bunnypulp - Tumblr blog

bunnypulp · 1 year

Text

Arthur Morgan x Francis (oc)

Repost from ao3 // ~3-4k? // dirty talk, hate sex, overstimulation

// tw: implied/threatened forced pregnancy!!

The rooms above Sonny's bar are small, stinking of stale air and tobacco smoke. Arthur’s spent enough time in them over the years to know each lodging down to the water stains decorating the ceilings and the lumps in the mattress which dig into his back. He knows to expect the door to shriek when he opens it, but only when he finds Francis leaned against the vanity with a flannel rag swiping at her exposed clavicle does he feel the slightest bit of familiarity.

“And here I thought you wouldn’t come.”

Arthur doesn’t acknowledge her. They both knew he would.

He makes clumsy work of shedding his satchel from his shoulder and his gun belt from his waist, all while Francis leans back and watches, like it’s a show she’s been waiting for. As soon as he’s got the first few buttons of his shirt undone, the damp rag is tossed to him.

Neither of them had properly washed, nor had all the sweat on their bodies dried since they arrived. The Armadillo heat kept a film of perspiration perpetually slicking their skin so that their shirts clung uncomfortably to their backs. The water is a cool reprieve on the back of his sunburnt neck.

Arthur walks up to her, proximity forced by the fact she stands guarding the water basin, and reaches around her smaller frame to rinse and wring the bandana behind her back.

For a long moment, they stare at each other. Francis up at him, Arthur down at her. They’re so close he can see how her wet lashes cling together like spikes, is able to make out the swelling of a bruise on her jaw where Dormin’s fist had connected; can smell the cherry hard candies she likes to crack between her teeth when she asks, “Just how drunk are you?”

Arthur sneers. “You’d know if I were drunk.”

“I’d know if you were wasted,” she corrects, walking her fingers up the rolled sleeve of his unbuttoned shirt. “You’d have me pinned in a much more desirable position than this.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, in part due to her words and in part due to the hand that she splays over the middle of his chest. Her nails rake through the wry hairs peppered there, tracing over all the raised and concave scars that pass under her calloused, cold fingertips.

“This one new?” she asks, drawing over a scar just under his left pectoral. It’s one of the few that he truly hates, long and raised, still an ugly raw pink. If he didn’t know any better he’d guess it was Francis’ favorite, but her fingernails trail lower, to a pale slice just over his navel. It’s thin, straight and her favorite to pay attention to.

She gave it to him, after all.

Arthur snatches her wrist away, his skin stinging like she were made of poison ivy.

“Strip.”

Francis’ mouth curls into a smirk. “Don’t act so boorish, Arthur. It only suits you too well. Besides, I’m injured.” She lifts her bandaged palm, like he could forget for a moment she’d begun working him up with only her words and one hand. “Why don’t you help me.”

Arthur’s eye twitches, but he drops the rag into the bowl and starts tugging at the buttons on her dust speckled blouse.

Each inch of revealed skin is dappled with scars of her own, some with innocuous origins—scratches from branches, or fingernails and even an animal or two—but others. Others are harder to look at. Rope marks that have turned into permanent, shining cuffs around her wrists, long burns against her ribs, the slash against her cheek. As he reveals them he’s reminded not for the first time how this woman who seemed to appear out of the blue has a lifetime's worth of stories untold.

At the last button on her shirt, Francis shrugs the cloth off of her shoulders, revealing the slope of her clavicle, the curve of her waist, and her breasts, unbound and peaked at the tips. Arthur can hardly pull his gaze away from the way they sway as she reaches behind her.

The wet slap of the bandanna against his chest helps.

She swipes at the dirt of his forearms, grabs his hand to clean his nails and between his fingers. Her touch is firm yet gentle, efficient yet teasing.

“I was here not too long ago,” she says. “Small lead that didn’t go anywhere. Cold trail or a ghosted bounty, something like that. Stopped in for a drink while I waited for the train, and wouldn’t you know how a small town talks?”

Arthur grunts. “I know enough not to put any stock into it.”

“Saloon talk’s worth listening to when you know what to listen for.” She turns to wring out the rag, acting so casual Arthur nearly does a double take when she says, “One of the boys downstairs worked up enough courage to ask how much you pay me for the night.”

A gaze that matches her brazen words is watching him in the vanity mirror. She wears her tilted smile like a shiny gold metal, like she knows just how she’s turned Arthur’s mouth dry. “You’ve been giving them ideas, making me look like some sort of working girl.”

Arthur laughs mirthlessly under his breath. It’s bait, as clear as a hooked worm, and yet he can’t help but to bite. The thought of the bastards downstairs breathing their whiskey breath on her, asking how much to have her, hoping to see her like he does.

It curdles his stomach and sends a jolt through his cock.

He snatches the bandana from her hands and sets to work swiping it across her scar-freckled back.

“Think you give them enough ideas on your own,” he mutters, pointedly looking to where her waist and hips are hugged by her trousers. Where they’re inches away from the tightening front of his own.

“You’re being humble. What with the way you grab me like you do, putting your paws all over me right in front of everyone? I’m surprised they haven’t pushed money under your nose.”

Arthur’s not. If she hasn’t noticed the way he glares at any son of a bitch who leers at her for too long then maybe she won’t notice when whoever had the balls to ask her that ends up with a broken face.

The thought is the only thing to lighten his souring mood, and yet he can’t help but spit, “Maybe you should change professions. Leave gunslinging to me and stay here to lay on your back.”

Francis straightens, and steps back to close the distance between their bodies. Her arms link around his neck, breasts high and on display in the mirror, pretty lips spread.

Arthur knows better than to believe they aren’t hiding pointed teeth and a forked tongue.

She turns her cheek so that her lips ghost along the softening stubble on his jaw. Arthur feels the heat of her words in his groin as much as he does on his skin when she asks, “Since when have you known me to just lay back and take?”

Arthur shakes his head, his fingers digging into the curve of her hips. “Dumb bastards wouldn’t know what they were buying.”

“Snake oil?”

“Snake venom.”

Because the woman is just as dangerous stripped of her revolver and blouse; has a way of making him forget the few moral codes he’s managed to uphold throughout the years. On nights where he’s got enough drink in him, it’s hard not to act on his streak of possessiveness, or jealousy, or whatever other vile emotion she’s beckoned to come crawling to the surface.

Never drunk enough to fully unpack, but just enough to act.

Arthur abandons the rag and slides his hands up, feeling her ribs expand under his touch, holding the weight of her breasts in his hands. Francis arches into his touch. “If wetting peckers gave me a sense of purpose then perhaps I’d reconsider,” she says.

Arthur tries to think of a way to tell her she’d put the rest of the girls out of business if she did, but his tongue wasn’t known for being eloquent, especially after half a bottle. Turns her head so their breaths puff against each other’s lips and says, “Could have fooled me.”

“It’s not hard to make a fool out of you, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur doesn’t refute. She does every time they’re together and it’s all he thinks of when they’re apart.

His only defense is to lick the cherry syrup off her sharp tongue and hope he doesn’t cut himself.

If it weren’t for the smoothness of her cheek and the softness that only a woman's lips seems to possess, he would have thought the first time he took her mouth he was seventeen again, fooling around with a farm hand behind the horse shed. That urgency is familiar; the neediness. A longing so complicated it is easier masked with lust than properly acknowledged.

The need to be held thinly veiled by a desire to be fucked.

It’s an uncoordinated mess of tongue and uncompromising need, their lips parting only when their heads are light, bodies swaying.

“Not a single bastard out there’s gonna get a hand on you,” he say, voice low at the back of his throat. “Whether you want them to or not.”

“Worried some big bad man is gonna steal me away?” comes the mocking retort, and it’s so close to being the final straw that Arthur feels that thin rope of self control begin to splinter in his chest. His hand dwarfs her throat, squeezing just enough to hear her breath hitch.

“Sweetheart,” Arthur snarls against her syrup-sweet mouth. “I am a big bad man.”

Francis’ head tips back to accommodate him—to encourage him. A drunken grin spreads on her lips, cold fingers slipping into his pants to squeeze the erection she barely had to work for.

“Show me.”

It’s all Arthur needs to grab her arm and drag her to the bed, her body bouncing once before he’s on top of her.

Arthur’s hands aren’t spared his greedy nature. They engulf her, squeezing, grabbing, pulling her savagely closer while his mouth licks along her racing pulse. His size alone should scare her, being nearly twice what she is, but as he presses her into the mattress and grinds himself against her parted thighs, her fingers drag against his back only to pull him closer. She doesn’t squeak or squirm when his hand comes to replace his mouth at her throat, but hums contently. Arthur manhandles her hips up to meet his when the give of their trousers isn’t enough, and she pulls his earlobe between her teeth.

It’s Francis’ own doing to turn away and flip onto her stomach, arching her back to present her ass to him like a cat in heat. When the only article of clothing he has to wrestle down her thighs are her dusty trousers, Arthur can feel precome stick to the inside of his union pants. Francis watches from over her shoulder as he swallows. Licks his numb bottom lip as his thumb runs along the inside of her soft thighs. When Arthur slides two fingers between her folds and finds her wet and ready, he can’t help but wonder for how long.

The urge to bury his head between her thighs occurs to him, like it does every time he has her naked and wanting. It’s a desire he hasn’t yet let himself indulge in, but before he shucks off his pants, he licks her slick from his fingers, holding himself back from letting out a groan.

Arthur ignores the painful ache when he finally releases his erection, ignores the way she’s barely touched him and he’s panting and flushed and just as wet as she is. Covers his tracks with not a moment wasted to split her folds with the head of his cock.

She cries out, body arching when he fills her with one slick thrust. He lets her settle around him for only a moment before pulling back to the head and bottoming out. She clenches almost unbearably around him, the muscles in her back tight, hands balled in the scratchy sheets. The sounds that he pulls from her echo off the bare walls, gasping moans and slick squelching reaching back to his ears twice over.

Even on her hands and knees for him, she holds her head high. Maybe it’s the reason he’s always been drawn to her.

“I should make you pay,” she says, pushing her hips back into his thrusts. “If you’re going to take me like a virgin with his first whore.”

Maybe he just hates her, and fucking her is as good as strangling her.

Arthur grips her waist tight, holding her still so he can grind himself against the deepest part of her, so every thrust bottoms out and she’s forced just to take.

“Why would I pay for using what’s mine?”

Arthur sucks her skin between his teeth, leans back to watch his cock piston in and out of her. The dark marks bloom across her back, his saliva indistinguishable from her glimmering sweat; indistinguishable from the slick pleasure running down her legs, sticking to his abdomen, wetting the hair running down from his navel.

He wants to ruin her.

Fuck her soft body so hard she won’t be able to sit without being reminded of him. So hard she won’t be able to mount a horse for at least a week.

Arthur grabs a fistfull of her ass. Spreads her apart then beats his handprint into the supple skin to make it that much harder for her. A few more on the other side because fuck , she makes such pretty noises, writhes against his cock so beautifully.

Arthur’s hand is bright red and hot to the touch when he finally relents his onslaught.

She’ll have to stay put now. Won’t be able to get out of fucking bed in the morning. A bruised ass will keep her out of his hair long enough that he can do a job proper. So he doesn’t have to worry about lugging three bodies on one horse or splitting his money with the undertaker. All he needs is her pretty little head resting on a pillow, waiting for him to come back. Waiting for just him.

But for now all he wants is to see that pretty little face while he fucks her stupid.

With one hand under her knee, he flips her onto her back, her leg hitching over his shoulder. Finally, he’s afforded his favorite view, and it breaks his punishing rhythm.

Francis doesn’t shy away from his attention. Props herself up on both elbows and burns Arthur through lust-heavy, silver rimmed lashes. Showing him the beauty of his work.

And , Christ, is it beautiful.

Her mouth hangs open, shiny with spit and swollen from his teeth and her own. Arthur strokes his thumb against her bruised mouth only for her to pull him in and lick.

He commits the scene to memory—every detail. From the small twitch in her brow to the smell of her sweat, heat of her flesh. The way her lip begins to tremble and she pulses around him when he reaches down to stroke her clit. When she pants, “Arthur—Arthur , fuck, keep going,” he knows he’s done her in.

He braces his palm beside her head and shifts forward, fucking her with short, deliberate thrusts directly into that spot he knows will make her cry. Watches inches from her for the moment her eyes go hazy, tears springing forward.

“Close—I’m—keep—!”

“That’s it,” he tells her, voice steady despite how he’s ripping at the seams. “Come on, girl. Let me feel it.”

Her eyes finally split from their proud hold on him when she lets go, jerking and spasming against his hand and cock. Untame profanities spill like smoke from her mouth, each one filthier than the last.

Arthur doesn’t slow his hips or take his hand from her for a second, making her endure him while she’s oversensitive and twitching and louder—always louder after she’s come. She claws at his wrist, trying to pull him from her clit.

“Keep taking it,” he demands, rolling his hips into her again and again. Her legs tremble, the attempt to clench her thighs only making her tighter. He holds her open, pinning her knees up near her shoulders. “You wanna talk and act like a whore, I’ll make you my whore.”

Francis turns her head to scream into the mattress, her voice broken and beautiful and muffled, but it’s not what Arthur wants. He grabs her jaw, folding her body over to whisper against her ear: “Let ‘em know who fucks you.”

And she does. Again and again Francis calls his name like she’s praying, or lost, and Arthur doesn’t care which is more true because he’s right there to answer her the only way he knows how.

He works her through her second and even a lingering, stuttering third orgasm, her voice growing weaker but her body burning hotter. Arthur’s own moans are falling freely now, each slick stroke inside of her pulling him closer and closer to his own release.

He’s so caught up in it he doesn’t hear her speak, not until a hand comes to press against his shoulder and she pants, “Not—not inside.”

Arthur’s hips stutter, clenched eyes snapping open.

It’s not something they ever do—that they’ve ever done. Arthur has always spilled onto her skin, his own stomach or even just onto the floor. He knows the consequences if he doesn’t, and yet hearing her say it, telling him not to—

It’s a voice that Arthur doesn’t recognize that growls back, “Why shouldn’t I?”

He takes her unbandaged hand in his and slides them between her thighs, down to where he pierces her. “Why shouldn’t I fuck a baby into you?”

Francis whimpers, whimpers when her fingers frame his cock, feeling the slick coating him on every outward pull. “Widen your hips, fill your breasts…Keep going at you until you’re heavy and full.”

She squeezes him tighter, and his cock is rooted so deep inside of her it’s almost too much to handle. Her cries sound too sweet, body accepts him too willingly. He doesn’t ease up on her and she doesn’t ask him to.

As he approaches his climax once more his thrusts are punishing.

“Make you finally,”

Cruel.

“Fucking,”

Vicious.

“Listen.”

There’s no mercy left in his voice or in his actions, and for as long as he’s known her he’d never thought he’d hear her beg—

“Please, Arthur.”

Never thought it’d sound so—

Arthur doesn’t take himself in hand. Spills himself across Francis’ stomach and chest the second he pulls out, cock throbbing and thighs trembling.

She cries out when she feels it hit her skin, back arching away from the sheets underneath her. If his vision weren’t threatening him with black dots, and his own orgasm not overtaking his senses, Arthur would realize he didn’t even have to touch her to get her to come with him.

A stillness settles into the small, hot room as they catch their breaths. Arthur stares at the mess he’s made of the woman beneath him. Come and sweat pool in her navel, stick to her thighs, splashes all the way up to the hollow of her throat. Arthur wants to collapse on top of her, but he holds himself together by a single, frayed stitch. Lowers her legs back to the bed slowly before withdrawing himself from between them.

Arthur focuses intently on the wash basin and not the mirror above it when he retrieves the flannel rag. Wipes it over himself to remove everything sticking to him with short, harsh strokes. Francis’ gaze is a physical weight on him, but he doesn’t look to the reflection to meet it.

He rinses and wrings the rag out twice before approaching the bed. Francis is splayed out the same way he left her, breath finally beginning to even out.

He hates himself for knowing this is exactly how he wants her. Soft and pliant and sated. But not in a lumpy, stained saloon bed. Not with bruises and bandages she got fighting for her life. Not hunting men who could just as easily be hunting her.

By the time he finishes cleaning his mess, her lashes are brushing her cheeks, chest rising and falling with each even, deep breath.

He covers her as best he can with the sheet she lies on top of, picks his clothes off of the floor and tucks her black iron revolver into his satchel.

Arthur wonders, as he mounts his mare outside, how far she’ll get before she gives up on riding with a bruised ass.

He looks forward to the next scar she gives him.

#arthur morgan smut #rdr2 smut #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan / oc #arthur morgan rdr2 #bunny writing #francis

37 notes · View notes

bunnypulp · 1 year

Text

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

~4.8k // MDNI // exhibitionism // first times // pointless, shameless, let-me-fuck-that-man smut // reposted from ao3

“Shh,” he coos, slowing your hips from their desperate grinding. “Keep those pretty noises just for my ears.” His mouth quirks slightly, thumb coming to stroke over your bottom lip. “Unless you want to be caught.”

“Got room for one more?”

Your stomach twisted with nerves as the stagecoach you rode in came to a rickety stop, heart beginning to race when the lockbox in the back opened and a stranger's items were set beside yours. Your first long trip alone, and you’d be spending it in a small coach with an unfamiliar man. What if he was a road agent? Or if he tried anything on you? Simply someone annoying you had to put up with for the next however many hours to Saint Denis?

You watched out of the corner of your eye as a tall figure approached the side door of the coach, each step punctuated with the sound of clicking spurs. Spurs and no horse, you thought. The pages of the book you’d been reading were pinched between your fingers, mind racing through all the undesirable possibilities of who this man may be, what he might want, what he might do.

As the coach rocked with the weight of a new passenger, your stomach jumped, eyes finally dragging away from the empty seat in front of you to the man who will soon be filling it.

Tall, broad, and rugged, the brim of a worn hat covered most of his face, but the moment he looked up you felt yourself shrink.

The sharp jaw and downward slope of his pouting lips somehow came to contrast the otherwise austere appearance. He was terrifyingly handsome, what with the mean pinch in his brow and sheer size of him. Tall enough you doubted he even needed to use the foot pedal to get in.

But at the drop of a hat, his face had suddenly softened. The fear that had built-in your stomach since the slow of the coach had dissipated in an instant when you realized his shift in demeanor was to one of...nervousness.

“You okay with an extra passenger, miss?” he had asked, as if the decision was up to you. You’d explained to him it wasn’t a private ride, that the driver was welcome to take on any passengers he wanted on the way to your destination, but the man didn’t seem satisfied until you finally said, “Yes.”

You thought for a moment you’d have to ask him not to ride up at the top with the driver with how he deliberated whether to get inside the cart. All the while your eyes had been at the two guns on his waist. A man would be suicidal to leave the house without protection--be it from the wilderness or road agents or God knows what--but you’d rarely seen someone brandishing two. You thought for a moment you could make out the shape of a flower engraved on one, but before you could inspect it further the coach rocked to one side.

Your cheeks flare at the memory. You hadn’t meant your gasp to be rude. Arthur Morgan, as he’d since introduced, was not a slight man, but it was just the sudden shift of the coach that had spooked you.

You peer over the page of your novel at him, relieved to find him preoccupied in a book of his own. Not reading, though. Doodling, you think by the quick strokes of a short piece of graphite. What is the real mystery. The leather-bound book pulled close to his chest so as not to give you even the briefest of glimpses.

A shame, you think distantly, tucking your nose back into your pages. You’d really love to see what Mr. Big and Burly deems worthy of immortalizing on paper.

—

A yawn interrupts your reading, bringing forth small pricks of tears to your drooping eyes. The sky has long since lost its color, the inside of the coach illuminated only by the dim light of a lantern. Along with the light lost, the day’s heat has tapered off quite dramatically, the chill of the night settling in unapologetically. Stretching your legs, you feel goosebumps flush along your exposed skin even despite the shawl around your shoulders.

Tucking yourself deeper into the seat, your eyes flick over to where Mister Arthur Morgan sits with his hat drawn over his eyes. You envy the tanned sheepskin jacket he has on, keeping him warm against the elements. He’s probably as hot as a fireplace, you think with another yawn. Just how late was it?

He’s been asleep for hours now, not even rousing when the coach shook and jumped along the road. Maybe, if you just went to his side you could warm up and move back without him even realizing it. You doubt your smaller presence would rouse him any, not in comparison to the bumpy ride.

A nipping breeze decides for you, and you slink over to his side of the coach. Tentatively, you slip in next to him, the heat of his body drawing you in closer and closer. You were right, you think, eyes fluttering shut. He’s like a freshly stoked fireplace.

You wake up to a particularly harsh jostle, the coach’s wheels running over a patch of rougher terrain. Groaning quietly, you defiantly keep your eyes closed, set on falling back asleep, but a gust of wind slips in through the windows, pulling a shiver up your spine. You go to burrow closer into your seat, to the warmth accumulated there, but get pulled closer instead.

You’re barely able to rein in a gasp, eyes snapping open.

It doesn’t take but a second for your mind to catch up to reality, or for your eyes to adjust to the dark interior of the coach. Seeing your empty seat across from you and two pairs of legs spread out in front of you.

You’re tucked tightly against Arthur’s side, certainly not the position you recall before you had fallen asleep on him. Arthur’s heavy arm is folded over your shoulder. His relaxed hand barely grazing your exposed arm, but the sensation sends goosebumps over your skin. Your own hand is placed on his thigh, a comfortable resting spot but entirely improper. Snatching it away, you shift as much as you can to look at the snoozing man next to you. His green eyes are still closed, even breaths coming as quiet snores half of the time.

“Mr. Morgan?” you whisper, testing to see how deeply asleep he is. The only response given is another low snore. Squirming a bit to try and remove yourself, you squeak when his arm only tightens around you, sliding around your clavicle to lock you in firmer.

Accepting that the only way to remove yourself from the situation would mean to draw attention to it, you relax against him and try to will yourself back to sleep. Maybe he’ll lighten his hold sometime through the night and you could divorce yourself from this, pretend it never happened.

Until then, you wait.

And wait.

And--Arthur shifts, groans, adjusts his hat, then goes right back to sleep. The entire time his arm doesn’t move from where it’s locked around your body.

You stare longingly at the book across from you, hardly a meter away yet entirely out of reach. For a lack of anything better to do, you drum your fingers against your skirt, press creases into the satin fabric, and flatten them out over and again.

You eye the hand resting limply on the thigh farthest from you. Where his fingers are long and thick, with nails looking to be bitten to the quick, yours are dainty and well kept. Hands that have only known the scorn of a quickly turned page, or the prick of a sewing needle.

You wonder what Mr. Morgan’s hands know.

Your fingers lightly brush over his thigh, strong and thick underneath his trousers. Your whole hand couldn’t cover the top, even when you splay your fingers.

It’s mindless entertainment, but entertainment nonetheless as you measure the width of his thigh with the first knuckle of your finger, then with two pressed together. Rolling them over this way and back the other, skating them from your leg to his.

You don’t notice when his snoring stops, or the man’s breath goes deathly silent. Only when the large hand you were just studying wraps around your wrist do you realize he’s awoken. The yelp that nearly escapes you gets trapped behind his second roughened palm pressing against your lips, barely a peep hitting the open air.

Neither of you speak for several beats. Long enough that you feel your chest ache for the air you’ve been holding back despite your nose being uncovered. So long you begin to wonder if Arthur had simply reacted as a reflex in his sleep. Maybe you could still get out of this, gently pry his grizzly-sized paws off of your person and pretend this never happened.

But your blood runs cold in your veins before you can make that decision, a low growl rumbling right against your ear.

“Go ahead and explain yourself, girl. We both know that’s not where I keep my money.”

His hand moves from your lips to your chin, guiding your face towards his with a foreign gentleness. This close you can see the flecks of yellow and blue in his eyes; could count his lashes, if your life lasted long enough to allow it.

You try not to pant outright or look into his scornful stare, but when your gaze cast to the side his grip tightens--a painless warning, but a warning all the same. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“I wasn’t trying to steal from you,” you quickly squeak out. The breath he huffs through his nose is warm on your face.

“I’m well aware. So,” his fingers squeeze on your cheeks, pushing your lips forward. “What were those wandering hands of your doin’?”

“I-I don’t--don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he repeats, a hint of amusement lingering in his tone. You nod your head as much as his hand will permit. “Then maybe you need a reminder.”

The hand around your wrist still trapping you against his thigh guides your palm up his leg--far higher than you ever traveled--and then back down again. Your eyes widen, snapping up to his own.

“I wasn’t--”

“Oh, but I think you were,” he says, guiding you higher again. Your hand passes over something underneath his pants. “Your wanderin’ hand caused quite the problem.”

The way he speaks, low and confident, sends a wave of heat through your body, melting the ice your blood had turned to when he caught you. It all pools hotly at the bottom of your stomach, scorches your cheeks. His eyes rake over your expression, face slowly but surely inching towards you. You can feel the heat of his breath on your wet lips, his nose brushing gently over your cheek. But just as your eyes flutter shut he removes his hands from you. Lets go of your jaw and places your hand in your own lap.

“Feelin’ a man while he sleeps is mighty improper, miss,” he says, voice devoid of its earlier gravely husk. “Best get some rest now so we can both forget about it.”

It takes you a long moment to fully register the switch in demeanour, your lips still parted, but for an entirely different reason. He was just going to...let you go? After that ?

Properly humiliated, you rip your gaze away from his profile, glance to the other side of the coach. The seat where you know you should retreat to, slink over with your tail between your legs, and pretend this never happened for the sake of propriety. You know this, and yet you keep yourself planted in the seat next to him, thoughts fuzzy and heart beating at a dizzying rate.

It’s hard to say what came over you. A fit of hysteria or complete mania, perhaps, but without his prompting you place your hand back onto his thigh, grazing it lightly over the swell of corded muscle there. It flexes involuntarily under your touch. “I don’t think I quite understand, Mr. Morgan,” you purr in your best seductive voice, leaning closer to him and pressing your breast up against his arm. You creep up his inner thigh until your fingers curl to cup the bulge that extends far closer to his hip than you expected.

The rush that passes through you when his eyes widen you’ve only felt once. When during a dinner party you snuck into the kitchen and split several bottles of wine with the help, giggling and drinking with them all for God knows how long. You spent the rest of that evening giving demure smiles and hiding behind your fan to conceal the dark red stains on your teeth. Oh, how it felt to do something frowned upon. To hide a little secret in front of so many people.

A feeling you’d much rather chase after than drown.

There is nothing modest about the smile stretched across your face now. The grin splitting your lips is salacious and predatory when you lean towards his parted mouth.

“What’s so improper about this?”

Your free hand snakes its way up his broad chest, grabbing onto the black neckerchief there and yanking on it to close the distance between your mouths.

The stubble on his chin and cheek abraid against your own, but his lips make up for it entirely; warm and supple and surprisingly soft. Almost too pliant at first, tentative and chaste, but when you move his bottom lip between your teeth it puts an end to that.

You have only ever read about men who kiss the way Mr. Morgan does. Dominating and firm but gentle and rich. You’ve kissed wealthy men before but never have had a kiss feel so luxuriant. As his tongue runs around the seam of your lip your mind is wiped clean of any memories to even compare him to. It’s shameless and near urgent, the way he tilts your head back to completely swallow you. When his tongue strokes against your own you let your lips wrap around it, sucking and licking and capturing him there to play with for as long as you please. He moans into your mouth, presses your body closer against him until he’s nearly pushing you down, and tangles his hand in your hair to assert himself back as the one in control.

You break apart purely out of necessity, wet and bruised lips parted to pant hard against each other. Mr. Morgan leaves you breathless once more when he moves you to his lap with such ease you’d think you were a child and not a grown woman.

“You need me to teach ya about improper?” he asks, mouth leaving hot and wet kisses along the column of your neck. You keen and tilt your head higher, giving him more room to explore.

“Would you be so kind, Mr. Morgan?”

“Arthur,” he corrects, teeth nipping at your exposed clavicle. The vibrations run down your spine like a silky cord.

You echo him breathlessly, “Arthur.” It sounds nice on your tongue; a handsome name. A strong name. “I’m afraid I’ve rarely been afforded the luxury of hand-on-hand instruction.”

He’s pulling down the neckline of your dress and exposing your breasts to the rapidly warming air inside the coach. You gasp, having only been this nude in front of your help before. There’s an urge to cover yourself, but you quiet it down when his warm, rough hands press them together.

“Then we better be real thorough, Miss.” He kisses your cleavage, tongue licking a line down your breasts to take a nipple into his hot mouth. You arch further into his touch when a hand moves to your bottom, kneading the flesh there.

He lets go of your breast with the barest graze of teeth, coaxing a whimper out of your throat. He chuckles from below you. “This okay with you, princess?”

“I believe there’s no backing out now, is there?” you jest.

His hands and mouth still, face lifting from your chest to look up at you with a sudden earnestness. “You call the shots, darlin’. If you wanna stop just tell me when.”

You blink at him, having not expected that kind of response. For such a tough and severe-looking man, you expected him to be the type to take what he wants. Maybe that was the initial appeal, but looking at his lust-blown eyes, now tempered with self-restraint, makes you all the more eager to be with him. Not sure what to say, or even trusting your voice to carry a sentence, you dip down and capture his lips once more, sweeter and slower than before. He takes the meaning and lets his hands continue their ministrations, pinching and rubbing and stroking against your breasts to find what pulls the better reaction out of you. Just as you pull apart the stagecoach hits a bump, jostling you two slightly. Arthur holds you steady against him, but in doing so presses you against his erection.

He groans deeply. A grin splits your face.

“Forgive my negligence, Mr. Morgan,” you purr, slipping your hands under both the straps of his suspenders and jacket, sliding them off of his shoulders. Your fingers flick open the buttons of his trousers with an ease that surprises yourself.

When your hand disappears under his trousers, you’re almost surprised by how heavy his erection is. It’s like velvet hilt beneath your fingers, hot and wet at the tip. You roll your palm around it before pulling him out.

“Despite all the erotic dime novels I’ve read I’m afraid none of them went into quite such detail,” you admit sheepishly.

Arthur grins, lopsided and lazily charming. “Let me show you.”

His hand folds over yours, gently guiding it up and down his shaft. You’re caught between watching his erection slip in and out of your hand and watching his expressions: The flutter of his long lashes, the burning red in his cheeks. His mouth remains parted to allow his deep breaths, but his teeth clench in a hiss when you dip your thumb into the slit, smearing the pooling liquid around.

“Move just like that,” he says, hand leaving yours to trail under your skirt and over your stockings.

“Has anyone ever touched you like this?” he asks, fingers mapping out the space between your parted thighs, slipping between the slit of your undergarments to brush over and part your folds. You shake your head, trying desperately not to whimper when his palm presses up against your core. “But you’ve touched yourself like this?”

You struggle to nod your head, not entirely due to his dizzying touch. Arthur notices this, latches onto it. “Say it, princess.”

“I-I’ve touched myself. Before.”

He hums, rewarding you with a large finger rubbing up against your wet entrance.“I want you to show me.”

Before you can question him, he’s removing your hands from his, wet fingers moving you so your back is in the seat. He kneels between your parted legs and hikes your skirt up your waist, untying your underwear easily to shimmying them down and off of your ankles. You fight against yourself to close your knees together tight, caught instead by Arthur’s deep green eyes locked with your own. “Show me,” he repeats, guiding your hands to the space between your thighs.

You want to be embarrassed, tell him this is the point where you call a recess, but with the way the heat in your stomach seeps down to your core, aching to be acknowledged, and Arthur’s reassurance of his own enjoyment, evident by the hand slowly stroking himself--you decide to chase after the feeling of wine stained teeth.

With tentative strokes, you begin pleasuring yourself the way you would in your bedroom back at the estate. Your fingers dip down to your entrance to gather the slick there and spread it over your clit, making gentle but firm circles over the small bundle of nerves. As you begin to build your familiar rhythm, your second hand rises to your chest, stroking and pinching your nipple. Arthur seems caught between the same binary as you: to watch your sex or to watch your face.

He decides on the latter, and to your further joy leans up to kiss you, his knuckles brushing against your own with every flick of his wrist. You moan against his mouth, less occupied with moving your lips than you are chasing after your pleasure.

When you feel your core begin to tighten, Arthur pulls your hips to the edge of the seat. He leaves your mouth to sink down, his face inches from where your fingers are making quick, tight circles.

“What are you--doing?” you ask, breathless.

Arthur looks up at you from where he kneels, taking in the look of genuine confusion on your face and smirks against your bare thigh. “Your dirty novels not tell you ‘bout this?” You shake your head. “I’d rather show you.”

Nothing he’s done thus far has been anything close to unpleasant and, as silly as it is to come to the conclusion now, you trust him. You move your fingers, mourning the loss of your budding release, and nod once.

“Go ahead.”

He smiles against your thigh, kissing you there before continuing lower. And lower. And lower still, until his breath is hot against your core. Before you can grow any more nervous and ask him to stop, you feel the flat of his tongue lick from your entrance to your clit.

You gasp, hand shooting up to cover your mouth. You’ve never felt anything like that before. His tongue is heavy and wet against you, soft lips bringing your folds into his mouth. Salaciously, he looks up at you from between your legs, and you can see his smile in his pretty green eyes. He repeats this once more, but stays at your clit, circling it with his tongue before lapping at it greedily.

Your fingers card through his soft blonde hair, careful at first not to pull, but too far deep in your own pleasure to realize when you do. He moans against you when your hips raise involuntarily to press impossibly closer to his mouth, hands roaming over your waist and to your breasts. You didn’t realize why he wanted you to pleasure yourself in front of him, but now you understand. Everything you showed him he took into account, using it to dangle you over the edge of an impossibly blissful sea.

Your mouth hangs open, keens and whimpers escaping without care as his dexterous mouth and hands strum your body like an instrument, unaware of just how loud they ring in the stagecoach until Arthur’s mouth pulls away and you’re brought back to a sane state of mind.

Without your permission a low moan pulls out of your throat, desperate and needy. Your eyes widen, suddenly sober to your unintentional reaction. Arthur looks to have sobered up slightly too, but when his green eyes meet yours they fall darker than they were before.

“Oh, you dirty girl.”

Arthur rises from his kneel, looms over you in the small space of the coach. Slides his hips between your thighs like the piece of a jigsaw puzzle, the warmth of his manhood hot and heavy over your mound.

“That really gets to you, huh? The idea of gettin’ caught in such an indecent position?”

You go to retort, save yourself the embarrassment of a misunderstanding, but you stop yourself short. There really is no misunderstanding. Arthur kindly doesn’t press the discovery, but you squirm all the same until his lips coax your mouth open and your thoughts away. All the way up until you feel the head of his cock presses up against your entrance and you gasp.

“I-I’ve never--” you’re quick to blurt, but Arthur’s quicker to sooth.

“I know,” he coos, looking at the swell of your mouth. “Ain’t no need for it, darlin’, just say and I’ll go back to what I was doin’ before this.”

You swallow against a dry throat, eyes darting over his face and waiting for something inside of you to say anything other than yes, yes, yes. It doesn’t come, and Arthur waits patiently for your answer. “Please. Keep going.”

The sensation of being filled--of being stretched. Nothing in your books gave it proper tribute. It’s a sweet, slow burn that you feel all the way up your spine; a heat that spreads through your thighs, up to your navel. Your fingernails leave skinny red lines along Arthur’s forearms, stopping only when he’s fully seated inside of you.

You come to a standstill, luxuriating in the feeling of the other. “You fit me perfectly,” Arthur whispers, grinding his hips against the plush of your ass. You gasp.

“You think I’m the one with the dirty mouth?”

He chuckles against your lips, kissing you once quick and hard before pulling back to give you a proper grin, “This is church talk, girl,” and thrusts into you.

You’re already so full of him, filled in a way you hadn’t imagined possible, and having him press deeper into you hits something that has you out of breath with pleasure. Your toes curl, fingers digging into Arthur’s strong shoulders. It’s so, so good--

And then he pulls back to properly thrust.

If having his tongue on you was the best thing you’d felt, having him bury himself in you over and over again is nothing short of heavenly. Each time it feels like he may be leaving, only to sink back in, you lose any sense. The hand at the back of your thigh, your ankles locked together, the sweat dotting your brow. It all feels like so much, and yet it waves to the background while Arthur takes you. You haven’t realized the noises filling the coach are entirely yours until Arthur quiets you with his tongue against yours. When your mouths finally pull apart the first thing back on your tongue is his name.

“Arthur,” you whimper, bottom lip catching between your teeth.

“What do you need, girl.” Your lips parts to tell him, but the words catch in your throat, another wave of euphoria hitting you when he presses all the way in and stills. Like this you’re so obscenely stretched and filled in ways you never knew you’d want to be, but he presses your hips back against him, pushing against your limit even further. “Tell me what you need,” he whispers, pulsing inside of you.

“H-harder.”

If the bulging muscles in his arms weren’t affirmation enough, the display of just how strong he is comes when his arms hook under your knees to push them back towards your chest, hands splaying along your upper back. You think for a second he’s going to throw you onto the floor and take you like that--something you’re surprised to learn you aren’t entirely opposed to--but instead of letting you drop he holds you just like that, supporting the near entirety of your weight in his arms.

You’re completely laid bare before him, legs spread lewdly for his viewing pleasure, hands too busy clawing at his shoulders and hair to cover your expressions from him, but it only makes the scorching need in your core burn brighter. He chuckles when you hook your feet over his shoulders, letting go completely to the obscenity of it all.

You think, at least. Then he starts to move.

His arms swing you back while his hips lift to meet you, thrusting inside of you with long, rough movements. The first slap of your arse to his thighs is loud inside of the coach, but not any louder than the sounds that rip from your throat. They only spur him on, working to keep a rhythm that has you useless in his arms.

“God!” you brokenly gasp, uncaring of your volume or the swear. “L-like that!”

“There you go,” he husks, hands squeezing you tight. Every part of you is overwhelmed by him, inside and out. His voice, his touch, his scent, his taste. It pushes you closer and closer to the edge, every sense heightened and primed as if with the sole purpose of bringing you over. That tempting line between wanting to remain in the rapture that comes right before your climax and needing to feel yourself fall apart. For him, on him, because of him.

The need only burns brighter every time you sink back down onto his length, his thick head pressing impossibly deeper inside of you and hitting every sensitive spot along the way.

You try to warn him, at least to keep him going long enough for you to claim your mark, but it comes out a broken mess. “A-Arthur, I’m--don’t, ah! Keep--“

“Let me feel you take your pleasure.”

And you do.

#arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 smut #rdr2 x reader #Bunny Writing #testing the waters here how thirsty is everyone #are the arthur morgan girlies still alive

387 notes · View notes