#Male reader x rdr

[frostbitemutt]

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❆ So I've decided to re-do my blog, this is, as stated in the description, a yandre focused blog. THIS IS MEANT FOR HORROR PURPOSES. I find the pyshcology and horror aspects of the "yandere" trope. None of these fics are examples of healthy relationships, obsession is not love.

This is a sideblog. I will not name my main blog. I want them completely separate. 17.

Writing style, and fic format are very inspired by @yanderes-galore and @lonleydweller. If either are uncomfortable with amount of inspiration I take I will change it.

❆Inbox: 2

❆Status: Open

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❆Rules ❆Masterlist ❆Fandoms

[bigboy-lovers-unite-writes]

Imagine slapping their asses 🙏🙏

•Dutch; immediately pissed off, depends on who slapped his ass, he might push his cigar into their arm or something out of anger. Will grumble if it's his partner and shoo them away, smokes enough cigarettes after that to take away ten years on his life (it definitely made a camp deafening sound when they slapped it)

•Arthur; the most shocked face ever, just has to stand there for a minute to figure out whatever the fuck just happened. Will stumble over his words, before glaring at the person and chest bump them a few times, but secretly he's nearly popping a boner 💔💔

•John; eye twitches, trying to hold back grabbing his revolver and threatening the person. Says something sarcastic and crosses his arms like the dumb child he is. Will definitely be so damn embarrassed that he flushes as red as Sean's hair. Definitely blabs about it to Abigail later and gets huffy when she laughs

•Hosea; jumps a foot in the air and his body bends like a banana 😭 he's not mad, he'd never get mad, but he is a bit embarrassed about that. He sighs softly, tells a little story about his youth and how he would be able to handle it when he was younger as he rubbed his sore ass, then says he's too old for all that 🫶🫶

•Javier; yells out the loudest Spanish he's ever said, nearly falls forward from the shock of it as both hands go to cover his ass. Can't see it since he pulls his poncho up over his entire face, but he is burning bright red and thinking about it for the rest of the month. Will never trust being around the person again, will side eye them and cover his ass with anything if he's around them again 😢

•Bill; Two different ways this could go. One, he's drunk as a bitch and he hurls a beer bottle them and starts cursing and chasing them all over yelling about how he's no queer, even if it was a woman that slapped his ass, or he will just glare and threaten them a little bit and try to intimidate them if by god he's not drunk

•Kieran; actually stands up straight for once instead of being like a shrimp literally 24/7. Looks like a bug when you pick up a rock, eyes all wide and face flushed even pinker than it usually already naturally is. Definitely looks spaced out the rest of the day, probably can't stop thinking about it for sure

•Sean; gasps and is completely over dramatic, falling and pulling whoever slapped his ass down with him. Definitely tells everyone that the person slapped his ass, and he sounds strangely proud about it too..

•Lenny; poor boy doesn't know what to do, he's stuttering and gripping at his favorite book that he was reading, glancing around as he tried to say something. Might quirk a smile after a while, but it's whenever that person isn't around (he's so embarrassed don't do it again he can't handle it 💔)

•Micah; immediately cracks up and dares the person to slap his ass again, sticking it out slightly. He then promptly slaps that person's ass twenty times harder than they slapped his. It becomes a little game between the two whenever they see each other

•Charles; the absolute politest, might get a bit grumbly. 'oh my' is the first words outta his mouth 😭 will ask them why they did that and if it was supposed to be funny. He's like a mother in this sense, but also can't stop grinning since he actually liked it ❤️

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 1: SOMEWHERE (FAR, FAR) EAST OF THE MOJAVE

synopsis: you wake up in some cabin, half-frozen to death. a man named arthur finds you and decides to have mercy on you, as do his associates.

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: if anyone wants me to start a taglist just lmk <3!! also there's a PROLOGUE before this, please read it before reading this :)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s cold. Above everything else, it’s fucking cold. 

You screw your eyes shut tighter, curling in on yourself. You’re vaguely aware that you’re on your side and in a fetal position. 

There’s a light, faintly, somewhere behind you. You let out a hiss that tapers off into a groan and draw your arms over your head.

“Hey!” A voice shouts. It’s growly and abrasive-sounding. There’s the sound of a revolver’s hammer cocking. “Turn around. Face me.”

You prop your forearm on the floor and push yourself up with more effort than you think would be needed. You pant softly, and your breath mists in front of your mouth. You manage to hold yourself up with both hands on the floor and turn your head to look at the man. 

He’s tall in a way that makes him look down his nose at you. His silhouette is stark against the door – there’s snow outside. You don’t remember it to be… snowing. It’s May in southern California. It doesn’t snow in May in southern California.

The man looks you over, his revolver still pointed at you. His hand is unwavering.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You don’t know why. “Is this your house?”

“No,” the man says simply. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I’m…” You look down at your hands, the way they’re braced against the floor. “I don’t know. I think…” 

Your arms shake, then collapse. Your jaw hits the floor with a dull thud, and your eyes screw shut on instinct.

“Shit,” the man drawls under his breath. 

“W-wait! Wait,” you say quickly. “I’m not on anything. I – I’m stone-cold sober. Like Steve Austin.”

You force a laugh and manage to open your eyes to look at the man. He looks confused – maybe a little disgusted? It’s hard to tell.

“Like, the wrestler?” You say. “Stone Cold Steve Austin?”

The man lowers his revolver, just a little, so that it’s not pointed at your head, but still in your general direction. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, in any capacity. Maybe he won’t shoot you if he thinks you’re insane? (Or maybe that would just give him more of an incentive to kill you.)

“Just – just ignore me,” you say. (Again, you don’t know why. You don’t want to be ignored – you’re very obviously in bad shape.) “I don’t know where I am. I remember being in California, just north of Los Angeles.”

The man scoffs and checks over his shoulder, like he’s checking he’s not being duped. He looks back at you. “California? Really?”

“Yes,” you say softly. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself the best you can with the way that you’re laying. “South. Right near Mexico – Tijuana.”

The man tilts his head and takes a half-step closer. “You’re bleedin’.”

“I am?” You manage to move your arm and see dried brown blood on your jacket laced with redder, fresher blood. “I am.”

“I just…” You shift, curling in on yourself further. Now that he’s pointed it out, you do feel some type of dull pain in your abdomen. “I’ll be okay. Don’t call for a doctor, or an ambulance. Please don’t call an ambulance. I – I’ll get to a hospital on my own.”

The man shifts on his feet. Was it always this cold? It’s… it’s so fucking cold. And no matter how much you curl in on yourself, there’s no warmth. 

The black returns. 

There’s snippets of conversations you can pick up on over the sound of feet shuffling and the sound of wind blowing outside. One woman gives a few demands to others, while another woman announces that “Davey’s dead.”

You can feel yourself being lifted and laid on something that’s hard against your back. You groan and try to open your eyes and sit up, but can’t. 

The voices grow quieter. There’s a man making some sort of speech – you can’t make out the words. 

You know you’re wavering in and out. There’s the warmth of a man’s hand on your shoulder, and a murmuring voice, still fading in and out: “I commend you… your Creator… who formed you from the dust… angels, and all the saints…”

It takes all your strength to lift your hand and grab him – some part of him. You can barely open your eyes and can’t make out a lot. “Not… dead yet. Fucking pr…preacher.”

Black again. There’s a repetitive, stinging pain in your side. 

Awake, again. Somehow. A woman, her face worn but still beautiful, hovers over you. Her wrinkles are stark in the lantern light. 

“Hello?” You say, your voice a bit slurred.

The woman turns and calls another woman over – this one much younger than her. “Miss Jackson, get Dutch. Let him know Arthur’s friend is awake.”

Miss Jackson turns and walks off with a “Yes, Miss Grimshaw.” 

“Arthur?” You interject. “Is that the man who found me?”

Miss Grimshaw turns back to you. “Yes, Arthur’s the one who found you. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot you.”

You wait for her to say something more. She doesn’t.

“Where am I?” You try. “I remember being in California, just outside of the Mojave. But the Mojave doesn’t get snow in May.”

“That’s because you’re not in the Mojave,” Miss Grimshaw says. “We’re in the Grizzlies.”

“Th…the Grizzlies?” You echo. “Like, Appalachia?”

“Somewhere in there, yes,” she says. “You been out a few days now. Reverend read you your last rites a handful of times.”

You try to sit up, but groan and lay back down. She pushes you down as well, a scowl on her face. 

The door opens with a gust of cold wind. A man steps in, then quickly shuts the door behind him. He hurries over, rubbing his gloved hands together. 

He looks you over, then drags a nearby chair over and sits. “What’s your name, friend?”

You give him your name. 

“My name is Dutch,” Dutch says. “Dutch van der Linde. I think you know by now that you’ve caught us at an… inconvenient time. And you’ll forgive us for not trusting you right away.”

“No, I get that,” you say. “I just… I need a map or something. I need to get back home.”

Dutch beckons for Miss Grimshaw to bring over a map. He opens it and holds it out to you. 

You sit up, slowly, making sure not to do anything too sudden. When you’re upright, you take the map from him and look it over. You don’t recognize anything on the map, but one point piques your interest – the date. The year reads 1891.

“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” You point to the year. “This map seems a little out of date.”

“It’s just eight years,” Miss Grimshaw says. “Most everything is the same.”

You glance up at her, then at Dutch, then at the people around the cabin. Your fingers twitch and crumple the map a bit. 

This is a dream! I’m in a coma! Your mind shouts. I’m in a medically-induced coma because I was shot and holy hell – how the fuck did I go from 2024 to 1899?!

“Right, right,” you say instead. “Sorry. I’m just being nitpicky.”

“Where’re you from?” Dutch asks. 

“California. Near the Mojave,” you say. “Out west.”

“And you would leave all that… virgin paradise…” Dutch laughs and gestures vaguely around him. “For this?”

“I don’t know how I got here,” you say. “I’ve been saying that since I woke up. I don’t…” You shake your head.

“Well, I’m sure we can get you back to your home,” Dutch says. “We’re persevering folk. Do you recognize anything – anything at all – on that map?”

You look down at the map again. It’s all unfamiliar. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, my friend,” Dutch says, reaching a hand out like it’s meant to soothe. “You’re a soul in need. I’m sure we can figure something out somehow. Can you at least tell me what your home is like?”

This is a coma, you remind yourself. I can just make something up. I’m not some person that couch-surfed for half my life. I can be whoever.

“I… it’s odd,” you say to buy yourself some time. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s a few tribes that live in Zion Canyon – the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. I was a courier delivering goods to the Dead Horses. There were two men there that convinced me to stay.”

A Black man – broad, intimidating, with long, dark hair – perks up at the mention of tribes. His dark (almost black, honestly) eyes find yours, then he looks down at the floor again.

“None of it rings a bell,” Dutch says. “But, these men – what’re their names?”

It’s in that exact moment that you realize you just prattled off part of the storyline of Fallout: New Vegas. Then you realize that, if this really is 1899, no one here would know what you’re talking about. 

“Joshua Graham and Daniel,” you say. “They’re white – they work with the natives and help them trade. Joshua’s acting as the Dead Horses’ war chief and Daniel is a healer that works with the Sorrows.”

Yes. You’re totally friends with Joshua Graham and Daniel and the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. And from the way Dutch nods solemnly, you think he believes you. 

You hold out the map and he takes it back, folding it neatly. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” you say. “I’ve never even been this far east before.”

“Don’t worry,” Dutch says. “You can stay with us, for the time being. At least until we get to some… some town, or city. Let you rest your feet while you recover. We’re a gang of… violent criminals and degenerates, but we care. I can’t say the same for the rest of America.”

Your hand instinctively goes to your side, where you felt the stinging, repetitive pain earlier. “Right. My side doesn’t feel as bad as before. Thank you for that.”

You look around and slowly swing your feet over the side of the table. A lightning arc of pain shoots down your leg, causing you to gasp and tense. As with everything else, you force through it and stand. 

“I need to get some air,” you say. Dutch just nods. You walk (shamble, really) to the door and open it, slipping outside.

The cold is even worse out here. There’s footpaths in the snow. You stick your hands under your arms and walk one. It leads to a man standing by a fire in front of a cabin, dressed in a winter poncho with a gun in his hands. 

You hold your hands out towards the fire and rub your hands together. It doesn’t replace the warmth you had while you were inside, but it’s still something.

“What’s your name?” The man asks. He shifts the rifle in his hands, but doesn’t move to point it at you. (An improvement, if a small one.)

You give him your name. “What about you?”

“Javier,” Javier says. “Javier Escuella.”

“Where are you from?” You shift your focus to the fire. “Not trying to be rude. It’s just that there’s a few ‘Javier’s where I’m from.”

“Northern Mexico,” Javier says. “You?”

“I’m originally from the South, but I live in the Mojave. I moved to the Frontier to be closer to my sister,” you say. “So I guess we weren’t that far off from each other.”

You look up at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. It’s the man from way earlier – Arthur. You look back at the fire instead.

Arthur nods at Javier and spares a glance at you before entering the cabin. People are talking inside, and you catch a snippet of voices before Arthur closes the door again.

“It’s too cold to be May,” Javier says. You can tell he’s trying to be polite by making conversation. “I’m not designed for this snow.”

“I know, right?” You laugh under your breath. “Neither am I. I’d go back inside, but I don’t want to intrude. Any more than I already have, anyway.”

“It’s below freezing,” he says. “Everyone needs shelter. Come on.”

With that, Javier turns and walks into the cabin, holding the door open behind him for you. You thank him and follow him inside. 

Inside is a group of men and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke. You tense when they all turn to face you. Most of them are, in fact, smoking. You nod politely and tuck yourself into a corner, next to a man with a blond mustache. 

A hefty man is sitting across from the blond man, and a much younger Black man is sitting on a table next to him. Javier is by the door, and you try your best to ignore Arthur’s huge presence beside you. You can see him throw a small log into the woodstove out of the corner of your eye.

The man sort-of across from you looks at you, then returns his gaze to the man sitting beside you. “I guess folks miss them… that fell.”

“Well, when I fall, I don’t want no fuss,” the man beside you says.

“When you fall…” The young man waves his hand, which is holding a lit cigarette. “There’ll be a party.”

“A party!” The hefty man echoes, laughing. “Hah, probably.”

You feel the beginnings of a smile start to cross your face. You don’t know these people, and while they aren’t exactly doing their best to welcome you, they aren’t exactly making you feel unwelcome, either.

The man beside you holds out a bottle to you. You hesitantly take it, even though you’re confused. “I don’t want this.”

He pays you no mind and stands, looking down at the man. “That funny, huh?”

“Sure,” the man says, the remnants of laughter still in his voice.

One man strikes another, and it’s loud, absolute chaos. On instinct, your eyes snap to the door. Unblocked. An exit if needed.

Arthur and the young man are holding the hit man back, and the blond man speaks. “Maybe  I don’t feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two!”

It’s going to escalate. You can get to the door. Dutch was right – this is a gang of violent criminals and degenerates. One you want nothing to do with.

But Dutch bursts in with a gust of cold wind. As soon as he sees what’s going on, his face twists. The men dissipate from their tight proximity and distance themselves from each other.

“Stop it!” He snaps. “You fools punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s needin’ punching – hard! You wanna sit around, waiting for him to come find us?”

Arthur slips out of the door as Dutch continues. “All of you, we got work to do. Come on.”

The men turn and start to file out of the cabin. You can hear Arthur and Dutch talking outside. By the time you’re outside, most of the men are over by the horses or on one of them.

Dutch is talking quietly to Arthur while they’re both mounting up – you couldn’t hear them if you tried. He straightens up on his snow-white horse and shouts. “Mister Matthews, Mister Smith, Mister Pearson, would you please look after the place? There are O’Driscolls about!”

With that, he snaps the reins and his horse darts off. The rest of the men from the cabin, now all on horseback, quickly follow. 

You resign yourself to following another footpath. This one leads to a partly-sheltered, partly-dilapidated garage-type-thing with something like a kitchen inside. There’s a deer hoist against the wall, but it’s empty.

Your eyes dart to some sort of cauldron-looking pot hanging over a fire that’s mostly coals. You walk over and hold your hands out to it, trying to get warm again. 

“You’re new.”

Your head snaps up to see the broad Black man from earlier. He still has that impassive look on his face. 

“Yes, sir, that’s right,” you say. You introduce yourself. “What’s your name?”

“Charles Smith.” Charles walks and stands beside you, mirroring you and putting his hands out towards the fire. “You were talking earlier about tribes.”

“Yeah,” you say. “What about them?”

“I’ve never heard of the ones you were talking about,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth and calm. (You try your best not to latch onto that sense of calmness. You now know how quickly things can turn.)

“The Sorrows and the Dead Horses?” You rub your nose as you try to think of an excuse. “I wouldn’t expect you to. They live in Zion Canyon – in the Mojave. They’re fairly isolated, but they’re good people.”

Charles hums and his eyes return to the fire. You try to think of something to keep the conversation going.

“Who’s Colm O’Driscoll?” You ask. “I’ve heard his name a handful of times.”

“A rival gang leader,” he says. “Runs the O’Driscolls.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You scratch your cheek. “That makes sense.”

A silence settles over the two of you again. Charles must be comfortable with it. Unfortunately, you’re not. 

“Is there anything people need done?” You ask, glancing at him. “I don’t like being idle for too long.”

He looks over at the empty deer hoist. “We need food.”

“I’m no good at hunting.” You look at the fire and rub your hands together again. “Sorry.”

“You apologize a lot,” Charles says. His eyes flick to you. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”

You bite back another apology and force a laugh. Your breath mists in front of your face. “Force of habit.”

Charles hums and his focus returns to the smoldering coals that make up the fire. A nagging thought in the back of your head tells you that you made him mad (even though he’s given literally no indication you’ve done so). 

You follow his lead and look at the fire. There’s nothing else to do in this kind of cold, anyway. 

[miguel-owhora]

I'll bite for a kinktober request, maybe like... Micah cum inflation. He gets bred so fiercely and mind numbingly well that all he can do is lay there and take it. He barely realizes his womb/insides are swelling with seed. The top goes for round four, and he opens his legs as best he can

unfortunately this time i wasn't taking these types of reqs as compared to last year's, but this was too good of a prompt to ignore.

CW — sub!micah , trans!micah , cum inflation/bloating , excessive cum , dubious undertones , implied mind breaking , not beta read

fems n minors dnf, you will be blocked

There is nothing more pretty than the sight of Micah sprawled over your bed, as bare as the day he was born, and with a set of puffy lips between his legs. This wasn't the first time you've seen him naked, seen his legs spread, but it's the first time you've seen him like this.

Cum dribbles from his puffy lips, his hole loose. The coarse hair curling around his cunt is slick in some areas, more so downwards towards his entrance. His belly is swollen and taut, and not just from the beer store away in his gut, but from the excessive amount of cum you've been dumping into him.

It's fascinating, really, just how much you could cum in one session, enough to force Micah's belly to bloat. Your hands trace over his belly, fingers brushing over the hair that trailed over it, a shade darker from his blonde hair. You could feel the subtle markings of his stretchmarks, both from the rapid swelling and from gaining weight in other situations unrelated to your current activity.

Perhaps you're biased, but you think he's the prettiest thing you've ever seen, more so now when he looks like he's pregnant.

The thought of Micah Bell - one of the most infamous outlaw - pregnant, all fat and heavy with your brood, makes your cock hard. A bead of cum slips from the tip, but you don't notice, staring down at Micah like he's a slab of meat ready for you to devour.

And in a way, he is.

"Micah," You call out his name, shifting to get closer to him. He makes a low sound in response, and an uncharacteristic whine slips from his lips when your cockhead pokes his entrance. He sluggishly squirms in a weak attempt to get away, but all he does it make your cock poke at his cunt. It's cute, really, that he thinks he has a say in it.

Your hands grip his thighs, keep them nice and open, as you sink your cock back inside. Micah lets out a high-pitched sound, something that dances between being a whimper and a cry, as slurred and weak as ever.

You shush him as you bottom out, cock nicely fitting in his gummy cunt, feeling your cum spread along your length. Maybe it's just your imagination, or maybe the results of your hard work, but his walls feel puffier, slimier, weakly squeezing you.

You lean over him, hands gently cradling his belly, and peer down at him with curious eyes; dark in the low lighting of the room, making them glint like the eyes of a predator observing their prey.

There's a red flush spread across the scruffy outlaw's space, spreading over the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, spreading to the very tips of his ears. His greasy hair spans around him like some golden crown, and the glossy looks in his dull eyes only helps to accentuate the almost ethereal look he has going on.

Of course, the look is only ruined - or perhaps made more beautiful - at the drool that dribbles down his swollen lip. His lips are parted, and for once not chapped, panting into the suffocating air. The air is heavy with the scent of both men, sweat, and sex.

When your hand gently grips his chin, Micah squirms in response, involuntarily squeezing around your cock. The action has you jerking your hips, and Micah whimpers.

"Little tease," You muttered, tilting his head so he's facing you. His pupil swallows up his iris, a pale circle of blue eclipsing the black color. You slowly rock your hips, grinding deeper into his cunt, and Micah practically whimpers, lightly trembling.

"You're so pretty, Micah, such a pretty thing, all for me, aren't you?" You can't help but coo, voice dancing between being mocking and genuine, one of your favorite past times. You slowly rock your hips, each shallow thrust of your cock punching the cum cooped up in him, and Micah groans.

Your hand drops back to his swollen belly, taut with your cum, and you gently press down. Micah whimpers, and you lean down to kiss him as you give a particularly harsh snap of your hips. It has him gasping, and your slimy tongue slips inside, claiming his mouth, just as you're about to claim him for the fourth time that night.

[simon-isnthere-rn]

FROSTBITE.

Pairings : Arthur Morgan x GN!reader

Summary : Reader and Arthur go out hunting, Arthur pushes through the snow until he’s shaking like a leaf, his nose red, and his feet numb. Reader tends his wounds and scars, helping him warm up.

Tags : fluff, minor nudity, slight use of Y/N.

Wc : 850+

An : yes Ik it’s short I was half asleep doing ts 😭🤦 also this is my first fic that I didn’t scrap so have mercy 💔😢

It was a brutal, cold night. Dutch’d sent you and Arthur out hunting. This week was cruel, barely any animals were around the campsite, the blizzard had gotten worse— and most dreadful of all, John had came back with half his head torn by wolves.

“Goddamn— thick sunovabitch..” Arthur murmured under his breath as he walked in the deep inches of snow while you follow close.

It was hard to see in this blizzard, the only thing you could’ve seen was endless white snow for miles. Arthur had prepared his gun already. “So damn hard to hear anything in this state,” he growled. “Look out for anything movin’. Could be anything,but ‘least it’s somethin’.”

You nod, pulling out your revolver. “Even if it’s a goddamn bear?” You scoffed.

“Specially if it’s a goddamn bear.”

———————————𖦹₊ ⊹————————————

A few hours of waiting around has passed— your knuckles had gone red already. Arthur was already shaking. Just a week ago the blizzard ate and tore apart Arthur’s jacket.

“Goddamn,” he growled, squinting his eyes.

“You alright?” You tilt your head at him, face full of concern.

“Of course.” He replied, ashamed to admit he’s shaking like a goddamn leaf.

“Shh— quiet. I hear shuffling in the snow,” he murmured, crouching down in the deep snow. “Hide. Don’t wanna spook it.”

Arthur crept up closer to the sound, pulling out his shotgun.

“Careful,” you warned him, gripping on your revolver.

“It don’t sound large. Sounds like a goddamn rabbit,” he chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” scoffing, he stood up from his position and slowly approached the sound.

As soon as he saw the snow moving. He pointed the shotgun barrel at the spot. “C’mon, boy..” he murmured to himself—

A small bear cub popped his head out.

“What the fuck?”

A loud growl is heard from the side. Arthur backed up— falling onto the deep snow— almost getting himself trapped. “Goddamnit!!”

You looked around in the direction of the snow—

There Emerged a large angry momma bear. “Oh fuck—“ you ducked down in the snow, hopping it won’t see you.

The bear approached Arthur— but fortunately for him, he’d already stood up. “Christ!!—“ he stepped back. “Easy there, girl…” he muttered as the bear growled at him. “C-‘mon. I ain’t hurt yer cub—“ he lifted his hand up, “He’s fine—“

Crck— the cub wailed in pain as Arthur stepped on his leg. “Goddamnit—“

The large bear lunges forward onto Arthur, biting his leg. “Y/N!! Fuck— Help me, Goddamnit!!”

You stumbled over and stood up, grabbing your shotgun before pointing it at the bear, pulling the trigger. The bear growled in pain, but didn’t let go of Arthur’s leg. You shoot in another time, hitting it on it’s head. It’s blood splattering and contrasting over the white snow. It fell— dead on the ground.

Arthur kicks it off his body, panting heavily. “J-jesus christ—“ he muttered. “Y/N.. help me up—“ you stumbled over the shaking man, grabbing him by his arm. “C’mon, big guy.” You scoffed

———————————𖦹₊ ⊹————————————

By the time you two reached the cabins— you assigned Bill to get the bear’s corpse. Finally— some goddamn food.

But Arthur..

You approached him in his cot. “Are you alright?”

He shook his head, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Goddamn bear almost torn me apart…” he growled.

Your gaze looked over at his bleeding leg. “Grimshaw hasn’t tended you yet?”

“No..” he grumbled. “Can’t walk over to their cabin.” He murmured.

You chuckle to yourself, going on one knee. “I’ll help.”

“… you sure?”

“Yeah,”

You grabbed a roll of bandage from your satchel, wrapping it around his bitten leg. You made it tight— making him grunt a little. “Sorry, sorry.” You muttered.

“S’fine,” he grumbled, looking away.

“Are you cold?” You looked over at the thin blanket that wrapped around his body.

“.. yeah.”

You sighed softly, standing up before sitting next to Arthur. You wrapped your jacket around him, pulling him close. “… this is just for warmth.” You muttered.

Unconsciously— he leaned his head onto your shoulder, leaning his whole body onto you.

You squeezed his shoulders slightly, pulling him closer. He grunted softly when you squeezed his arm.

“Oh— shit— what’s wrong?”

He grumbled, replying. “The bear didn’t just bite my leg,” he muttered.

“Can I see?” You asked him, scooting away slightly.

He sighed, removing his blouse. A few scratches and scars were visible on his arm and on his chest.

“Goddamn..” you muttered. “Wait here.” You stood up, running out of the cabin.

The moment you came back you were carrying a bucket of boiling water.

“Here.” You soaked a damp cloth in the water before approaching Arthur with it.

“You—.. thank you,” he murmured.

“Uhuh,” you smiled to yourself as you pressed the warm soaked cloth onto his scars.

He hissed as the warm water hit his skin, but he slowly relaxed. “Mhph,” he groaned softly.

“Too hot?”

“No, s’perfect,” he felt his whole body relax as ot warms up from the water.

“Warmin’ up already?” You teased as you tended his scars.

He groaned quietly, closing his eyes as he let out a a deep sigh. “Thank you,” he murmured.

[scarfacemarston]

Please if you could, please let me get some comfort from John, just him comforting his crying s/o god I need him so bad rn

I'm so sorry this took so long. I hope you're feeling better. Hopefully, you'll still enjoy this!

Note: Gender Neutral Friendly. This is set in the RDR 1 era, John, because people canonically go to him for comfort, and he’s much more mature here. In this verse, I hc that Abigail and John are amicable and live close to one another. Jack lives with John part-time. Is that too modern? Probably. Lol

John was working in the barn, sawing wood to fix up the gazebo the pair of you enjoyed on cool evenings, when you slowly approached him, trying not to draw his attention immediately.

However, you and John had a very tight relationship to the point that the two of you could almost sense the mood or feelings the other had. It was part of your bond. This caused John to whip his head around immediately to face you, his confused gaze turning soft. He placed the saw down carefully and removed his gloves.

“Darlin’,” he rumbled lowly as he made his way towards you, cupping your face as he closed the gap between the two of you. He immediately enveloped you in his arms, and the solid weight comforted you.

At this point, you had been sniffling softly to try not to worry John more than you had to, but once you felt his arms around you, you couldn’t help but let the dam break.

He sushed you gently as you buried your head into his chest, sobbing. John frowned, worry creeping into his features.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John muttered.

Truth be told, he never felt like he was the most comforting of people, nor was he the best at giving advice, but for you? He’d try. Always. (Of course, you disagreed. You saw how John treated others - gruff but polite and fair. He was far more generous and wise than he gave himself credit for.) It gave the quiet and serious man a complexity that few would know. You paused, shaking your head no. John nodded, not pushing the subject further - another thing you appreciated about him. John drew away from you, wiping the tears from your cheeks before giving your hand a kiss.

“Come on, let’s dry those eyes in our room with some privacy,” He said, guiding you into the home he built for you.

Blessedly, Jack and Uncle were away for the moment. John led you to the bedroom and shut the door, kicking his boots off. You gave a watery smile as you did the same. John plopped down on the bed, holding his arms out. You filled the space embarrassingly quickly. John gave the smallest of smiles before wrapping his arms around you once more.

“I’m sorry you’re havin’ it rough right now. I’m here for you. No matter what. You just say it and it’s yours, darlin’.” he muttered into your hair, kissing your forehead.

You smiled at him, muttering a quiet thank you. “ You don’t got to thank me, you know. Just takin’ care of the person I love.” he countered.

You sighed, melting further into his embrace, your eyes growing heavy.

“Go to sleep, you’ll feel better. I’ll be here when you wake up.” John said, running his fingers through your hair. With that, you slipped into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

[herbatalover]

Javier and John (separate) with a taller male s/o who has a habit of throwing them up in the air and spinning them when excited

Please and thank you

A/N: Decided to make it into headcannons because it'll be easier. Enjoy!

(English is not my first language! Apologies for any grammatical errors)

Up, up and away!

Javier/John x male reader headcannon

<<<<<<<<

Javier

He loves seeing you excited. You being excited makes him excited.

He does not, however, enjoy flying.

When you first threw him in the air, he was terrified. You just got back from a big mission. You managed to get a lot of money, and Dutch, as a reward, allowed you to keep a big part of it.

You were thrilled! You decided to share the news with Javier.

He didn't see you coming, so you ran up to him, picked him up and threw in the air.

You were way taller than him, so it was easy.

Hilarious too, seeing him screech and panick.

You started laughing when he came down, catching him and hugging close to yourself, spinning around.

That man clinged onto you for dear life.

When you finally told him what happened, he tried to be happy.

Well, he was happy, but he felt like he'll pass out.

When you eventually put him down, you had to hold him to steady him.

You had to give him a second before he could return your excitement.

After that, it started happening more often, but you made sure he realised you were coming.

A light tap on his shoulder, a hug and then you threw him in the air.

He was still terrified, but he found it fun as well.

Laughing happily, giving you a kiss on the lips when you caught him.

He tried to return the favour once.

Once.

He almost broke his back.

You made sure he won't try it ever again.

Overall, he's perfect for throwing in the air.

Very aerodynamic.

John

So the first time you did it didn't go as well as you hoped for.

Long story short, he threw up.

It was a similar situation that was with Javier, only that John saw you coming.

But he wasn't ready.

As soon as he got thrown into the air, he could feel the breakfast coming up.

He tried to calm his stomach when he landed in your arms.

But then you started spinning.

And oh God.

He's not used to getting thrown in the air. Carried, sure, but not thrown.

You were stunned.

He was embarrassed.

But thank God you just laughed it off.

If you're brave enough, even gave him a peck.

Yea it was disgusting, but you wanted him to know it's okay.

He appreciated it.

You helped him get cleaned up.

And he helped you.

Taking your clothes off was always his favourite part...

The next time it happened, he was prepared.

He didn't eat anything before that.

But when he realized that you were way more careful, he relaxed.

Started enjoying it even.

To the point he made you excited on purpose just so he could get the little spinning.

He loved the feeling.

And don't worry, the throwing up was only a one time event.

Okay it did happen again.

But he was drunk!

He was still smiling afterwards.

[degredationfanfics]

Nsfw, very erotic no cap fr. Piss kink mention. Power Dynamic, BODY HAIR....

"Hell yeah, boy... nice and slow," Bill murmurs with a sly grin, his expression one of wild mischief. Your nose is right against his bare exposed rear.

A few days earlier, the gang had caught you. They treated you... decently.

You were one of them O'Driscoll boys.

His big hand smacked across your face, and his chubby fingers gripped your hair. He was facing you because he had taken a liking to you. He always had a thing for rival gang members—probably because of the thrill of being so close to one. He was such a deviant. And honestly, out of everyone here, you really, REALLY didn't think that big grizzly guy was fucking gay. As in homosexual.

"Whatchu waitin' for? Go on!" It was covered in hair, not a single bald spot. Thick and dense... It would have pained you to acknowledge it, but deep down, that kind of turned you on. Gosh, you were so naughty. You could barely see his hole, and the smell? It was the true scent of a man—musky and unapologetic. You took one deeper sniff, curious.

Good thing you saw him wash himself down by the river minutes earlier. Thinking about it, you were kind of grateful for the gesture. Sure, water is water, and HIS scent wasn't going to go away, but any kind of dirt wasn't going to bother you.

When you started licking, Bill's body immediately reacted. He shivered, and you felt his hole loosen up with enjoyment. You saw his big cock twitch, legs raised, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and the other still gripping your hair as you began groping his meaty buttocks and digging deeper with your tongue and nose. It tickled him.

Bill's head jerked back, letting out a low, pleasured grunt as his eyes mingled with yours.

"Now, if you go on like that, I might just share my meal with you," he whispered, god forbid anyone hear him say that. He would be so ashamed—being nice to the enemy? That was bad. Worse than fucking with them. At least he kind of had Dutch's agreement to do this. Sort of...

You nodded, playing with your tongue. You went all the way down his crack, licking slowly up to the crease of his balls. You did this a few more times, three in total. "Aight... that's enough." Bill glanced at his cock; it was erect, but it wasn't enough. The fun was just getting started. Oh boy, were you going to have plenty.

He wanted more control over you; he wanted to see you muffle and suffer just a bit. Just to make you get the message that if you had simply chosen a better gang, the Van der Linde gang, this kind of pleasure could have been daily.

Bill grabbed your neck effortlessly, pinning you down on the camping bed. It must have been a really good one because it didn't break even when you slammed back first into it. You looked at Bill, fear growing in you. But you felt slightly reassured when you glanced at his stocky figure, fat laying in all the right places, a sexy gut full of beer and all. It wasn't the unhealthy kind; it was the STRONG type. Only your sight quickly revolted when the dim lantern light was shadowed by Bill's own silhouette hovering over your chest.

He looked back at you, aiming with precision, laying right onto your face, hole to mouth. He moaned, lust rushing through his blood. Bill's hands touched his bushy chest, his own fingers tracing his nipples and eventually resting on your legs. His eyes caught you enjoying this. Your pants didn't lie. While he was naked, you were still fully clothed. Bill wanted to keep it like that, but now his need to see and feel you grew bigger and bigger.

You couldn't breathe as well as before, and feeling him grind onto your face was overwhelming. He was heavy, and he clearly didn't care. He only lifted himself ever once in a while when you stopped moving.

Bill was ass-fucking your face, and you were licking him so well he was leaking. He unbuttoned your pants in a rush, setting you free as he, in return, sucked your dick. It wasn't an act of love or anything like that. He was sucking it like he needed it. He depended on it; all that booze had made him hungry. It was sloppy, and so were you. You left saliva and kisses all over his behind; you were basically trapped down there. The scent of sweat and your desire for more melted together.

"You're well packed..." He was staring at your cock. He was overdoing it; you knew it. His tone didn't seem all that impressed, but judging by the way he was jerking you off, that didn't matter.

He sucked, you licked. His ass was gaping wider? Your cock was growing harder. And when you could swear you were about to cum, Bill put his thumb on your urethra, cutting you off. You moaned, confused. The vibration of your voice teased his needy ass.

"This still ain't enough... I want more..."

In a smooth motion, his weight lifted off your face, and you instantly took a deep breath full of oxygen. Gee, even the air carried his scent. You spat out the tuft of hair you almost swallowed, brown and thick short locks landing on the grassy ground. You squinted when you felt him put weight on your pelvis, your bony pelvis so frail and unimpressive compared to his.

He took you by both wrists, pulling you into him. Bill smiled like a maniac when he felt your hardened third leg slide into him, smooth as butter. Your hands naturally rested on his hips.

You were doggy-styling him now; that was how he liked it best. He impatiently slammed himself onto you, taking it in properly.

"You gonna fuck me or what, boy?!" Bill was kind enough to do it once. But his wild, animalistic stare back at you was all you needed to start thrusting into him, hitting his G-spot like there was no tomorrow. Because truthfully, there probably wasn't going to be one if you didn't satisfy him enough.

"mhn, goddamn..."

"Urgh!..."

He was so vocal. You were trembling like a leaf, keeping a steady rhythm no matter what. Your hands pinched his generous ass cheeks, feeling his hair as you laid kisses on his neck. His insides were warm, surprisingly narrow. It didn't seem to fit a big guy like that to have such a tight hole. But hey, it was easier to make things come out of this bad boy than to make them go in.

Bill wasn't even there anymore; he was a mess. He whined in an unfamiliar tone that was quite high-pitched and out of character. His face squashed into his pillow, hands jerking himself off fast and mechanically. It seemed like he was cumming, but most of it was piss. That drunken fool... He then took most of his remaining energy to give you a little boost, his body mirroring your moves just to get you high and dry. His arm came around your neck as he kissed you clumsily.

His cock twitched when the ever-familiar sticky goo seemed to have drained for good. He felt lightheaded. But you? You were still going.

That whole thing—seeing him like that, the kiss, him being so drunk, his piss, and that stupidly sexy musky smell he still carried around—you rubbed your fingers on the mess that stained the bed, collected some, and dug it into his mouth.

Bill's eyes widened, flushing red. He never would have guessed he tasted this good—a perfect blend of sweetness with a hint of salt. You explored his mouth and throat with fervor, each movement met with his eager consent. He surrendered completely, relinquishing the dominance he once held over you, savoring every second of this shared intensity.

But he probably simply gave up control, overwhelmed by the exhaustion that weighed heavily on both his body and intoxicated mind. You kept fucking him relentlessly, fast and hard. He screamed, whimpered, and groaned. Your hand shaky, you spanked him firmly, as if he were a disobedient mule. His fat ass wiggled from the shock. Bill tried to bite back a moan; he wasn't dumb—he knew what was coming.

You.

He closed his eyes, holding his breath, a large satisfied smile tailored on his face.

Finally, you hit his G-spot one last time with all your might, and you finally exploded inside him. It was the biggest orgasm you ever experienced. You really did a number on him, filling him up like a puffy pastry. Poor guy was probably going to feel this for the whole week...

And so, there you were, back at square one—tethered to that STUPID tree, a silent observer as the Van der linde bustled around you doing their day to day activites. The women giggling as they walked past you.

You knew they knew.

Suddenly, you felt a Big hand on your shoulder. A chill ran down your spine. You couldn't turn back to see who it was but you were certain this was now and today that everything would end for you. You told them everything you knew After all, they didn't needed to keep you around. A wave of dread washed over you, and you braced yourself.

"Time to collect," You recognized that voice!

Bill untied you with rough urgency, and once your wrists were free, relief grew. He stepped in front of you, locking eyes with that same hungry gaze from the night before. You couldn't help but wonder if he still full of your cum, the tought made you swallow nervously.

"Now, don’t look at me like that, cowboy," he teased, half-serious, a goofy grin breaking the tension. After a brief, awkward silence, he turned to retrieve the bowl of deer stew he'd saved for you.

"I don’t usually share," he said, his tone softening, "but I figured you could use this more than I can."

[ashs-cardboard-box]

First meetings

~ Dutch Van Der Linde, Hosea Matthews/Teen!Male!Reader

~ Familial (found family)

~ 1.5k words

CW; Mentions of hanging

Request :3

....................................................................................................

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You fucked up– big time. Committing crimes in a rapidly developing town like Blackwater was stupid, you knew that, yet what other choice did you have? Tears welled up in your eyes as you peer down at the crowd from atop the podium, noose placed over your head and lying across your collarbones. Thirteen and sentenced to death by hanging for repeated crimes of thievery, robbery, and assault. Unfortunately, the law had caught you.

You tried your hardest to get away from the lawmen after you, but they swarmed you like flies on shit. Your hands were bound behind your back with some excess rope, just to prevent you from struggling. Humiliating and terrifying were an understatement. As soon as you felt a boot in your back propelling you off the wood, you were convinced this was how it would end for you.

That was, however, until you heard a gunshot, then hit the ground with a painful thud. Disoriented and confused, you used it to your advantage. Clambering up to your feet and running in the first direction your legs would carry you. The voices calling after you were drowned out by the loudness of your heart in your ears.

Your arm and shoulder ached terribly. The soles of your feet were scraped up due to the roughness of the stones lining the Blackwater streets. Your muscles were burning with exertion as you continued to run as fast as you possibly could– panting like a madman.

Coming across the lesser developed Southside, you only stopped running to take cover in an old alleyway. Your legs felt incredibly shaky as you stood and tried to catch your breath. You’ve never felt more focused on your surroundings in your entire life. Yet there was a question that burned in your mind. Who saved you?

Sliding down the brick wall until your bottom rests on the dirtied ground below, feeling your hands start to go numb at the awkward angle of tension. Your eyes darted around swiftly in search of something you could use to help you get free. Spotting an old shard of glass, you shuffle over towards it.

Slowly standing back up, only to step through the loop your arms have created, putting your bound hands in front of you. Bending back down to pick up the glass and getting to work. Sawing and stabbing at the rope awkwardly, making slow progress. All the while keeping your surroundings at the forefront of your mind like a cornered animal.

You only manage to make it a fourth of the way through until you hear people calling out for someone. Shooting a brief glance over your shoulder to make sure they aren’t looking for you, only to meet their eye through the entrance of the alley.

You’re quick to lift your hands and point your shard of glass in their direction in an attempt to ward them off, though they only chuckle.

“Easy now, son. We aren’t gonna hurt you..” The first man speaks calmly, lifting his hands up in surrender. His eyes darted over your frame just as yours did his. His short, blonde hair sat neatly atop his head, combed down professionally. A blue blazer topped his white, collared shirt, tucked into faded blue jeans. His boots scuffed against the ground as he approached you like an animal prone to attack.

“Just put the…glass- down, kid.” The second man speaks up, just a bit behind the first with his hands resting on his belt. His black hair was slicked back out of his face, though a few strands flew out of place after chasing you down. He seemed just as tidy as the first gentleman. Wearing a red button down shirt underneath a rather expensive looking dark gray vest. Just barely reaching the waistline of his pinstripe pants.

“Stia indietro, signore! Non si avvicini!*” you shout with a slight crack in your voice. Pushing yourself back away from the slowly approaching men, brandishing your glass shard towards them. Your words cause them to halt in their step. Looking towards one another in a mixture of confusion and amusement before they look right back to you. (*”Stand back, sir! Don't come any closer!”)

“Uh-” The second starts, clearing his throat with a brief glance off towards the entrance of the alley before he looks right back to you. “What is that? Italian?” He questions, causing the first man to look over at him with a shrug, then returning to you with a single step in your direction, causing you to wave your glass as a threatening reminder.

“Do you- uh.. Hable.. English?” The second presses with uncertainty. Your eyes rapidly flicking between the two of them warily, nodding slowly at the man’s poorly managed question. The first sighs and slowly lowers his hand down to his side. His movements are slow and deliberate as he moves towards a sheath resting on his hip.

“Do you want that rope offa you?” He asks hesitantly. You did, desperately. It was rubbing your wrists raw with all of your struggling and sawing. But you refused to ask for help from these two. So, you just scowl at them defensively. That doesn’t seem to deter them however.

While the first man approaches you carefully, the second stands back with his arms folded over his chest, staring down at you. “What’s your name, boy?” the raven haired man inquires, but your eyes remain on the man with the knife. You don’t respond to his question. The grip on your glass tightens ever so slightly as the blonde kneels down in front of you.

The second man sighs and leans slightly to be able to watch if you’re going to cut the other man. To his surprise, you don’t. You’re far from compliant, still pointing the shard at the first man, but you don’t cut him. You sit still as his knife cuts through the ropes.

“That there is my good friend Hosea.” the man continues with a nod towards the man kneeling in front of you. You shoot a brief glance over towards the second man before you look back towards Hosea. He’s being extra careful not to cut you as he tucks the sharp edge of his knife underneath each layer of the rope binding your wrists together.

“Had it not been for him, you would’a been another hangin’ body.” Those words catch you off guard. What did these men want with you? Were they the ones who shot the rope? “Shut up, Dutch.. You’re the one who pulled the trigger.” Hosea chuckles with a small grunt, cutting through the last of the rope around your wrists, causing it to fall into your lap. Looking down at your wrists, you can see the indent marks from the twisted twine pressed into the surface of your skin. It stings from the amount of friction put on the area.

“Was still your idea.” The man, Dutch, continues with a small shrug. The two of them look at you with sympathy. Their eyebrows pinched together and a frown creeping across their lips. “You alright, kid?” Hosea asks as he slides his knife back into its sheath.

You look back up towards Hosea, then to Dutch, then back to Hosea. Your confusion and wary evident on your face. “Y/N.” you mutter quietly, slowly putting your glass down on the ground behind you. “Hurts..” you whisper as you gently rub your sore wrists. You knew Dutch was right. Had they not saved you, you would’ve been dead.

“Yeah.. it will for a bit.” Hosea confirms with a curt nod. Putting his palms on his knees and slowly rising back to his feet with a small groan. He glaces over to Dutch, giving a directional nod towards you with a quirked eyebrow. The pair are almost speaking telepathically with one another. Dutch sighs and steps closer to you, staring down at you.

“Look.. Y/N.. we have a gang. It’s- well..” Dutch pauses, watching as you push yourself to your feet and dust your palms on your thighs over your pants. “You’d be the first person to join, aside from us two, of course. We’ll keep ya fed and clothed..if ya want. You ain’t got a family, do you?”

You slowly shake your head, but don’t say anything. You couldn’t lie and say that didn’t sound good. You weren’t sure the last time you had something to eat that wasn’t from the trash or out of peoples’ hands. 

“Then it’d be a plus for you. Think of it like an.. Unconventional family.” Hosea chimes in with a small shrug, hooking his thumbs on the pockets of his pants. They seemed to tower over you as they stare down at you.

It was probably yet another stupid idea on your behalf, but what did you have to lose? You owed it to the men, of course. Just to humor them for a little while. With a sigh, you nod. They seem pleased with your response. 

Dutch uncrosses his arms and places a hand on your shoulder as Hosea steps out of your way. The two of them leading you out of the rotten alley and back through the streets of Blackwater, protecting you entirely from any sort of lawmen out looking for you. Maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t be so bad.

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Your request was a bit too similar to a story I had previously written so I had to change it a bit- still hope you like it !! :3

Please don't kill me for the Italian </33 I don't speak it whatsoever

[mushrubes]

Braiding

Masterlist | Red dead redemption masterlist |

Requested : no

Based on character ai { Charles Smith by @/addynot}

Pairing : Charles Smith x reader

Pronouns : you/yours

Type :  fluff

Word count : 920

Warnings : friends to lovers, mutual pinning, slightly ooc <3

Have a great day !! <3

——————————–

Contently, he allowed his eyes to flutter closed as your hands weaved the long hair upon his head. “What flowers are you going to use this time?” He asked casually, unfazed as you braided his dark locks. This was routine. Every morning, you’d braid his hair — sometimes using flowers as decor. He never minded, even if some of the gang members picked on him for it. "Lily of the valleys. Found a bunch earlier." You informed as you carefully threaded the flowers into his plait. “They’re lovely,” he murmured, glancing down at the flowers you were so carefully weaving into his braid. “You always take great care to make sure my hair looks its best. I should count myself lucky,” Charles said softly as he ran his fingers through his hair, ensuring it didn’t look too messed up.

"Only the best for my Charles." you grinned at your best friend. He gave you a small grin in return, and then suddenly wrapped you in a tight bear hug, resting his head against the top of yours. Without thinking, he pressed his lips quickly against your forehead. "Are you joining the others on their robbery later?" you asked, gently swaying as your arms wrapped around him. "I'm not sure," Charles murmured, still pressed against you as if he was trying to make as much contact as possible with you. "Would that be okay with you?" He asked, not yet making any attempt to pull away from you. "If you want to go, go. I don't control what you do, Char." I commented, squeezing his arm gently.

"Oh, no. I know, I just thought… Well… That you might miss me," Charles murmured quietly. He didn't want to come across as overbearing or clingy, but he secretly hoped that you would tell him not to go. "Of course I'll miss you. I always miss you when we're not together, love. If I had it my way, you wouldn't be going. But I know how you like your missions, and I don't wanna be selfish, y'know?" You gently caressed his cheek. "I… No, you're not being selfish at all. You're just concerned about me," Charles said, placing his hand atop yours. He had his reservations about going, especially since the last few missions had been disastrous, but he wanted to ensure you wouldn't feel abandoned by his absence. "I just… I don't want anything to go wrong. And I… I don't want anything to happen to you," Charles admitted. It felt embarrassing to say these things aloud, but it was how he actually felt. "I'll be in camp while you're gone, I'll be safe. You however, mister.." You trailed off, frowning slightly at the thought of something happening.

"It's what I do. It's why Dutch recruited me for the gang," Charles murmured softly. "And I promise I'll make it back to you." He pressed his lips against the top of your forehead again, as if he was trying to imprint his love for you into a single kiss. "I'll come back, I swear, love." he assured, his hand running up and down your back comfortingly. "…are you sure you want to go?" you asked quietly, mumbling into his chest. "Of course I don't want to go," Charles whispered, leaning down so his head was right at your ear. He had no desire to leave your side, especially after you'd been so affectionate to him this morning. "But… I have a responsibility to the others in the camp." To ensure you knew just how much he cared about you, he leaned down once more and brushed his lips against your ear. "I know, I know." You muttered, pouting slightly. "I just…I don't know. I wish we could just do nothing all day together, y'know?" I finished, looking up.

"Believe me," Charles murmured, pulling you up so that your faces were level with each other. "That would be wonderful," he whispered. "But I have a responsibility to the others within the gang. I can't sit around with you all day." He gently touched your face. "But once I return from the robbery, I will come to you the first thing I can. You are worth all the time in the world, my darling." he comforted, nodding. "Promise me you'll be careful?" you asked, eyes full of concern. "I promise you with all my heart, I will be careful," Charles murmured quietly, holding you tight in his arms. He wanted nothing more than to keep you safe, and to return to you with no injuries or hardships. He was willing to take the necessary precautions to ensure he did everything he could. With this said, he pressed a sweet, tender kiss against your cheek, hoping that it would be enough to reassure you of his safety.

You pulled him down into a kiss before he could leave, arms around his neck. "Stay safe. I love you, best friend." You responded teasingly, a soft giggle leaving my lips as I pecked his lips again. Charles smiled, looking down at your soft, red lips as a wave of butterflies danced about inside his chest. "I love you more than words could describe," he murmured quietly against your lips, placing his hand tenderly atop your head. "Behave yourself while I'm gone, and… Don't you dare flirt with anyone else." He warned cheekily as he pulled away from the kiss, his own lips left soft and sensitive from the tender lips you had planted upon him.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

[bigboy-lovers-unite]

Guys Charles is wilding.. I can't even get pregnant ☠️☠️

[bigboy-lovers-unite-writes]

do this with whatever rdr/rdr2 characters you like!!

But what's some pet names/nicknames you think said characters would call their s/o?

I WANTED TO DO SOME FROM PURE REMEMBRANCE SO I THOUGHT ABOUT 8 (please enjoy this took me a while to write <3)

Kieran Duffy; Will call you honey, sweetheart, just the usual ones. Will perhaps name his favorite horse after you. 'Baby' is his most used one for you, it just comes to his mind when he thinks of you :)

Bill Williamson; Drunkenly may call you a slur, but it was an affectionate one, he didn't mean it. 🙏 His usual nicknames for you are Babycakes and Hun. He's not big on pet names sadly imo

Javier Escuella; Latin nicknames all dayyyy, that was he can compliment you all day without the others knowing what he's saying. Cariño, and might call you something to make fun of you playfully if you messed up on something :) (THANK YOU TO THE PERSON FOR POINTING THIS OUT IM A BIT EMBARRASSED ILY THO🙏)

Arthur Morgan; this man will not call you a singular thing bad. Every sweet and sappy nickname in the book, honey, sweetheart, darling, you name it and hes called you it! Will occasionally call you a nickname based on your appearances, like if you're short or clumsy

Dutch Van Der Linde; Will unironically call you 'sugar tits', even if you don't have any. Will point things out about you and makes them into (affectionate) pet names. Curly hair? Your nickname is Curly Fry. Short? Short-stack. Tall? 'Goddamn giant'

John Marston; Usually just calls you by your name, but occasionally calls you things in nature <3 not that big of a fan of pet names, but will say some occasionally to show he loves you and ur his

(I WAS GONNA DO MICAH AND CHARLES BUT I CANT THINK OF ANYTHING RN ITS SO LATE)

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 2: CHARLES SMITH, THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 

synopsis: charles makes sure you're getting on okay as you continue to try to evade arthur (poorly, might i add).

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: i almost leaked this to my classmate when sending her a link. nearly shat myself but we're all good this is all still under wraps

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Charles was right. Even though you want to help, there’s really nothing to do besides hunt – and the good Lord knows you’re useless when it comes to that.

For the last day or so, you’ve just been hanging around the garage-made-kitchen. Even though Javier told you you weren’t intruding (and that “everyone needs shelter”), you feel like you are. It’s not a good feeling. So you stayed outside, in the company of a man who introduced himself as Simon Pearson and the camp cook, Charles, and occasionally Javier when he found the time to swing by. 

A fair few people have introduced themselves as well – Hosea Matthews, Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers, Reverend Orville Swanson, Leopold Strauss (who just oozed sleaze), Miss Karen Jones, Miss Tilly Jackson, Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill, and little Jack alongside his mother, Miss Abigail Roberts. Those who didn’t directly introduce themselves to you were pointed out by Karen and you were given a run-down on them.

So far, these are the people as you know them: Missus Sadie Adler is a grieving, skittish widow. Uncle is a lazy sack of shit. John Marston is better at being wolf food than being a father. Miss Susan Grimshaw is stubborn (but caring – somewhat like how neighborhood mamas care). Miss Molly O’Shea has a stick so far up her ass she spits splinters when she talks. The man tied up in the barn, Kieran Duffy, is an O’Driscoll (or ex-O’Driscoll, if what he insists is true is really true). Oh – and the blond man that punched Bill? That’s Micah Bell: a man with the eye of a viper tasting the air and the nose of a shark waiting for blood in the water. From what you’ve deduced, his general vibe is “I would take sexual relationship advice from Bill Cosby if given the chance.”

All in all, a healthily diverse group of people – even if the traits that make them diverse aren’t all that desirable. (Mostly Micah’s. Especially Micah’s.)

But Charles is nice enough. So you’ve stuck with Charles. Even if you need to hang around Pearson to hang out with him. Pearson isn’t an intrinsically bad guy, just… a little off-putting.

Right now, you’re able to put your hands to use by opening canned vegetables and putting them in the cauldron-looking pot Pearson has for rabbit stew. Across the table, Charles is butchering and deboning a rabbit as best he can with his injured hand. You try your best to keep your eyes on the cans of carrots and celery you’re opening. 

There’s footsteps. You glance up. It’s Arthur. You look back down. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Pearson gripes to no one in particular. 

You watch Arthur approach the fire and he holds his hands out towards the coals in your peripheral vision. He shakes his head. “Ah, we’re okay.”

“We have a few cans of food and a rabbit. For, what – ten, twelve people?” Pearson gestures over to where you and Charles are working. “Even more with them and that widow.”

Despite yourself, you can feel the tips of your ears start to burn. What do you have to be embarrassed about? Needing to eat? If anything, Pearson should be the one feeling embarrassed for talking about you in front of you. Yeah… that’s it. 

Pearson continues. “When I was in the Navy…”

Arthur immediately interrupts him. “I – I do not wish to hear about what you got up to in the Navy, Mister Pearson.”

And yet, he keeps going despite Arthur’s protest. “We were stranded at sea… for fifty days.”

“And you, unfortunately, survived,” Arthur drawls. 

You glance up at him from underneath your eyelashes and smile. His eye catches yours, and your gaze drops, as does your smile. Instead, you work on getting your finger under the tab of a can of chopped onions – which is hard, considering the thickness of your gloves.

You feel Arthur’s eyes leave you and let out a soft sigh of relief that clouds in front of your face. Charles holds out his knife to you. You tip the top of the can towards him, and he wedges the (bloody – ew) blade of his knife underneath the tab and opens it. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You clench your jaw when you feel Arthur’s eyes on you again – yes, very briefly, but still. You can count the number of times you’ve made eye contact with him on one hand, and you don’t want to add to that total. 

Thankfully, Pearson seems ignorant to your plight and continues complaining. “When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn’t able to get supplies in!”

“Well, when government agents are hunting you down, sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short,” Arthur snaps. “We’ll survive. We always have. And if needs be, we can eat you ��� you’re the fattest.”

You bite your lip to suppress a laugh and clear your throat to mask any noise you might’ve made. You pour the onions in the pot and glance at the rabbit carcass, now carved up and stripped of meat.

“Damn, there’s nothing left on that thing,” you say. “You’re good at that.”

Charles nods in response. “If you’re done, you can put it on the fire.”

You lift the pot with a grunt – it’s heavier than you expected, but nothing you can’t handle. You move over to the coals and hang the pot on a hook over the fire while Pearson and Arthur continue talking. 

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting, and they found nothing,” Pearson says. 

“Well, Lenny’s more into book learnin’ than huntin’,” Arthur says. You perk up at that. “Bill’s a fool. Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read, ain’t no wonder they haven’t found –”

“Enough of this,” Charles interrupts. Even though his voice is relatively quiet and deep, it still cuts through whatever Arthur was planning on prattling on about. “We’ll go find something. Come on, Arthur.”

“Well, take them.” Arthur gestures vaguely in your direction. “Since they seem so keen on helpin’ out, and all.”

“I, um…” You shake your head. “No, thanks.”

“They don’t even know how to hold a rifle correctly,” Charles says. (His bluntness stings a little, but it’s true. You know how to hold a handgun, but not these old-timey types.) “If they knew how to hunt, we would’ve gone already.”

Arthur sighs and shrugs. “If you insist.”

“Wait a second, hold on.” Pearson hurries over to the table you and Charles had been working at earlier. He pulls out a can from the small pile you had organized and tosses it to Arthur. “You’re gonna need something to eat out there.”

“Hm… “assorted, salted offal”,” Arthur reads off the label. He levels Pearson with a dead stare. “Starving would be preferable.”

You stifle a laugh and, again, clear your throat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Charles says, adjusting the bandage on his hand. 

“You can’t go huntin’,” Arthur says. “Look at your hand.”

“I can’t stay here listening to you two,” Charles says. He gestures to you without looking at you. “The conversation they make is tolerable, but, again, they can’t hunt. Look, if there’s game in those hills, I’ll find it – and you can kill it.”

“You need to rest, Charles,” Arthur insists.

“You think this is rest?” Charles’ face twists into a scowl, then he turns and walks towards his horse with a “Come along.”

Arthur scoffs under his breath and his eyes flick to you. You do your best to suppress the temptation to duck away from his gaze, as piercing as it is. You win, and he looks away, following Charles to the hitching post. They quickly mount up and ride out.

You draw your shoulders up to your ears and shudder. When Pearson shoots you a questioning glance, you excuse it with “What? It’s cold.”

When a few seconds have passed, you roll your shoulders back. You settle down on the chair that’s inside the kitchen, just watching a few late, fat snowflakes fall outside.

After a good ten minutes of watching Pearson and playing with your hands, you figure he’ll be fine on his own and wander out along the footpaths in the snow. You find who you’re looking for quickly. 

Lenny gives you a polite nod as you stand across from him, the fire on the ground separating you two. He has a rifle – the sight of which doesn’t surprise you as much as it first did – and he settles the butt of the gun in the inner corner of his elbow. 

“You’re Lenny, right?” You try. 

“Yeah. And you’re…” Lenny gives your name. You nod in response.

“I just…” You clear your throat and bat away the embarrassment and anxiety that’s creeping up on you – something that always comes with approaching strangers. “Arthur mentioned that you like books. I, uh… I read, too. Sometimes.”

“Really?” Lenny says. “What kinda books have they got out in the Mojave?”

You look down at the fire and think, trying to come up with some excuse and build your backstory. “We don’t have a lot of books – I live in a pretty isolated part of the desert. But there’s traders, and they bring medical books, and a few storybooks. I like the medicine books they bring. You?”

Lenny seems to hesitate for a moment. “Poetry.”

“Poetry?” You hum. “Huh. Poems are nice.”

There’s a lapse in conversation. You don’t know how to fill it. You say the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Micah’s kinda a prick, right?” You blurt out. 

Your eyes snap up to Lenny’s face. He’s surprised, but his face quickly melts into a smile and he laughs. You feel the coil of anxiety in your stomach loosen. 

“Why, I didn’t expect you to come out and say it,” he says. “But your assessment is correct.”

“Yeah, sorry.” You laugh nervously, your eyes falling to the fire again. “I just get bad vibes from the guy.”

“Bad vibes?” Lenny echoes. 

The coil is tight again. You think for a moment. “Uh, yeah. One of the tribes I live with believes in, um… vibrational energy, that kinda thing. When you look at someone and you get a bad feeling without knowing them that well, they give you bad vibes.”

“Hold on,” Lenny says. “Vibrational energy?”

You nod and continue to pull things out of your ass and curse Lenny for being scholarly. “Yeah. Life… um, well. I don’t remember the explanation too well. But I remember White Bird – the Sorrows’ shaman – saying…”

You tilt your head and look to the side and think for a moment.  “He said, “All life is music – all music is rhythmic – all rhythm is life.” And that somehow relates to vibrations. I don’t know, you seem smart. Maybe you can understand what he was talking about.”

“Well, I don’t know what it means, but it sure sounds pretty,” Lenny says. 

“They’re good people,” you say. “Maybe you’d like to meet them someday – if you’re ever so far west you’re in the desert, I mean.”

Why the fuck did I say that?! You curse yourself in your head. They’re not real! The Dead Horses and the Sorrows and Joshua Graham and Daniel are all made up! They’re fictional characters –

“I don’t know, maybe,” Lenny says. “For now, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be goin’ that far.”

You hum and pretend to act disappointed while you fight the urge to crumple in on yourself in relief. “That’s a shame. I’m sure you’d like them. They’re interesting people, especially the Sorrows. Though, Joshua…”

You trail off as you check over your shoulder. Hoofbeats, you’re pretty sure. And you’re right – Arthur and Charles are riding back into camp, a dead, snow-dappled doe on the back of each horse.

“Brought some food back, boys,” Arthur calls.

They both hitch their horses at the post and hoist the limp does onto their shoulders, carrying them over to the kitchen. 

You look back at Lenny and jab a thumb over your shoulder at them. “Should we…?”

“I don’t think so,” Lenny says. “From what I seen, Arthur’s a butcher – a mean one, at that. I don’t think he’ll like it if his work’s disturbed.”

“That’s fair,” you hum. (Secretly, you want to thank Lenny profusely. You already know that Arthur’s a mean man – you don’t want to see him even meaner.)

You check over your shoulder again. From where you’re standing, you can see an old man has taken your seat in the kitchen, and you can hear Arthur giving him hell for whatever reason. What was his name again… Uncle, maybe?

Unfortunately, your staring caught Uncle’s eye. He beckons you over with a wave of his hand. You give Lenny a quiet, polite “See you later,” and head over, trudging through the thick layer of snow that’s settled on the ground.

“Yeah?” You nod at Uncle as soon as you step into the kitchen. You sidle up to the fire, warming yourself with the smoldering embers. 

“Thought it’d do Arthur some good to see the…” – Uncle waves you up-and-down – “…wonders some modernity will do you.”

“What? Modernity?” You repeat back. You tell yourself to calm down – you haven’t been found out. (Not yet.) “I’m far from modern.”

“Why, you’re perfectly modern!” Uncle says. 

“You don’t even know me.” You scoff and turn away. 

Your eyes catch Arthur wrapping wire around the back ankles of one of the doe corpses. He pulls it taut, then hooks both legs to the deer hoist. He lifts it with a grunt and puts the hoist on the hook sticking out of the wall. You avert your eyes before he turns around. 

“Well, I mean…” You shrug. “I guess I’m… sort of modern? But I don’t see any issue with what Arthur’s doing. He’s just hunting.”

Arthur’s eyes fly to you again when you say his name. You wish that the Spanish Flu had come sooner so you could wear a facemask to hide your pursed lips and clenched jaw. After a moment, he looks away.

“What a surprise,” Arthur drawls, “to find the camp rat loiterin’ around in the kitchen, chargin’ dimes for his thoughts.”

He pulls away from the deer hoist and walks over to the fire. He keeps a healthy distance, but you can still feel some sort of heat coming from him when he stands next to you. You guess a man that tall and broad would be a furnace in cold like this. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Uncle asks. “I feel we haven’t spoken for days.”

“I do my utmost to avoid you,” Arthur retorts.

Charles approaches the fire, standing on your other side. He gives you a small look that says “Ignore them. They can, and will, go on for hours like this.”

Uncle looks over at you and laughs. “He loves me, really. It’s his… sad way of showing affection.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You and Arthur turn to look at each other. You hadn’t meant to speak over him, and from the kind of-surprised look he’s sending your way, you think he didn’t mean to speak over you, either. You nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“It isn’t.” He turns back to face Uncle and waves a hand. “Now shoot, get lost.”

“Well…” Uncle shrugs and stands. “See y’all later.”

Pearson swipes a bottle from Uncle as he steps out. He then looks over at one of the deer. “See you got on just fine.”

Arthur nods toward Charles’ direction. “Charles is a wonder.”

“Have a drink, my friends.” Pearson holds out the bottle across the fire. “Ya earned it.”

Arthur takes the bottle after you wave it away. He takes a swig and sputters, coughing. “Jesus!” His voice cracks. “What is that?”

He passes the bottle to Charles, who sniffs the rim and takes a tentative sip. 

“Navy rum, sir. It’s the only thing – the only thing!” Pearson laughs as Charles hands the bottle back. “Keeps you sane, it does.”

“Yes, seems to have done a treat on you.” Arthur glances at Charles and waves a hand in his general direction. “You go rest that hand, Charles.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” Charles says. 

He makes eye contact with you and nods towards the cabins, indicating for you to follow. You do so while listening to Arthur and Pearson talk about skinning the deer. (And you hide a smile when Arthur asks Pearson if he gets to skin him, too. He’s mean, but at least he’s funny with it.)

“You settling in okay?” Charles asks when you’re in a somewhat secluded area. It’s not all that isolated, but it’s out of earshot for most people.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not being a massive asshole about everything.”

“You’re lost,” he says. (You notice he leaves out the very obvious “and scared” he could’ve tacked on the end.) “And you need help. It would be cruel not to give it to you.”

Yeah, totally! You think to yourself. You’re literally one of the kindest people alive and I’m… what? A scumbag that’s taking advantage of you? Oh, it’s so sweet that you’re ignoring the blatant lies I’m throwing in your face! Thank you, Charles! Thanks a fucking million.

“Still. Thank you,” you say instead. “You could’ve easily kicked me out in the snow and left me to freeze.” 

“We could’ve.” Charles looks out at the horizon. The way he pauses almost makes you think he’s considering it. “But we didn’t.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to reassure you or continue the conversation at all. After a few moments, you awkwardly hook your thumb over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna, uh…” You nod. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later?”

Charles is still looking out at the treeline, looking at the way the snow weighs down the leafless trees and the way even the smallest sound could disrupt everything. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

[miguel-owhora]

little drabble at 4 am. woke up to finish this.

cw — blow jobs , consensual drug usage , not beta read

fems n minors dnf, you will be blocked.

Whatever weed you had given Micah, it was working. He felt light and fuzzy, like sinking into a field of cotton, or swimming in a pool of silk — it didn't make sense, it shouldn't make sense, but it felt nice all the same. There's an emptiness to his head that's nice, but it does make him feel a little... weird. Not uncomfortably so, but enough to keep him alert — if a little sluggishly.

Nevermind, though. You had promised him no one came out to this cliff side, neither animals nor man. And for once, Micah had trusted you — and wasn't that so crazy? Micah Bell, trusting you of all people? Perhaps it shouldn't have been so surprising, he had unknowingly found himself gravitating towards you since your first nightly encounter. It still unsettled Micah whenever he thought about it, when you stumbled upon him, without any undergarments to cover himself, how you had — 'foolishly, stupidly, charmingly,' he thought — offered to help him out with his problem.

And then what became of that. Sneaking away from the rest of the gang to more private areas, like school couples running from their peers. How many nights were spent together, drinking alcohol or blackening their lungs or drugging themselves, exploring each other's bodies in a way that would get you both hanged. In a way that was forbidden by society, outlawed.

But since when did Micah care about expectations and about following the law? He was an outlaw for crying out loud! Micah Bell didn't care about that — it was survival of the fittest, a dog eat dog world — a world where he could partake in any pleasure he wanted and not care about the consequences.

Which is how it circles back to you and Micah being fuck buddies. Just the thought alone makes him shudder, and he's sure it's not because of you licking the tip of his cock, letting the white bead of pre drop on your tongue, before it vanishes into your pink mouth.

Silver plumes of smoke slip from Micah's lips as he exhales, a low groan tumbling from his lips as he feels you throat his cock. Your throat is warm and slick, a perfect cavern. His cock twitches when he feels your tongue lick along a protruding vein, circle around his cockhead — feels you drool down his length.

Micah watches with dilated pupils, leaning back against the log, inhaling the unique scent of the burning weed. Your laying on your sides, legs curled up in a way that has your ass pressing against your pants, in a way that definitely caught his attention. Your head slowly bobs, one arm laying against his lap, whilst the other fondles with what you cannot fit into your mouth.

"You've quite the mouth on you, cowpoke," He drawls, speech more slurred from the combination of your perverse affection and from the weed. A low moan slips from his chapped lips when you hold your head down for a moment, nursing his cock before slowly lifting back up.

Your hand cupped around his dick moves, slowly and methodically, jerking him off and keeping him hard, even when the leftover spit on his dick cools without your mouth to keep it warm.

"I've had the experience," You dryly say, glancing back at him. Your eyes are dark in the night, the moonlight shyly peering down at you. But even then, Micah doesn't need to actually see your eyes to know how they stare at him; all doe eyes and pretty, making him weak, making him feel like he's going to do something even more irrational.

Micah swallows.

"Yeah, I bet you have," He snarks, resorting back to his usual defense whenever he feels out of place. "Bet you've done the same to other men, huh? To the other fellers in the gang - probably let them use that pretty mouth the same way you let me use it."

You pinch his inner thighs, and snort when he jerks.

"Micahhhhh," You drawl out, tilting your head back onto his belly. He stares down at you, shadows slithering over his face, cracks of moonlight painting his blonde hair silver. He stares at you with his usual grimace, but it's not so harsh.

"What?" He says, lips twitching as if he's fighting not to sneer down at you. You hum, plucking the joint from his fingers and place it between your lips, taking a drag. The smoke slips down to your lungs, and it burns in a nice way.

You tilt your head, having the basic decency to not blow it in his face. Not like Micah, who you've grown so accustomed to blowing the smoke in your face that you've built an immunity to a reaction. Still, Micah plucks the joint straight out of your fingers and you roll your eyes.

"Shut up." You say, to his previous question. You roll your head forward again, hand still slowly jerking him off, and lean down to lick a flat stripe over his head. You snort when he gives an involuntary jerk of his hips, and you follow his cock and slip the head inside your mouth.

You're all too pleased by the low groan that tumbles from his mouth, and you can just imagine the scruffy man placing a hand over his mouth to muffle himself. Of course the most obnoxious and arrogant and vile man you've ever had the dishonor of meeting is flustered about making noises. You roll your eyes at the thought and slowly bob your head, the routine familiar, as it the taste of Micah's cock in your mouth.

Micah's not the biggest you've taken, somewhere around average, but it feels absolutely perfect in your mouth.

It sits heavy on your tongue, the taste of it salty and musky, in a way that you try to ignore how he probably hasn't bathed in God knows how long. Not because it necessarily grosses you out, but how it turns you on. You sink his cock deeper into your throat, tongue tracing a protruding vein that snakes on his length, a testament to how much you enjoy the taste and feel of him.

Of course, you'd never admit that. Micah was arrogant enough, he didn't need to know just how much his filthy nature made you hard.

The outlaw doesn't seem to notice, head tilting back as he groaned low in his throat, the blunt in his hands wafting with smoke. His cock throbbed in your throat, and you slurped around his length, before slowly bobbing your head.

He groans out your name, low and gravelly with arousal.

"Christ," He swears, eyebrows pinching together. There's a pretty red stripe blooming across his face. His breathing is heavier than usual, one of his hand slithering into your hair and gripping it — surprisingly, it's not harsh, and he doesn't tug on it He just grips it, following your motion as you bob your head.

It doesn't take long til' you feel his cock throb, twitching. You increase your tongue movements, your bobbing, and Micah let's out a few sounds of pleasure, gasping and immediately biting his lip to silence himself as he finally, finally, grips your hair and pushes you down to the base of his cock.

Your nose buries into the golden nest of pubes, his scent stronger and heavier there. His cock throbs in your mouth, jolting as spurts of cum spill in your mouth, well, down your throat. It's just like Micah to not give you a choice in swallowing, and you find that you don't care, really.

After a few minutes, Micah relaxes his grip on your hair. You pull off his softening cock and immediately grip his face. It catches him off guard, and even moreso when you kiss him.

It's nasty, messy, teeth clinking together and your tongue forcibly slipping inside his mouth, if only to deposit the leftover cum. Micah groans, accidentally dropping the blunt, his hands coming to grip your shoulders and hold onto you. He's filthy, diabolical, and very into the kiss, tongues meeting each other and trading saliva, licking over teeth and gums, spit dribbling down both your chins as you make out like the filthy, rancid animals you both were.

You smile against his lips.

[sanguivorousmuse]

Micah Bell would be such a slut if you somehow managed to make him quit with his signature snarky, rude comments and overall attitude.

And I’m not saying he’s not already a slut ! He definitely is!!

I’m just saying he’s a brat that needs to be put in his place !! And putting him in place means pushing your cock into his tight entrance!! As you start hitting the good spots he starts to come undone though, he tries to uphold his position as the “badass”, “not to be messed with” gunslinger he usually portrays himself as, but it’s hard to do that when you’re getting fucked into the mattress with your legs spread, ass up, face down, practically begging and whining for more.

[xo-urban]

okay dear husband, got a lil request for you 😌

arthur morgan falling in love with a baker, an absolute sweetheart of a man and exactly the type Arthur meant when he told those ladies that were still a few people worth loving and dying for.

once they're in a official relationship, arthur get's so flustered bc his baker treats him like an absolute prince, like sure as hell he won't let anyone kiss his cheek and call him "my handsome man", or the baker hugging the shit out of him and arthur leaning in knowing how much he values his personal space.

plus, the baker is taller and naturally bigger than arthur, i'm a sucker for the gentle giant trope.

love youuu muack 💕

Love you too handsome 🫶

Made With Love

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Bigger!Baker!Male Reader

Summary: You find yourself falling in love with a cowboy who fell for your baked goods first.

Word Count: 1160

“Mr. Morgan!” Grimshaw called out to the man who was readying to leave camp for the nearby town for some time for himself. The tall man turned his head, giving her his full attention. He raised a brow, looking at her before she shoved some money into his face.

“There’s a new bakery in the town you’re going to, could you kindly get me one? Don’t care which, I just wanna try, also get one for yourself too Mr. Morgan!” The woman quickly spoke before hurrying off.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head with a smile. “C’mon then girl, let’s get this outta the way.” Arthur mounted on top of his beautiful mare before snapping the reins, trotting out of camp and into the heart of town.

…

The soft smell of freshly baked bread warmed your shop as you carefully made your way to a counter to place the hot tray down. You smiled proudly at the batch, tossing the rag that helped you hold it to the side before you let the bread sit, grabbing another tray that had been resting and carefully began to set it out. These were glazed in a fine dark chocolate, some with crushed almonds on top.

It has only been a few weeks since your grand opening, but business has been over the roof. It was only you who ran the shop, recipes were made by you, service was you, the baker was also you. But you handled it well, it was a small shop and you alone could run it easily.

Just then, the small ringing of your bell sounded through the small bakery, causing you to stand up straighter with a welcoming smile. You saw a rugged looking cowboy with a grouchy expression before he looked up to meet your eyes, his face softening and you could’ve sworn he took your breath away.

You definitely have not seen him before, but you had no reason to turn him away either. He was shorter than you by a couple inches, smaller too. He interrupted your thoughts when he walked up to you, looking at your pastries, his face thinking hard.

“Anything in particular that fancies you? Chocolate? Caramel?” You asked sweetly, placing down the tray to help the confused guy. The man tilted his head, pointing at the chocolate covered one that you were about to put out. “Can I have that one? If it won’t be too much of a hassle.” The man spoke softly, was he shy? This grizzled man being shy, talking to you?

You nodded with a smile, grabbing a small brown paper bag to put it in, “Anything else today sir?” You asked, turning to him once more. His face became rosy when he looked at your face again. “You don’t happen to have anything sweet? Sugary but not exactly chocolate?” He asked, watching you smile.

“Course I do! I’ve been trying out this new berry recipe but I haven’t got it to my liking yet, do you mind being the first person to try it out then Mr…?” You trailed off, looking at him. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan.” He replied, smiling, oh god his smile, the way it compliments his face so much and how it brightens up the room. It was adorable.

“And I surely don’t mind” Arthur chuckled, you quickly nodded, running out back to decorate the pastry before hurrying back out to see Arthur still standing there, patiently waiting for you.

You bagged the food up before turning to Arthur. “Don’t worry about paying for it, it’ll be on me!” You smiled at the man who shook his head. “No no! I’ll pay for it” Arthur protested, digging around in his satchel for the money Grimshaw gave him, pulling it out.

“I ain’t accepting it Arthur!” You exclaimed with a laugh, denying the money, trying to place the pastries into his hand. “You better!” Arthur huffed.

“Just take it, you can pay the next time you come around, just not today alright?” You offered, looking at Arthur’s rosy face before he sighed, nodding in agreement. “Better stick to it or you lose a future customer!” Arthur warned, hand extending as the other rested on the counter he leaned against.

You chuckled, “I will, you have my word Arthur” You hummed, placing the bag in his hold, your hands brushing against one another, the softness and warmth was so nice but so short lived when he pulled away.

The two of you shared a smile before Arthur turned to walk out but stopped midway, turning back to look at you. “I’ll see you tomorrow alright?” Arthur hummed, you nodded with an answer, “Of course, come visit when you have the time, I’ll have more for you to try out!”

Arthur smiled, tilting his hat before he walked out, leaving you alone with a warm bubbly feeling in your chest.

Arthur usually came to visit your shop every few days to buy a bunch of baked goods and to try out any new masterpiece you baked out back. Course you two grew feelings for each other. It began out with long conversations to longer lingering touches, compliments till he asked you to walk with him sometimes, a stroll around town, sometimes you’d dare to hold hands to keep each other closer for longer.

Then months later he asked you out, invited you to dinner under the stars after you closed up your shop, formally asking you, though it sounded more like pleading, for you to be his boyfriend.

How could you say no to him? He had the softness of silk, the protectiveness of a mother bear, the love of an angel, the understanding of your boundaries. What more could you ask for? Arthur was perfect.

But Arthur never came to visit you this week, saying he was busy and had to do jobs for his family before he could return back into your arms.

You missed him so much, dreading for your handsome man to return. You looked up when you heard your bell sound through the bakery once more, finding yourself staring at the man you missed for so long.

“Hope it wasn’t too long sugar” Arthur smiled, eyes widening when you practically leaped over the counter and into his arms, embracing the cowboy in a tight hug. “It was too damn long!” You exclaimed with a frown, his face tucked in its rightful place in the crook of his neck.

Arthur leaned into your hug, knowing how much this doesn’t happen before he cupped your face gently, kissing your cheeks before your lips met his own, his thumbs wiping your building tears away.

Arthur smiled softly, your hold loosening, putting your boyfriend down with a happy sigh before he spoke.

“Sugar.. I’m kind of hungry.. Can you make the berry pastry again? The one you gave me a long time ago?”

“Of course my love. With extra love this time so you stay!”