Arthur watched shyly how the finger disturbed the hair that was growing on his forearm.
He had forgotten how much he needed that.
You heard the shaky breath the man next to you took.
"'s it dumb that I enjoy that?"
"No. Not at all", you honestly answered.
"What's the most ridiculous thing you've ever done for one of the fellers?", Arthur asked, feeling slightly embarrassed about asking you for something, even though all it would have been is if he could wrap an arm around you. After all, you had initiated all touch.
"Mh, well Micah-"
"No that", Arthur scoffed, "Could have beaten this rat's head in when he called you names, but i felt like you could handle the situation."
"Yes, I had", you said, squeezing his arm.
"I meant more like...did any of the man ever request something funny?"
You giggled: "Oh, you'd be surprised. But I won't tell you. Their secrets are as save with me as yours would, so don't feel bad about asking. I've heard that I give brilliant head-massages."
"That so?", Arthur said.
But he kindly refused the offer to lie his head in your lap, but when he offered this service in return, he was surprised when you readily agreed. "Thought you'd never ask!"
With your head resting on his thigh and looking up into the night sky, you could feel his muscles flex and tense under the weight of your head. Arthur took a while until he relaxed, even longer until he leisurely started to play with strands of your hair. He was very gentle, barely daring to touch your head and only letting few strands of hair run through his fingers.
Arthur closed his eyes and could imagine things that he normally would never let himself indulge in. A family, a cabin out west, a wife and a kid. Boy or girl or both, it didn't matter. A time where he didn't have to worry about the law chasing him down. Maybe, also a dog.
Lost in thoughts and thinking about what could have been, Arthur lost sense of time. It was your voice that brought him back to reality after a while.
"Arthur, dear? I'm getting a little tired. Could we head back?", your voice was soft and whispery. It didn't quite shake him up from his dreams. It's as if his wife called him back inside. But of course, you weren't his wife. And there was no "inside", only back to camp, back to the others.
"Of course, sorry. I didn't want to keep ya from sleepin'", Arthur apologized and waited until you had risen, before standing up himself with a stifled groan.
"I enjoyed this a lot, you know", you admitted. Even though neither of you had spoken, you felt like you had been part of Arthur's imaginations. And maybe found some solace in the same little dreams that he had.
"Me too. Thank you", Arthur said, and still was surprised when you hugged him gently. He hesitated for a moment, before putting his hand in the small of your back. Arthur felt good. It was a feeling that he hadn’t felt in a while. Having confided in you, the intimacy…there was this warm sensation in his chest. It had been a energizing experience, to say the least, dreaming without being judged.
You walked back with your arm intertwined with Arthur's. So not to "trip" on branches in the darkness, but also because it felt right. Arthur didn't dare to ask if that could become a regular thing. You only said good night when you had reached camp and he watched as you walked off to your bedroll.
Something had changed though, because the hugs after coming back from a long day of robbing and killing came back. Suddenly, when you handed him a plate of stew, your fingers would briefly touch. Whenever you found the opportunity, and Arthur gave you plenty, you fixed his collar or suspenders. With time, he lost the hesitation and would pull you closer when you were busy with dusting off his shirt.
Yet, you were occupied most of the nights. Arthur would see you at the jetty, talking with Lenny or deep in concentration while playing a game of Dominoes with Bill. You’d help Kieran with the horses and most of all, you’d always take time for Jack. It was you that put Jack to bed most nights, Abigail exchanged a few words with Arthur one morning on what a great help you’d been. From this point onwards, Arthur loved watching from a distance when you interacted with Jack. Slowly, an idea started to form. Maybe, if he worked up the courage, he could ask you to spend a night or two away from camp. Take Jack with them, as a kind gesture towards Abigail and to give the boy some distraction from his daily life in camp. Hell, you spent more time with him than John did anyways, and Arthur doubted that Abigail would have trouble entrusting you with him for a few nights. But it involved asking you…out, sort of. It wasn’t such a selfless action, though Jack would benefit, Arthur craved some time with you alone. And Arthur wasn’t sure if asking for this was overstepping a line.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Second part with Arthur taking out reader and Jack? Anyone interested? Wanna be tagged?
Second Part here!
1K notes · View notes
polakina · 14 days
Text
how they kiss you
red dead redemption headcanons #1
hc masterlist // masterlist
wanted to do some rdr2 headcanons since my cod ones have been so fun. send in any ideas. im all ears, petals
rating: explicit
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every kiss with this man feels like a breath of fresh air
so passionate
he loves catching you off guard with kisses
smiles when he sees your look of bewilderment when he sneaks behind you, planting a kiss on your cheek
likes to hold your face when he kisses you, his hands on your cheeks, holding you close
smells of burnt wood and tastes of cigarettes, but you love it nonetheless
always kisses softly, but deeply, until your head clouds and you can't focus on anything but the moment
favourite place to kiss you is your neck
likes to sit behind you at the campfire when he's taking a break from playing his guitar
he wraps his arms around you and kisses your neck softly every time
you think it's just because he likes to be close to you
but the real reason is because he can feel your pulse quicken under your skin, the beating against his lips speeding up with each kiss
it's your favourite place to be kissed, and he knows it
is the instigator of most kisses
tilts your chin up if you're sat at the camp table to kiss your lips
pulls you into him by your waist if you're passing by and kisses your cheek before going on watch around camp
nsfw (minors LEAVE)
you can tell when he's needy for you just based on how he kisses you
in camp, it's sweet but fleeting
he never lingers
when you're alone, they're deeper, his tongue searching the crevice of your mouth
or even if you're at the campfire with everyone else, and he kisses you until the breath leaves your lungs, you know exactly what he wants
he may love to kiss your neck, but nothing beats kissing his way down your body in the confines of your shared tent
kissing your stomach and your thighs, the noises you make, his lips never want to leave your skin
he likes to bite your bottom lip when he kisses you, mumbling against your neck as he works his way down your body about how much he wants you, all the things he wants to do to you
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he kisses you like it's the last time his lips will ever touch yours
fervently, passionately
and nothing but that
his lips are planted hard and firmly against yours, his hands cradling the back of your neck and wrapped around your lower back
always says he loves you between kisses
his favourite place to kiss you are your hands, though
sweet, innocent hand or knuckle kisses are what he really loves
takes your hand in his whenever he's preparing to ride out, and leans down from his horse to kiss the back of your hand
his beard always tickles your skin, and he smiles when you giggle at the roughness of his scruff
he started to kiss your knuckles because you did it to him
his bruised fingers and bloodied knuckles, you kissed them and said it'd make his hands feel better
it was bullshit, but you did it anyway, and he loved it
likes to kiss all over your face, peppering your features in his kisses
he stands taller than you, so likes to tip your head up to kiss you
dips his head with a smirk on his face when he kisses your lips
nsfw (minors LEAVE)
always starts with your hands when you're in the bedroom
kisses each of your knuckles while his eyes remain fixed on yours
loves loves LOVES to kiss you when he's inside you
whether you're on top, sinking down slowly onto him, or whether he's hovered above you
he loves kissing you slowly, deeply, his tongue mingling with yours as his taste of whiskey and smoke seeps into your mouth
loves when you moan into his mouth, that shit could make arthur cum on the spot
especially loves to kiss you afterwards, kissing the tip of your nose as you laid there together, breathing some air back into your lungs
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his kisses are hesitant, and you can feel the nerves behind his kisses
he was especially nervous to kiss you the first time. the man was a bag of shakes when he first kissed you
and he's been like that ever since
he's a simple man
his favourite place to kiss you is your lips
sweet innocent kisses from him when you wake in a morning is what fuels you for the day
before he leaves for a job, or to hunt, or to basically anything, will kiss you softly and quickly, almost as if he didn't kiss you at all
they're quick pecks, he doesn't do much more than that
like i said, he's a simple man
is first and foremost a gentleman, will ask to kiss you when you get a moment alone
doesn't like pda, won't do it in front of the group unless he's in a panic from a job gone wrong
that's when he'll hold you tightly, kissing you deeply and whispering how much you worried him
but other than that, will ask for your permission
you've told him countless times he doesn't have to ask, and countless times he's ignored you and asked anyway
nsfw (minors LEAVE)
when he fucks you, he mainly kisses you to keep himself quiet
if he didn't, his groans would fill the tent
the man cannot be quiet
but when he's in that blissful moment of feeling you clench around his cock, he practically begs for you to kiss him
he loves being close to you when the two of you are alone
"fuck. please kiss me, darlin'. you feel too good. i need you"
kisses you with a sense of passion you haven't felt before when he's inside you
bites your bottom lip, your neck, kisses all over your chest and breasts
absolutely obsessed with your body
181 notes · View notes
margowritesthings · 11 months
Text
Vedova Nera
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pairing: Dutch van der Linde x f!reader
summary: You've been Angelo Bronte's live-in assassin for years now, going undercover to kill those who have wronged him. Your next job seems rather simple: eliminate the outlaw Dutch van der Linde. What could go wrong?
word count: 5710 words
warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION, violence, mentions of sex as part of a job, breath play, reader is an assassin, rough sex, choking, attempted murder, angelo bronte being a creep, sexual themes, cunnilingus (r receiving and giving)
a/n: this was a request from my beloved @cowboydisaster and god was it a wonderful prompt. I LOVED writing this, so thank you for the inspiration darling. So so glad to be publishing after such a long break, and I want to thank any and all of you who have stuck around to wait for me <3 love y'all, here's some filthy Daddy Dutch smut!
beta read by @cowboydisaster
taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @beea-nie @cloudynoiire @punctillous @dutchysoriginalwife
support me by buying me a coffee!
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When the sunlight streams through the gap between the red velvet curtains, peacefully stirring you awake, it feels like any other day. The silk sheets seduce you to stay, the feather pillow beneath your head luring you into five more minutes of dreaming, despite the noises of the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis penetrating the peace through a crack in your bedroom window. You really could stay here all day, cocooned in luxury while the staff serve your every whim.
But you can’t. The second your lashes flutter open and your eyes land on the dress hanging from your wardrobe, you’re reminded exactly why. While the fact that somebody must’ve delivered it to your room while you slept churns your stomach for a moment, you can’t deny that it’s an exquisite piece. The silk falls from the hook like a crimson waterfall and you know it will hug your body just perfectly by the way it hangs. You’ll look perfect tonight at the party, even if you will be draped on his arm. 
Urgh. The frown on your face is quickly pushed away at the sound of your door knocking. Nice of them to knock this time, though you’re sure it’s only because they know you’re awake and would knock whoever is brave enough to sneak into your room on their ass in seconds. 
“Miss? Mr. Bronte would like to see you.” The voice is somewhat muffled by the heavy wooden door, but your orders are clear as day, no matter how politely they’re worded. You’re to be downstairs in no more than five minutes. You huff, the only response you’re willing to give to the poor, innocent henchman at the other side of the door. Well, not exactly innocent, but who are you to talk? 
It doesn’t take long for you to brush your hair out of its braid with your fingers, the curls freely cascading down your back, get dressed, and find yourself knocking on the open, ornate door leading to the parlour. Bronte is waiting for you, arms stretched out around the back of the couch, taking up far more room than he deserves to. When he lays his eyes on you, he stands, reaching his arms out, palms upturned as he grins at you.
“Ah, il mio poccola ragna, how are you?” 
It feels like you’re being doused in lukewarm grease, but you allow him to hold your hands in his, pulling you just close enough to kiss you on the cheek, “I’m fine. Thank you for the dress, it’s beautiful.”
“And you will look stunning in it tonight, cara mia. Nothing but the best for la mia vedova nera.” 
You raise a brow, knowing that Angelo only calls you his black widow when he has a job for you. Of course he does. Nothing comes free in this world, and you have a deal. Bronte gives you a roof over your head, that plush bed you’ve grown awfully fond of, and all the luxuries a man of his stature could offer. In return, you work exclusively for him, as opposed to the freelance assassinations you used to offer to anyone with a fat enough wallet. In its simplest terms, that is your agreement with Angelo Bronte, but that doesn’t stop his wandering eyes, sickly terms of endearment and clammy hands wherever he can get them.
“It is with only the deepest regret that I shall not have you on my arm tonight, but alas, I have a job for you that requires a certain distance between the two of us, amore.”
It takes a level of restraint to not physically sigh in relief when you learn you won’t be spending the evening performing as Bronte’s woman, but your intrigue grows ever stronger when your curious gaze falls to the wanted poster laying on the table next to you. A sketch of a man steals your attention, and his intense stare threatens to never give it back despite being mere charcoal. Instinct tells you to reach out and run a finger lightly over the crumpled paper, tracing the man’s strong jawline, though you’re not quite sure why. You’ve never seen him before, nor have you heard his name: Dutch van der Linde. The poster isn’t from around here, it’s from Blackwater. You can tell, because you’ve seen your own face staring back at you on one just like it before finding yourself under Bronte’s protection. 
“This the guy?” You ask quietly, still entranced by this stranger etched into coffee coloured paper. Bronte doesn’t seem to notice, already leaning back into the loveseat.
“Sí, bella. He is new to town, he does not know of my vedova nera, and we must keep it that way. He dishonours me, dishonours my city. He will be at the mayor’s party tonight, but he will not see tomorrow, will he, cara mia?”
It isn’t a question, but you nod anyway.
Dutch van der Linde will not live to see another day. 
═══════☆═══════
Some consider this, the pomp and performance of high society, a gilded cage, forcing man into superficial roles to play and stripping him of any true freedoms, but you’ve learnt to see the beauty in taking advantage of it. You’re more than happy to put on a pretty dress and play pretend, laughing along to terrible anecdotes with a drink in your hand and a smile perfectly crafted on your reddened lips. After having truly nothing, living at the very bottom of the food chain, putting up with this farce is a small price to pay for a little security. Besides, drinking champagne while rich men call you beautiful is hardly a sacrifice. Most of them are old and rather greasy, but you’re more than capable of holding your own. They’re just microscopic cogs in a grand plan they’ll never even know about, orchestrated by someone they overlooked because of the way they look. Your greatest asset, you’re sure.
You reach for the champagne flute at the very top of the sparking pyramid, the bubbles dancing on your tongue from the first sip. When you make your way upstairs to the balcony, every tiny bubble rising to the top of your glass reflects the illuminated string lights wrapped around the iron gazebo and every pole in the perfectly tended garden, casting the who’s who of Saint Denis in a warm glow. From your spot on the balcony, you observe all, searching for your Dutch van der Linde. You can see your host, mayor Henri Lemieux, engaging in what could only be considered ‘schmoozing’ with a group of men in top hats by the fountain, and although you can’t see every face, you somehow know that none of them are the one you’re looking for. Those piercing eyes are sure to come with a presence to match, and you can’t feel it yet. 
That is, until the french doors into the house are opened and the hairs on your arm stand up straight. You blame the cool breeze that is pushed into you by the swing of the door, though that doesn’t account for the quickening pace of your heart. You rarely get nervous for a job, why would you? It’s all you’ve ever known. 
So why this one?
The thought falls down your spine with a shudder, and you try to shed your doubts quickly with a rather large sip of champagne that seems to numb the sharp edges to smooth curves just slightly. Your hand rests gently on the balcony, maintaining a facade that you’re looking out into the crowds below instead of listening in on the conversation between the group of men just feet away from you. In your peripheral vision, you spot him, dressed in a suit that simply must have been sewn around his body with the way it perfectly fits him. He wears a top hat, a large cigar burning between his gloved fingers. He takes your breath away upon first glance, your cheeks flushing when your eyes meet. You offer a small smile, before looking back over the ongoing party and finishing the rest of your champagne, leaving a red stain on the lip of the flute.
Now, you wait, hoping you left enough of an air of mystery and allure for your target to approach you. Bronte is with the group of men attending with Dutch, but neither of you acknowledges the other to maintain appearances. Definitely something you could get used to. 
Twirling the stem of your flute between your nimble fingers, you watch the crystal carvings refract and scatter beautiful dots of light over your dress as you listen in to Dutch, Bronte, and another man you’ve never seen before talk over their cigars. It’s all bullshit, Bronte bragging that the whole town fears him while he acts overly friendly to the man he has hired you to murder tonight, and it takes all the restraint you have to not visibly roll your eyes. You lift your glass to your lips again, before realising it’s empty. As you turn on your heel to head back to the drinks table, you’re met with an outstretched, gloved hand, bubbling flute presented to you in its grasp. 
It’s him.
Up close, you can see how beautifully he’s cleaned up from whenever he was sketched for his poster, his moustache gelled in an upward curve, his eyes a deep auburn that a charcoal sketch could never truly capture. He’s magnificent, his presence drowning you, and you’re sure even without the formalities he’d be just as stunning, a roughened cowboy with a drawl to send you weak in the knees. 
“For you, my dear.” He offers, watching intently as you take the flute between your fingers.
“Why, thank you, sir. I never knew they hired such well dressed gentlemen at these events.” You joke, smiling almost mischievously at him before taking a sip, “You surely can’t be a guest here, they’re never this kind.”
“Afraid so, miss. Dutch van der Linde, at your service.” He takes your free hand in his, lifting your knuckles to his mouth to kiss them tenderly. The sensation travels up your arm and sends a little flutter through your stomach. Quite the gentleman, it seems.
“A pleasure, Mr. Van der Linde.”
“Please, Dutch is fine. And the pleasure is all mine.”
You offer your name in return and a shy smile, the one that often has your victims bowing to your every need while they imagine you writhing beneath them, and by the way Dutch watches you, he’s no exception. 
“Tell me, Dutch,” you oblige, “what is a fine gentleman such as yourself doing at an event like this? Are you a friend of our host?”
“No, I am a guest of Mr Bronte’s, attending on a personal invitation.” You instantly sense it, the displeasure hidden in amongst the pleasantries. You’re not at all surprised, Angelo is hardly a likeable man. 
“Ah, I see.” “You know him?” “Not personally, no,” You lie, glancing over to the man in question, who appears to be boring the ears off Dutch’s abandoned friend as he downs his near full glass of whiskey, “But everyone who’s anyone in Saint Denis knows of him. He’s… real somethin’.” You match Dutch’s indignation with an expert precision, and you don’t need to pretend one bit. 
Dutch laughs, a hearty one at that, using the gesture to take a step closer to you, “Now that we agree on, my dear…”
A comfortable silence passes between the two of you and a waiter arrives, passing Dutch a rich amber drink that he thanks him for. You grab the waiter's attention, asking for a bourbon of your own. It doesn’t go unnoticed that Dutch looks impressed.
“I can admire a woman who appreciates a fine whiskey.” He remarks, tipping his glass to you and you smirk, raising a sharpened brow,
“I can appreciate much more than a fine whiskey, Mr Van der Linde.”
The air between the two of you is electric, charged with something inexplicable yet maybe the most powerful energy you’ve ever felt.
“Is that right?” It comes out almost a growl, which you feel deep in your core. The way he’s looking at you… it’s inevitable. Mission accomplished.
You lean in closer, glancing down to the snow white flower pinned to Dutch’s lapel. Your eyes linger on the thing, so stark a contrast to the jet black suit he’s wearing, so delicate a symbol for a hardened criminal you’ve been hired to murder. 
There’s little space between the two of you now, far less than is proper, but Dutch closes it, his hot breath tickling the lobe of your ear as he whispers to you,
“How about we get a real nice room somewhere and I show you just how much I can admire a woman who appreciates a good whiskey?”
═══════☆═══════
Sending Dutch back downstairs to the saloon for drinks gives you opportunity to reach under your skirts, pulling the dagger from your crimson garter and stashing it between the bed frame and mattress. It’s a simple routine, one that works every time to not only allow you time to prepare for the job, but to prove just how wrapped around your little finger your victims always are. Ever the gentleman, as you’re learning, it only took a simple comment of thirst and a bat of your thick lashes and Dutch was out the door. He returns to you quickly, hands full with two identical glasses of neat bourbon, the door shutting behind him with a satisfying click.
“Here we are, the finest this establishment has to offer.” He says, with just a touch of bravado as he goes to hand you the crystal glass. Your hand brushes with his own skin, tanned from what you assume to be hours out in the sun, and a jolt of electricity shoots up your arm, scattering your whole body with goosebumps. With strenuous effort, you collect yourself fast enough to thank Dutch, before letting that comfortable silence settle between the tiny space between your two bodies again. You’re so close to him you can smell the distinct cigar smoke and liquor burn on his breath, feel the energy buzzing off him. One deep breath and your supple chest would be pressed right against his hardened one. 
The golden liquid burns over your tongue and down your throat, but not nearly as much as your skin does under Dutch’s touch when he runs a thumb over your bottom lip. It feels as though your entire body heats from the contact, the only respite from the fever his contact elicits being the golden rings adorning his fingers, pressing up against your jaw when he cups the side of your face. It stops your heart, you’re sure of it.
“You, my dear, are exquisite.” He whispers tenderly.
In your line of work, there is violence. There is pain and fire and yes, sometimes passion, but never tenderness. But when Dutch van der Linde’s eyes roam over you, it feels different. Like he sees you, instead of seeking for whatever it is he’s looking for. They’re all looking for something, and they all seem to think you have it, but not Dutch… even if there is the most devilish grin tugging at the corner of his lips and a glint in his eye that tells you to be careful.
Your lips don’t meet, they collide, with a deafening crash that vibrates the earth below. Both yours and Dutch’s glasses are discarded on the table beside the four poster bed as you require both hands to grasp at his satin waistcoat while he reaches around your waist to pull you flush against him.
Every inch of him is solid, his hands moulding you around his frame as his tongue requests- no, demands entrance to your mouth. You’re happy to oblige, parting your lips so that he can run the muscle along your bottom lip, eliciting a real, sensual moan from deep within you. Most of the time, you feign interest and want and pleasure, using every tool at your disposal to have your victims as putty in your hands. Tonight, it would seem you have to fake nothing, feeling more like putty yourself, folding and sculpting around Dutch’s thick, strong fingers. 
Dutch growls, low and gravelly, and you feel it vibrate every part of you, leaving little cracks all over the shields you’ve grown so used to wielding. The tremors reach your knees and you have to put extra effort into not letting them buckle. He invades every sense, a smoky, powerful force that for a moment you worry you’ll never be rid of. It’s normally so easy to detach yourself from these men, seeing their demise as the only thing standing between you and the continuance of the life of luxury you’ve grown so accustomed to, but right now it takes everything you can to not fear a future haunted by Dutch’s ghost. It’s… strange, this attachment formed so quickly, so unexpectedly that you’re almost certain the only way to prevent it is to kill him now before anything else can happen. But you just can’t bring yourself to do it… you need him in this moment, need to take something from a man for yourself for once, instead of for your slimy Italian master. It’s a mistake, you know it is, but it’s one you can’t stop, like a train barreling towards you with broken breaks. The collision is going to hurt, but you’ll be damned if you don’t bask in the feeling of every bone in your body shattering for this moment, every speck of your being destroyed just for an evening. If your blackened soul must be broken, at least it’s your choice. And this is your choice. Dutch van der Linde is your choice.
His hand burns through the silk on your back, searing your skin that itches for a release of its confines. He never breaks your hungry, needy kiss as his expert fingers make quick work of your bodice, pushing your dress off your shoulders until it falls at your feet like a scarlet pool of blood. Your chemise is just as deep a red as your dress and the stain covering your lips, as is the garter squeezing your thigh. Dutch takes a step back, drinking you in like a fine glass of wine. Under his gaze, you burn all over again, feeling the heat pulsing in your very core, your clit throbbing and cunt weeping for him. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt a yearning so intense that you feel you might combust if you don’t have this man inside you soon. 
“As I said…” he growls, tongue licking over his own bottom lip this time, “Exquisite.” 
Your exhale is shaky from the sheer effort to stay still, to not pounce on Dutch and take him. Somehow, you take a steady step towards him, out of the pile of silk discarded on the floor, reaching back to the buttons on his waistcoat to pull them apart. Your neck cranes up slightly to meet Dutch’s intense stare, catching him flick his eyes down to watch you undress him. Your bodies are so close now you can feel his hard cock pressing against you, branding you, even hotter than the rest of him. Even through his breeches, his size is evident. Intimidating, but you can all but feel yourself drooling at the thought of taking him all. Patience growing thin, your fingers speed up to finish their job, pushing both waistcoat and crisp shirt off Dutch’s shoulders and onto the floor, revealing a strong, sturdy chest underneath. You run both hands over it with a featherlight touch, feeling him shudder at the contact. 
Looking back up to meet his eye, tracing gentle circles over his skin, you whisper, “As are you, Mister Van der Linde…”
“Oh, my dear,” Dutch catches your chin between his fingers, squeezing gently to pull you closer, until your lips are just a hair away from each other. Your breath hitches in your throat, lips parted and waiting for him. A gasp escapes when he runs a finger of his free hand up your inner thigh, pressing firmly against your slit through your lingerie, the sensation shooting up your spine, “I think we’re past the formalities, don’t you? Dutch is fine.”
You swallow down the moan building deep down, attempting to hold onto whatever little decorum you can before you crumble beneath this outlaw. When Dutch removes his finger from against your heat, it takes everything to not whimper from the loss of him. Still holding your face, he presses a kiss to your lips, inhaling you in through his nose before pulling away, glancing down to the space between the two of you.
“Kneel for me, beautiful.”
It takes you less than a second to obey, feeling the plush of the carpet against your knees. Your hands are instantly on Dutch’s belt, unbuckling it with hands that are almost vibrating with anticipation. His trousers don’t even fall past his hips before his cock springs out and you almost gasp again. It’s huge, thick and long, twitching and pulsing all for you. A beautiful sight, truly. 
Both hands look tiny in comparison, wrapping around his base with a slight squeeze that has Dutch groaning already. Your eyes lock onto his, never leaving them as you lick a line up his shaft all the way to his rosy head, the salty spend dancing on your tongue a sure sign he’s as desperate for you as you are him. When you take him in your mouth, cheeks hollowing as you get as much of his length in as you can, Dutch grips into your hair, cursing through his teeth as you start to bob up and down. 
Using your mouth and hands in tandem, you work up and down his shaft, licking across a protruding vein that causes another growl to leave Dutch’s lips and charge the air with a near blinding want. His cock pumps and swells even more so in your mouth, and when you take a deep breath and push all of his length in and down your throat, Dutch lets out a visceral groan sure to reach the ears of the devil himself.
“Fuck, just like that, angel, just like that…” He whispers to you, watching as little tears fall down your cheeks, mixing with the spit escaping the corners of your lips. Dutch holds your face between his large palms, fucking into your throat. It isn’t until your lungs are burning for air that he relents, his cock sliding out of your mouth soaked in your saliva, a bead still clinging to your chin. He wipes it away with his thumb, guiding you to your feet with an extended hand. You gasp as he lifts you into the air and all you can do is wrap your legs around his waist. His cock nudges against your lingerie, the thin, scarlet silk the only barrier between the two of you. You’re writhing, desperate for him as his tongue licks the roof of your mouth, dominating you. 
Dutch throws you onto the bed and you land with a squeak, spreading your legs wide to allow him to crawl over you, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes roam over you, pulling the straps of your chemise down to expose your breasts. He continues to undress you, each second stretching out to an eternity until you’re bare underneath him. There’s a fire burning in his eyes and it scorches you. You feel the fire spread over every inch of you, especially when he dips down to lick a line from your nipple, across your chest, down your stomach until he is hovering above your cunt. His breath tickles your soaked skin and it takes everything you have to restrain and be patient. The devil is merciful, and after torturing you for what feels like hours, watching you writhe and whine, Dutch delves into your folds, taking your clit in his mouth and sucking on it gently. You scream, hands instantly raking into his jet black hair, nails scratching his scalp.
He hums in content, as if tasting a delicacy, and it vibrates your inner thighs. Your eyes roll back, jaw dropping as your back arches for him. 
“Oh, God…” you moan, relenting your grip just a little when Dutch stops to look at you, eyebrow raised and smirk tugging his glistening lips,
“Now, dear, I said Dutch is fine.”
He doesn’t give you much time to digest his cocky words, plunging a finger deep inside you, finding that spot that makes you go dizzy and curling against it. You whine and purr, bucking your hips up to show Dutch what you need. He takes your silent command and submits to it, bowing his head to take your clit in between his teeth. It tethers you between pain and pleasure, threatening to tear you apart from the inside out. One finger becomes two, pumping into your core and you feel yourself hurtling towards climax faster than you ever have in your life. There’s a burning on your inner thigh from his moustache while he laps up your juices, kissing and nipping and sucking until you’re sure you’re going to break and shatter all over the hotel room floor.
“Oh, God, Dutch- fuck, Dutch, yes Dutch- I- I’m gonna-” 
The whine you let out when Dutch withdraws his fingers from you is downright tortured. You look up at him, the question of why written all over your face. He simply smirks, sliding those glistening fingers in between his lips and licking your juices clean off them. 
“Tell me what you want, beautiful.” 
The sweet endearment softens your frown, his demand driving you even wilder. It isn’t a matter of want anymore, you need him. Right at this moment, you’re gasping for air, and Dutch van der Linde is your only oxygen. 
“Everything,” you breathe out, “God, Dutch, I need you, please…”
You earn a satisfied grin as Dutch begins to crawl over you again, the length of his body consuming you wholly. “Hm… I like it when you beg for me, my dear.” 
When he lines himself up to your entrance, the feeling of his tip brushing far too gentle past your clit, you’re truly dizzy with need. You reach up to Dutch, nails digging deep into the flesh of his shoulders as if he's your only tether to the earth itself. Your mewls guide him in like a siren's call, filling you more than you ever thought possible. Though slowly, Dutch slides all the way in, until you’re connected by the pelvis, the head of his cock prodding gorgeously into that swollen sweet spot of yours.
“F-Fuck…” you gasp out, concurrently to Dutch’s carnal groan. He fills you to the brim, and you squeeze his throbbing cock perfectly. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt, breaching past the barriers of what you once considered sex to be. When he steadily withdraws, pushing all the way back in, you see stars, scattering across the ceiling of the hotel room, falling into the faint freckles you’re sure nobody ever notices on Dutch’s cheeks. The pure lust ignited in his eyes burns hot as he begins to move, thrusting in and out at an excruciatingly deliberate pace.
When he picks up a little speed, you feel his hand brush against your cheek, finger tracing your jawline from ear to chin and back again. His expression as he fucks you is so intense, and there’s a certain darkness clouding it all that scares you. Dutch is otherworldly, and your mind briefly casts to under your back, where that little knife lays waiting. Your confidence in completing your mission is faltering, picturing golden ichor bleeding from Dutch’s chest in lieu of blood. He is so far removed from anybody Bronte has ever had you kill, so divine an energy that you’re starting to wonder what your failure would mean for you. It has never been an option before, but the possibility wanders into your mind as if it belongs there. 
Your whines and moans harmonise with Dutch’s groans and curses, the room filled with purely obscene, visceral vibrations. He fucks into you, one hand gripping onto the sheets, the other cupping the side of your face, slowly snaking downwards to cover your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on yet, but can surely feel the thrumming of your pulse against his palm. The possessive way his hand covers your whole throat makes your heart skip a beat, your now untouched clit twitching at the thought of Dutch restricting your airways. 
“God, you are so beautiful…” Dutch purrs, teasing a hint of pressure on your jugular. He’s getting faster now, just faintly more erratic. That darkness is flaring in his eyes, spreading over his whole expression as he begins to squeeze at your windpipe. It's gentle at first, just slightly cutting off the blood flow to your head, making your cheeks flush red. Your lips part in gasps, less than an inch away from Dutch’s as you feel your orgasm building again, no external stimulation needed. You’re so close now, nirvana within reach, Dutch’s hold getting ever stronger. 
“So beautiful… such a shame.” He growls, not relenting his now iron-grip to give you the air to consider what he just said. You try to speak, try to ask what he means, but you suddenly can’t. He’s clenching too tight on your neck. It hurts, but coupled with the dizzying lack of breath, it’s only furthering your journey over the edge. Your vision is blackening at the corners, an unknown fear striking you in the chest. He isn’t letting up, and you’re not sure if you even want him to, but you have no idea where this is going now. The energy in the air is changing faster than you can keep up with, your chest feeling hollow as your futile attempts at breath go ignored.
“A-A shame?” You just about manage, Dutch still pounding relentlessly, gloriously into your tight cunt. 
“Oh, my dear…” he squeezes once more, a bruising grip, and it hurts so much that your hands fly up to claw at his wrist. It’s unavailing, Dutch far too strong to be deterred by the little scratches your nails are leaving on his skin, “That you’re trying to kill me, darling.”
Your eyes fly wide open, pupils shrinking to barely a drop in a sea of panic. Your hands barely make it an inch towards reaching for the dagger under the mattress before Dutch grabs them with the hand not already holding you, pinning both wrists above your head. He’s still fucking you hard, and it still feels incredible despite the pure terror coursing through your veins. 
“Oh, little vedova nera, did you really think it would be so easy?”
It’s hardly even a struggle, your scratching is no match for Dutch’s strength. You can’t move, can barely breathe, and you’re genuinely terrified he’s going to kill you before you even get the chance to fight back. His grasp relents, just enough to allow a small, struggled gulp of breath, but it’s seemingly only so you can hear his next words before blacking out.
“Now here’s what's gonna happen…” He growls at you, not once faltering from his pace. Despite everything, you’re still so close, on the verge of a blinding climax that may actually kill you. “That pretty little pussy of yours is going to cum all over my cock, and then you’re gonna go back to our friend Mr. Bronte and tell him just how well Dutch van der Linde fucked his woman and lived to tell the tale. Got it, my pretty little thing?”
Your heart is pounding, and you’re certain you only have seconds of consciousness left in you, but you manage a frantic nod, your nails leaving reddened crescent moons all over the skin of Dutch’s wrist. You’ll do anything, the terrifying part being that you’re not sure if you’re begging for your life or your death, your petite mort, if you will. 
“Good girl.”
He releases your throat, instead squeezing your cheeks together harshly, forcing your lips into a pout. The blood rushes everywhere, sending you hurtling over the edge, clenching on Dutch’s cock and keeping your promise and then some. Tears are streaming down your cheeks from the intensity of everything, screams falling from your lips as best they can through Dutch’s hands. He’s groaning loudly, vibrating your being as the two of you cum together, Dutch pumping rope upon rope of his spend deep inside you. Time stretches, seconds becoming minutes becoming an eternity falling through the stratosphere as waves of white hot pleasure mix stunningly with the pain you feel all over. 
Dutch finishes with one last thrust, so hard you’re sure you’ll never recover from him. You’ve never felt anything like this, never felt an orgasm wrack through every atom like this one, pumped through your body with a heart running on pure fear. 
Mere seconds ago you were convinced Dutch was going to end your life, but when he pulls out of you and removes all contact from your panting body, the loss is immense. By the time you manage to come around, your arms finally having enough integrity to prop yourself up, he’s already dressing himself, pulling up his pants and buckling his belt. You can’t think, let alone speak. What would you even say? The tear marks falling down your cheeks are inky black from your makeup, but you let them fall as the realisation of what just happened hits with enough force to shatter you, just as you predicted. 
You’re both silent as Dutch dresses, and all you can do is sit and cover yourself with the sheet on the bed. When he reaches the door, he stops, hand resting on the doorframe as he glances over his shoulder to you, “Tell Bronte I said hello, won’t you?”
And he walks out of the hotel room, leaving you alone, dripping with his spend, wondering what the hell you’re supposed to do now.
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cruelcruelcowboy · 1 year
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✎ — love language headcanons.
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pairing: arthur morgan x gn!reader summary: just some fluffy and kinda long love language headcanons warnings: none a/n: this took a looot longer than expected, and i rewrote everything several times but i finally did it! sorry in advance for any mistakes my crappy writing hehe constructive feedback is welcome! ( ´ ▽ ` )b
gif is 100% by @itspapillonnoir bc i just realized it looks like im stealing ur gif im so sorry
——**•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚— ☾ —˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*——
giving: acts of service/gift giving & physical touch
arthur is a natural giver, time and time again bending over backward when needed, yet never expecting a thing in return. he doesn't consider himself to be one with words, so he gives back in return, hoping his kind gestures will suffice where his words don't. it's no different when it comes to you, only instead of his usual platonic favours, he pours his heart into doing the most for you.
he knows the things you like, certain colors, foods, perfumes/colognes, all of it.  whatever you might have mentioned liking or craving in the past, he will frequently go out of his way just to bring back something you've spoken of or asked for.
usually, he’s fond of delivering his gifts straight to you, selfishly taking joy in the way you light up at whatever he's brought back. sometimes he wonders if you do it just so you don't hurt his feelings, but he wouldn't care regardless. you always make him feel seen, thanking him profusely, and never taking his kindness for granted.
on the off chance you’re away from camp, he’ll leave your gifts placed thoughtfully on your cot, usually accompanied on top of a handwritten note or paired with a fresh picking of your favourite flowers/herbs.
other times, he shows his love through gestures. he’ll make sure that your horse has been looked after for the day, that your laundry has been collected and brought back to your tent, or that there’s a bowl of hot stew waiting for you after a grueling job. he makes you feel like your efforts don't go unnoticed no matter how big or small, or what role you play in the gang.
some mornings, when a thick fog lays over the camp and the sun is only peaking over the horizon, arthur will beckon you over to the fire, waiting with a cup of coffee, “jus' how ya like it." even if you aren't a morning person, he certainly makes them worth it.
it definitely takes him a little while before he's confident enough to show any public displays of affection. only when the camp is quiet and there are few prying eyes will he lovingly run one of those bear-like hands down the back of your head, staring down at you fondly from beneath pretty brown eyelashes. he’ll place a delicate kiss on your forehead or cheek before letting the two of you get on for the day.
in private, however, he's all over you. he adores holding you, running his hands along your body, and tracing his fingers in mindless patterns on your skin. he'll kiss down your face and throat, pinning you down beneath him like a wild animal, secretly praying that you won't slip from his grasp and bolt off. thankfully you never do, to you, his arms are your home.
receiving: words of affirmation & quality time
when it comes to getting affection in return, he has no clue how to accept it, let alone process it. the shell of the big brash outlaw begins to crack and reveal a much softer inside. he'll blush and fuss and insist, “i ain’t a good man,” with a shy bow of his head and a mindless kick of his boot. all you can do is roll your eyes and shake your head with a smile.
no matter how reserved he is about it, you know how much he loves and appreciates the way you spoil him with your words of endearment and praise. you've got him blushing like a virgin just by the way you say his name so sickeningly sweet.
"thanks for looking out for me, arthur."
“you’re so handsome, arthur.”
“i really appreciate all that you do for me, arthur.”
“i love you, arthur.”
he couldn't tell if he was about to pass out or cry. no other person had ever shown him the type of genuine kindness and care that you did, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never gather why you kept coming back to him—but he would be forever grateful that you did.
frequently, you like to make excuses to get some one-on-one time with arthur, "dutch says we haaave to go take a nice long ride down along the river. it sounded pretty urgent, wouldn't wanna disappoint yaknow." he raises a brow, and the corner of his mouth begins to crack into a smile. "that so?" he's always quick to catch on, and plays right into your antics, "well then, i guess we better get goin' b'for he changes his mind."
at the end of the day, as long as you're with him, he's content and your presence is more than enough to take the weight of the world off his shoulders. wherever he is you are, and vice versa—attached at the hip. no matter if it's accompanying each other on errands or jobs across the states, stirring up trouble and fighting off the law, or enjoying the serenity of late nights around the campfire together, you're by his side till the end. and he wouldn't have it any other way.
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mlmxreader · 4 months
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Apprehensions | Arthur Morgan x gn!reader
『••✎••』
↳ ❝ i miss arthur morgan dearly. it’s so bad. i humbly request arthur morgan x gn!reader (male!reader works too, idrc) w/ the prompt “get inside, you’ll catch a cold”!!! kisses mwah - @mockerycrow ❞
: ̗̀➛ Arthur's good to you, it's a shame that he doesn't really allow himself some grace.
: ̗̀➛ nudity, smoking, swearing, scenes of a sexual nature
: ̗̀➛ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•
You and Lenny had been out hunting, which came as a surprise to no one, as the two of you did often wander away for a few hours; you worked well as a team, as one of you would chase whatever you were hunting, while the other took the shot. It worked every time, and you often had a good haul to bring back to camp; at least, today you did.
Although that didn’t mean that the weather had not been cruel.
Heavy, pounding rain had caused many of the open fields and pathways to become deeply flooded and slick with mud; your boots squelched with each step, and your clothes were so sodden that they were heavy to lumber around.
You were shivering, soaked to the bone and quite literally dripping, by the time that you started to approach the campfire; but a sharp whistle caught your attention, and when you looked over, you saw Arthur standing under his tent as he gestured for you to go over. 
You did so a little too eagerly, surprised when he caught your elbow gently and pulled you under the small shelter; he was never rough with you, he made it a point not to be, and he was quick to pull the fabric of his tent down to protect you a little more from the rain.
One quick look at you, and he frowned.
“You need to get inside, you’ll catch a cold,” he told you quietly, letting you go and rummaging through his trunk. He pulled out a shirt and a pair of trousers, tossing them onto his cot. “This should do it… shouldn’t be too bad.”
You swallowed thickly, taking off your hat and clearing your throat. “Thank you…”
He looked up at you, his mouth falling agape for a moment. “D’ya want me to wait outside?”
You shook your head, shrugging as you hummed softly and started to unbutton your shirt. “No, I mean… it’s not the first time you’ve seen me naked, so…”
Arthur sat on his cot, facing the wall as he lit a cigarette; he didn’t mean to look, he really didn’t, but when he heard your boots clatter to the side and the thud of your trousers… he did steal a quick look, blushing as he was unable to move.
You were fucking magnificent; he swallowed thickly, biting at the inside of his lip, but he was too slow to look away, and when you caught him looking, you grinned.
“Arthur?”
“I’m sorry, I-”
“You can look,” you told him quietly, shaking your head. “You can touch if you want, too.”
The blush on Arthur’s features deepened as he watched you get closer; he slowly put his hands on your hips, pulling you to stand between his legs. One hand travelled up, exploring your chest with rough and clumsy fingertips before he stood up, audibly gulping.
“You, erm, you look real good,” he whispered, voice hoarse and heavy.
You put your hands on his chest, tugging at his shirt slightly. “So do you, Mister Morgan.”
His adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he reluctantly pulled away, clearing his throat; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to touch you, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to kiss you and to make you moan his name… of course he wanted all of that and more, but he was well aware that because of what you both did for a living, it would never last.
He was an outlaw, you were a gunslinger that Dutch had brought in not even a year ago… it was never going to work. He didn’t want you to feel the pain that he knew would inevitably come along. He really didn’t.
You were too good for that, you could have gotten out of the life; settled down, had a family, made something of yourself. He could never do that. He would die an outlaw, but you… you had a chance.
“Arthur?” You sat down beside him on his cot, shivering a little as the cold air blew through and hit your naked skin. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” he shook his head, sighing heavily. “I just… can’t do this, not with you… you ain’t gonna die an outlaw, you ain’t… you don’t want me… it’s only gonna end bad.”
“Oh, Arthur,” you whispered, putting your hand on his shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. “You… I do want you, and whatever the fuck happens… I can handle it. Trust me, I’ve been through a lot of shit. I can handle it.”
“You can get outta here, y’know,” he told you. “You have a chance to have a life… I’m gonna die an outlaw.”
“And I’m gonna die a gunslinger,” you admitted. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, it’s all I’m good at - it’s all I know… I’m not getting out of this life, either.”
He spared a glance at you, chewing at the inside of his bottom lip. “You oughtta get dressed. Y’might catch your death if you keep your clothes off.”
You leaned over, daring to sweetly kiss his cheek; you didn’t mind that he watched you get dressed, in fact, you quite enjoyed the attention. You just wished that he would actually let go a little; that he wouldn’t be so staunch about not hurting you.
You had survived the life of a gunslinger for years before you had met Dutch and Hosea, you would survive a little heartbreak if anything were to ever go bad for you and Arthur. But you knew it wasn’t that easy, so you sighed, sitting down beside him again and leaning your head against his shoulder as you sighed.
“What if we take it slow?” You asked him. “Take everything at your pace.”
Arthur glared at you for a moment before he nodded. “Y’sure?”
“Absolutely.”
He thought about it for a moment; you were so eager, so wanting, and although he wanted it so badly, he still had his apprehensions… but then he saw how you were looking at him, and he sighed. “Then, yeah.”
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