#RDR2 Fan Fiction

[roamingtigress]

Hosea and Dutch's wedding anniversary is approaching, and Dutch wants to impress Hosea with a little more accessorizing (because, as you know, he doesn't have enough jewelry).

*CONTAINS OLD MAN YAOI SMUT*

Chain Reaction

by Roaming Tigress

Dutch is many things.

He is a con man, a leader of a notorious gang with a novel-length list of crimes he is wanted for. He is a frustrating bastard that makes you want to whack him across the head with a pillow, and yet, you might also take pity on him. He may also be charming; many have fallen for his silver tongue, his mightiest weapon.

And a man with a taste for finer things.

Among those finer things is his wardrobe.

Adorning that waist jacket is a Double Albert pocket fitted with a red ruby fob adornment. Sure, its intended use is for wax stamps, but let's face it, mostly, it's to draw the eye to that slutty, slutty waist.

And while many know of Dutch as a conman, a bastard who needs a good whack upside the head with a pillowcase full of bricks (maybe followed by a hug), what many might not know is that Dutch is, well, to put it bluntly, adventurous. And his (mostly) patient husband, Hosea, is always up for something different.

Dutch had a plan for that Double Albert, that red ruby fob.

That plan would also surprise Hosea; their wedding anniversary was just a month away. Dutch thought, why not impress him a little?

Like all Dutch's plans, though, it did not go according to the plan.

On the first piercing, his left nipple, Dutch nearly, literally, hit the roof in that shop behind the gun store in Annesburg. Now, another little-known fact about Dutch, for better or for worse: he's touch-sensitive.

Very touch-sensitive.

The right piercing, another week later, went just as smoothly. Judging from the horrific scream, a passerby might think a man in that shop was getting a tooth extracted without anesthetic, a bikini wax, or maybe even castrated. And that passerby would be forgiven for making such a mistake.

"I didn't rip it off!" Cried the man halfway out the door as Dutch took off, clasping a hand over his right chest.

Dutch is known to be a little dramatic.

Another fact about Dutch? He's occasionally a little dramatic.

Now came the time for the navel piercing.

That also went swimmingly.

Well, it kicked off.

Another fun fact: Dutch is ticklish! It's one of the ways Hosea can control him; when he's in a foul or otherwise difficult mood (which is rarely, of course), a poke to the ribs—particularly in public—can get him to crumble.

And he's exceptionally touchy in the region from his ribs to his midsection -- as the other poor man would come to find out.

The piercer got a full boot to the forehead when the piercing needle slipped through the top rim of that tender target.

"GODDAMNIT!" Had he spent a little more time readying Dutch, the piercer might not have had to play dodge-the-spurs, but this was Dutch's third visit. Knowing how the other appointments went, he wasn't in the mood to scratch the cowboy's belly any more than he had to.

The man, a particularly short but stout Scot with a full head of red hair named Cameron Carruthers, would live to tell the tale of receiving a cowboy boot to the face by one of the most notorious outlaws. A particularly sensitive outlaw; being wimpy over it all would be an understatement.

In all the years of his back-room business, in which he used the stock storage cabinets from Mr. Shultz, Cameron never saw someone kick up such a fuss. Now, the navel and the nipples are sensitive areas of the body, but surely, a man of Dutch's reputation could have retained some of that stoic character over it all. Maybe they just don't make cowboys the way they used to.

Cameron knew well of who his client was: a man with a novel-length list of crimes ranging from robbery to murder and everything in between. Still, he scoffed at his wanted poster stapled to a post before he sauntered off for a pint at the Mitternachtsbierhalle Restaurant and Bar. He even had to scoff again at the description of him. A 'dangerous man', indeed! If the law enforcement captured that miscreant and needed him to confess to even more crimes, perhaps bringing out the piercing needly and the confessions would fly out of his silver-tongued mouth.

From that moment on, as soon as the boot hit him square in the head, Cameron implemented a new customer policy: cowboy boots were not allowed on the piercing table.

Thanks, Dutch.

Another Dutch trade secret: when giving gifts to his loved ones, with a few exceptions, he prefers going the legit route versus just stealing the damn thing. Books for Jack are always bought (almost), along with fine gifts for Hosea ranging from clothing to his stallion, Silver Dollar (whom he may have tricked Hosea into believing was a long-extinct breed). Dutch and Hosea bought the odd thing for John and Arthur.

Maybe.

Wedding anniversaries are bought legitimately without fail.

Well, that's a stretch.

There was that time when Dutch stole a carriage and took Hosea out on a joyride, lawmen in tow; that was last year.

The gold chains that Dutch would connect to the rings were handmade in Italy, and the rings themselves, adorned with tiny diamonds and rubies, of course, were from France, where the fob the chains would connect to came from. Fancy, fancy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now you might be wondering, during the weeks when Dutch got his piercings and during his healing, how did Dutch keep it all a secret from Hosea?

A little (stolen) stage makeup was used. It took a little experimenting to ensure it was thick enough not to be rubbed (or kissed off) easily but not to look unnatural. Dutch also depended on little tricks of the lighting and, even more so, a little luck.

During those weeks of healing, lovemaking happened only at night; Dutch had concocted a theory that a man's sensations are higher at night. Hosea played along. With the sensitivity towards those areas heightened by the pain, it was, in a word, sensational.

Dutch played it coy during the day, flirting and testing the waters, but he was able to keep those areas hidden. Hosea had always been fond of kissing that belly each morning, as Dutch was fond of doing to him; whoever woke up first blew zerberts on the other. Once in a while, the makeup would slip off during the night, and Hosea would be concerned about those red marks appearing on his usually pristine belly button and nipples, a concern which Dutch brushed off as mosquito bites. It was a particularly insect-ridden summer, and Dutch thought it was a plausible pass; Hosea, though, was suspicious.

"Mosquito bites?" Hosea raised an eyebrow, trying to pull down the bedsheet covering his chest. Dutch stubbornly covered himself up.

"Who was it?"

"Who was what?" Dutch felt his cheeks flush, and at once, Hosea narrowed his eyebrows.

"It wasn't Josiah, was it?" Hosea almost growled. "I told him not to bite you! You know I'm the one to leave marks on you."

Now and then, Hosea would 'loan' out Dutch to close friends to have a little fun with him. At other times, he'd go to the highest bidder; on one occasion, a prince from Sweden had an afternoon with him. Josiah Trelawny (and sometimes his wife when she had someone to mind Tarquin and Cornelius) were among those. There were a few rules: he had to return at the end of the day, Fridays were off limits to any but Hosea, and the aforementioned non-biting rule: Hosea wanted to mark Dutch as HIS harlot.

"Nope, nope, he was gentler last time."

Hosea scoffed, crossing his arms as he looked at his idiot with a mustache, his head tilted. He wore a smug smile, but a twinkle in his dark eyes told Hosea he would tease a little. "Gentle last time? You couldn't walk right for a week. Hosea Fucks Friday almost became Hosea Misses Out on Friday."

"Is that any different than usual?" Dutch laughed, at first arching his back off the mattress in a not-so-subtle 'please give me scritches' gesture, but then stopped, realizing. "Last I checked -- "

Hosea scoffed, slipping into bed next to him. He felt right into the marrow of his old bones that Dutch was up to something; he always knew but decided to play along. "You know, it's amazing it hasn't fallen off!"

He looked at his husband curiously, and Dutch answered his question.

"Wasn't anyone but you," Dutch murmured, pressing a kiss to Hosea's nose as he turned to hand Hosea a book; it was their sweet, nightly routine to read a chapter of a book to each other.

"You were rough, I'm still recovering!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week had passed since that close call, and the chains and rings were soon in Dutch's well-manicured hands. Oh, he couldn't wait to show them to Hosea!

Dutch stood before the mirror, in all his shirtless glory, as he carefully inserted the first ring into his right nipple.

He shivered at the sensation of the cool gold sliding through his nipple; it was cold and tingling but not unpleasant. Not unpleasant in the least.

The second nipple was even more sensitive; he'd be lying if he said his toes weren't curling by now. And the fool wants to attach chains!

Last but not least, the navel ring. Dutch squirmed and let out a sound that one wouldn't likely expect from him as that damn fancy ring was inserted. And then, with the biggest smile he could possibly smile, he kissed his reflection.

"Oh, baby girl, he will love it!" He was sure this would send Hosea into another galaxy.

Dutch stepped back and took a good look at himself. He was positively flirting with his reflection; one hip slightly swung out, and his chest puffed out. He was an absolute picture of pride. The rings shone so pretty in the limited lighting, but that ensemble would look even prettier on that chain.

He took hold of one of the chains arranged neatly on the counter, clipped a clasp on the chain to the right nipple ring, and then repeated with the left. He attached a third and final chain, a shorter one, to his red gem fob, to the chain clasps from the nipple rings, to his navel ring.

Effectively, the chains created a "V" with a pattern; "V" for "van der Linde," "V" for "vivacious," "V" for "very sexy," or if you think the whole matter is silly if you think the situation is indeed a bit silly.

The sensation of the gold chain against Dutch's tender skin was giving him goosebumps -- and that was before the fob was even given a tug.

He had to give it a little tug—just a little teasing one. Of course, he'd save a proper tug for Hosea, but he had to try it.

Dutch gave the fob a sight tug. He let out a sharp breath as he felt a shiver running throughout his body, and that was just from the lightest pull. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, envisioning Hosea dragging him around camp by that fob. He slipped his hands down his torso as the picture in his head became more vivid. Hosea might be angry at him over something and feel taking him down a peg was necessary.

"How long are you going to be in there?" Hosea asked from behind the bathroom door with particular urgency to his voice, startling Dutch from his daydreaming just as his hands reached his meticulously trimmed pubic hair.

It was the eve of their wedding anniversary, ten minutes to go.

"Just five more minutes!" Dutch answered with a slight shake of his voice, grabbing his clothes from the counter, minus the union suit, which he placed in a basket for laundry. He had to reclothe himself carefully lest he snag the chains, and well, there'd go the sexy anniversary gift reveal. The fob chain was threaded through an opening in his shirt, and he squirmed his hips as he ran his hand through his hair.

"Old Girl will go mad."

Sure enough, Dutch made good on his promise. Hosea stepped into the bathroom while casting a suspicious eye on his husband. He had been in there for a while, after all.

"Stomach's not acting up again, is it?"

Dutch's eyes had a certain glint in them. Playful, even. "It's been a week since that's been acting up. You rearranged my guts!"

"I wasn't that rough!" Hosea scoffed, giving him a swat that Dutch dodged as he swerved into the bedroom.

Dutch sat on the edge of the hotel bed, his foot fidgeting as he practically squirmed in anticipation. He pushed himself further up onto the mattress and unbuttoned his striped shirt, revealing a bit more of his chest. Feeling a little saucy, maybe even a bit slutty, he assumed the pose he often took after sex: his lower torso pointed towards the bathroom door, legs spread open, chin tilted to his chest, and eyes coyly cast downward. It was a submissive pose of trust and love, one that Hosea could never resist; to him, it meant Dutch was so trusting of him that he could do as he wished to him.

"Oh, there's my little minx, waiting for me . . . " Hosea spoke lowly, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom.

Dutch's hand moved to the fob of his black waistcoat, and he almost shyly toyed with it, subtly trying to draw Hosea's attention to it. "Five minutes until our anniversary . . . " He cast a playful glance at Hosea.

"You forgot the anniversary gift, didn't you?" Hosea was always onto Dutch when he acted cute. Usually, Dutch was hiding something from him and would try to to worm his way out of the situation. More often than not, Dutch indeed managed to squirm out of trouble; Hosea had a bit of a soft spot for him, after all.

"What would you say if I said I was wearing it?" Dutch murmured, his baritone voice coming out as smooth as silk.

Hosea watched Dutch curiously as he played with the fob, twirling it between his fingers. After a moment, their eyes locked; Hosea's eyes were filled with questions as he wondered what was in store for him, and Dutch's with warm excitement, almost giddy anticipation.

"Give it a tug, Old Girl . . . " Dutch laid back further, casting him that playful gaze again as he carefully held the fob out to him.

Hosea's face lit up with a smile as he took the fob in one hand and cupped Dutch's jaw with the other, 'bopping' his nose with his thumb, which he moved down to lightly scratch his soul patch.

"You've been a little funny the last few weeks. I figured you were hiding something. You're so full of yourself, thinking you could get something past me."

Dutch looked at him with a defiant smirk, shifting slightly, his back arching up in a not-so-subtle 'tug it already' gesture. He was being a pushy little shit, and he knew it. "Oh, you know damn well I was in the clear -- "

"Not so." Hosea returned the smirk and tugged the chain firmly.

He might as well have struck Dutch with a jolt of electricity from an experiment testing the full impact of electricity at its highest possible strength and capabilities.

Dutch let out a sharp yelp, throwing his head back as he slammed onto the mattress, his back arching up off it as he dug his fingers into the bedspread. His whole body shuddered as his chest rose and fell rapidly.

His reaction was so intense that it initially startled Hosea, but he gathered himself quickly and gave it another tug. He got a similar reaction out of him again.

"You think you could be sneaky with me, huh?"

"N-no -- "

Hosea tugged it a third time.

Dutch was a quivering mess, whimpering, finding himself unable to talk. The sight drove a certain hunger within Hosea; having such control over Dutch made him feel like he had all the power in the world.

"You got this attached to your cock and balls, or what?" Hosea had the chain threaded through his fingers but didn't pull back; he didn't want to tug too often, too soon, lest he desensitize him. And besides, he was giving him the puppy dog look. Wherever this fob was connected, it was attached to something sensitive; he knew Dutch's most tender spots intimately and what kind of touch brought out what reaction.

Dutch laid on his back, panting. He felt his cock swelling under his pants; his arousal grew so fast that it was damn near painful.

"Fuck, Hosea . . . " He spoke between breaths, his heart nearly pounding out of his ribcage as he pushed his head back into the pillow.

Hosea ran his thumb over the fob as he slipped next to him, maybe subtly reminding Dutch that he controlled this situation. His hazel eyes were sparkling; he had to see this arrangement! Dutch had always gone over the top with their anniversary gifts, but this had to be the most . . . Sensational one.

"May I see my wedding gift?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" Dutch winked, crow's feet taking flight in the corners of his eyes. Hosea loved seeing him smile, how his eyes crinkled up, even the wrinkles on his nose!

He sat up on his knees, not breaking soft eye contact with Hosea as he unbuttoned his jacket, taking care not to snag the fob chain underneath. To Hosea's amusement, he slipped out his waistcoat with an exaggeratedly serpentine movement.

"Enjoying the show?" Dutch teased, teasingly shrugging his shoulders as his fingers nimbly worked over his shirt.

"I've seen worse!" Hosea laughed, though transfixed by watching his husband's fingers deftly undo the buttons; he always loved watching Dutch use his hands, whatever they were doing.

Almost absently, Hosea slid his hand down to his groin, digging his fingers across the fabric of his pyjama bottoms as he watched intently. While for Dutch, Hosea's hands are

When his chest became exposed, Dutch almost coyly blocked the view of his nipple rings. He gave Hosea a crooked smile as he rested his head on his shoulder and watched; Dutch took pride in how he still affected Hosea in such a manner.

"Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe this be too much for you." He was still playing coy and being cute, and his beloved enjoyed it.

Hosea scoffed, his fingers clutching through the fabric of his pyjamas. His voice was hitched, breathly as he ran the palm of his hand over his groin. "Too much for me? I think I struck lighting with you."

"I seem to be creating the makings of another electric storm myself," Dutch almost purred, a certain playful twinkle in them as he slipped his left hand covering a ringed nipple and then revealed the other.

"Happy anniversary, Old Girl."

Hosea sat up in a kneeling position, a bit awkwardly, given that oh-so-familiar sensation growing within his groin. "It's beautiful . . ." He almost growled, tracing a finger over the ring and then tracing a fingertip down the length of the exposed chain.

"That's not all . . ." Dutch murmured teasingly, deftly undoing the rest of the buttons, revealing the chains which popped out oh so temptingly. He worked his way down to his navel piercing, and with all of them undone, he arched his back towards Hosea, pushing his belly towards him invitingly.

Hosea glanced up and down Dutch's form, licking his lips as if he was presented with a delicious meal, and he was—prime Dutch. He wanted to make a feast out of that choice cut that lay before him and maybe have the odd bite; after all, he had to ensure Dutch was cooked just right.

Hosea leaned in and, securing Dutch by the waist, took a nipple ring into his mouth and rolled it slowly with his tongue, sending Dutch writhing. Leaving him wanting more, though, Hosea abandoned that nipple and kissed and nipped his way over to his other, easing him down as he did so. Leaving him whining -- a sound Hosea knew was begging -- and squirming -- Hosea alternated kisses and soft bites down his torso.

"Oh, you taste as delicious as you look," Hosea murmured against him.

"Hungry, now are we?" Dutch grinned, his eyes now little slits as he squirmed up against Hosea, encouraging him. "I guess I wouldn't be the worst choice for an anniversary dinner -- "

"Shut up and let me eat you!" Hosea feigned frustration but flashed a grin, giving him a nip between that tender region of the breastbone and midriff.

Hosea enjoyed this as much as Dutch did; he felt young again. The world outside, everything, stopped. It was just them having this moment.

Dutch squirmed with stifled laughter and whimpers as he tried to suck his belly in, in a hopeless attempt to evade Hosea's brutal onslaught. He suspected that his navel would be next, and he was right. He was already sensitive there, and the ring just amplified it. Hosea couldn't help it -- the damn fools jewelry setup was

Dutch's toes curled nearly into the souls of his feet in arousal as Hosea reached up to sneak a bite into a nipple -- as did Hosea's as his hunger increased.

"One of your better anniversary gifts, my Dutchess," Hosea cooed against his skin. Then, deciding to leave Dutch wanting more, he pushed himself into a kneeling position. He threaded a length of the chain around a finger and cupped his chin with his other hand.

"Thank you."

And then they kissed.

Slowly, Hosea pushed Dutch back onto the mattress, his hold not breaking from the chain. For a moment, Dutch challenged him, wrapping his leg behind him and rolling him over. He did so slowly as if thinking amid that kiss that Hosea would overlook. Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky.

Hosea wasn't having any of it, though.

Oh no, he wasn't.

Hosea growled into the kiss and rolled Dutch aside, pinning him down with his knees around his waist -- all the while still holding onto that strand of gold chain as he sat upwards again. Dutch looked up at him with a crooked, playful smile as if testing to see what he'd do next.

"Thought you'd distract me with the shiny, huh?" He slowly wound more of that chain around his finger, threatening to yank.

"Well, I did!" Dutch grinned, his expression alone saying, 'Pull it.'

Hosea smirked. He considered tugging it, but then he thought. . .

"Maybe I could be distracted by a little bit more . . . Shiny."

Dutch tilted his head curiously, an expression beyond adorable that earned a tickle on the cleft of his chin. Hosea had a soft spot for that chin; where others found 'ugly,' he found adorable, much like that nose. What he even found to be cuter than those features was how he reacted when they were scritched, kissed, 'booped.' Sometimes, he'd tuck his head in and blush; sometimes, he'd wrinkle his nose and pretend to be annoyed. On other times -- such as this time -- he'd crinkle his eyes up and tip his head back for more with a big ear-to-ear smile.

"You're adorable."

Hosea leaned over and kissed Dutch's nose, and he chuckled when that made him wrinkle it with a feigned snarl. He knew Dutch often pretends to hate those nose kisses, but Hosea knows better. He slipped off the bed to retrieve said gift from the dresser, and his voice took on a certain excitement.

"You didn't think there'd just be one anniversary gift between us now, did you?"

Dutch remained where Hosea placed, on his back, his legs spread to accommodate his erection. He tipped his head back to watch Hoea, almost purring at the combined sensation of the gold settling on his skin, the cloth of his black pants roughly shifting against his groin without that union suit getting in the way. And then, he couldn't bear it.

Off with the pants! His eyes didn't leave Hosea as he slipped, almost wiggling out of those pants, gasping when the cool air settled on his exposed, erect penis.

And then, Hosea turned to reveal the wedding anniversary gift in his hands. His expression was amused; he knew Dutch too well and how quick he'd be about taking those pants off.

It was a cock ring.

Custom made, of course.

"Specially made, just for you!" Hosea spoke animatedly, still eyeballing his husband as if he were a high-priced meal at a restaurant.

The cock ring was made of gold with a black band engraved with a smattering of tiny gold Ds, the very same font that formed the D pattern on his jacket. D for Dutch. D for dashing. D for dick. There were tiny red rubies along the band; it matched with his other rings and even his wardrobe perfectly.

And it could be hooked up with another gold chain, which it game with.

Dutch almost purred, his legs spreading in submission, in desire. He held his cock in his hands as Hosea returned to the bed, eager to feel the ring being eased on.

"Oh, Hosea, you spoil me rotten."

Hosea laughed as he came around the foot end of the bed and propped a knee on the mattress, all with a smoothness that Dutch was still taken in by. They both walked with a hitch in their get-along for some time now, but when it came to affection and intimacy, it was as if all their joints, their tendons, were as they were when they first met. Dutch could be able to withhold weight on his knees without feeling as if they'd be crunching underneath him, and Hosea could thrust deep within him without his hips troubling him. Maybe some invisible connection between them -- they are soulmates, after all -- healed all that was sore, at least for a time.

"If you got any more rotten, the vultures wouldn't have you!" Hosea grinned, giving Dutch a poke to his belly as he leaned in, delighting in how that always made him squeak.

Dutch let out a hearty laugh and squirmed his whole body in anticipation. "Oh, you flatter me, Old Girl . . ." He grinned, slipping a leg onto Hosea's shoulder, his foot teasing behind his ear. He teasingly started to rub it over Hosea; wherever he could reach, he touched.

"Trying to turn me on before I could get this on, are you? What a whore!" Hosea teased, playfully taking hold of his leg with his free hand and holding it firmly against his waist. "It's not even Friday!"

Dutch looked over at Hosea with a coy, playful expression. "Mhm . . . But I think rules can be set aside for anniversaries, and it'd be cruel to follow them with my new accessories. I did spend a lot of time putting it on, you know." He purred but slipped his hand away, tipping his head back when he felt Hosea's hand replace his.

The ring was eased down onto Dutch cock, giving him a cool and yet not cold sensation -- helped by the warmth of Hosea's hand -- that coursed through him.

"This came from London . . . " Hosea murmured, sending Dutch's head tipping back as he slid the ring up and down his length in a slow, rhythmic pace and used this other hand to support his ass. He may have even slipped a finger inside him to add to his pleasure; the purring moan from Dutch told him it was a good decision.

"I measured you that one night. You wouldn't have known I was measuring you, of course. You were on another planet!"

Dutch arched his back off the bed, grit his teeth and gripped the bed cover. He remembered that night. He almost felt that night again; nobody touches Dutch like Hosea. He strokes with the perfect pressure, almost elegantly, and yet keeps it unpredictable. There are reminders of who Dutch belongs to and who loves him.

For Hosea and Dutch, mutual masturbation is as enjoyable and just as meaningful as intercourse. For Dutch, it keeps him centred, keeping his mind from going to dark places.

"Send me to the moon, Hosea -- "

Hosea happily obliged.

He leaned in, took that fob between his teeth, and tipped his head back.

Dutch went to another planet.

He wasn't sure if it was the moon, but it was a planet, far, far away.

"Are you seeing the galaxy, my Duchess?" Hosea's voice was deep and breathy; if he said he wasn't being affected by watching his husband undulatingly writhe and moan as he gave that fob tugs -- no, yanks -- of alternating strengths, his finger moving into him deeper, he'd be lying.

Dutch gasped, his head thrown back so far and hard repeatedly that he'd be surprised if he hadn't gotten whiplash. "N-nearly there!"

Hosea could feel the orgasm building up within Dutch. It was such an intimately organic sensation, one that, to him, was more than just sex; it was knowing that he had sent him to that level. Truthfully, they really do only have sex once a week, and yes, on Fridays, it extends the drive, the desire, the hunger.

"I'll help get you there!" Hosea panted, his breath shaking as he eased Dutch's ass back down on the bed, leaving him writhing as he rummaged through his jacket pocket in search of gun oil. He was whining about something incoherent. It's hard to imagine, but Dutch will survive the ordeal of a short wait until Hosea sends him to another level.

"No need to be dramatic; I'll send you to the stars."

"Mmrhsea . . . !"

"You don't like me going in raw, Dutch."

At last, Hosea had found the gun oil.

Pants were dropped. All necessary equipment was lubed up to specifications.

Gun lube wasn't their preferred lubricant; Hosea was fond of hair pomade, while Dutch preferred Potent Miracle Tonic. Gun oil was a go-to in a hurry, though, and they were in a hurry.

Hosea grabbed a fistful of those chains, and with Dutch's legs submissively, sluttily spread out, he thrust deep inside him with a strength of a man twenty years younger. He took ahold of that waist with his other hand, steading him, digging his fingers into a love handle. He loved that Dutch had them now; they were something to grab, to poke to keep him in line.

Dutch was self-conscious about those love handles, but over time, Hosea's touches of them, the gentle pokes, and those soft kneadings created a positive association; acceptance happened henceforth.

Hosea yanked the chain.

Hard.

Dutch's knuckles nearly went white as he gripped the bed. He snapped his head back, biting his tongue so hard that he tasted blood as he was sent into an orgasmic, organically electrified, babbling, whimpering mess. He seemed to even short-circuit as he came and cried, actually, literally cried when he felt Hosea's release that came following one more hard thrust. Hosea and Dutch were so synch with one another that even their bodies almost became one organism during sex; rarely, one lasts longer than the other.

Sex heightens Dutch's emotions. Tears happen.

He went to the stars, the moon, and beyond, an emotional journey.

Hosea collapsed onto Dutch and couldn't even catch his breath before he hugged tight. It was almost as if the fear was there that he would disappear into thin air, that he was an apparition all along, an apparition that he was forbidding to fade away. He had to smile, though, as Dutch pressed on the top of his head.

Aftercare would have to wait; Dutch *needed* to hold him. He was enjoying the sound of his heart beating against his, both of which were trying to slow down and that musky after-sex smell that he still has after all these years.

"Happy anniversary, 'sea."

[zae-heeyyy]

Hiatus

Summary: You meet John during his year away from the gang. Pairing: John Marston x gn!Reader but mostly platonic Word Count: 1,725 Tags/ Warnings: alcohol, violence, mature themes

a/n: Just a little idea I had. I actually sketched/traced the saloon picture on my iPad. (Thanks John for bad drawing skills because I'm not an artist. To be clear, this is my interpretation of John’s sketch of a saloon haha) Something a little different, I hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading!

hiatus: A temporary departure or absence, often marked by a pause in activity or routine, reflecting a period of separation from the usual path or environment

Rip Van Winkle? Did he take you for a fool? You'd be insulted if you couldn't clearly see the bastard was miserable. It'd been three months since he stumbled into your saloon, throwing a few bills on the bar top. A few bills covered a lot of drinks, but a lot of drinks he had. He would drink and gamble all his money away and would somehow come back the next day with more. You didn't know any fellas around who could make their money and spend it as fast as he did. Minding your business seemed like the best course of action, and that's what you did, mostly. All you asked for was a name, and that's what he gave you. You took the hint and stopped asking questions. 

Until you couldn't curb your curiosity about the tall, lanky stranger anymore.

"What do you do, anyway?" You asked. Nobody around knew him, and it wasn't a big town. People were fishermen and farmhands, and he didn't fit either bill. He'd dodged that question, too. It didn't take long for you to figure out how he made his living when you saw him "accidentally" bump into someone. Just thirty seconds later, he threw the dime he'd presumably pickpocketed onto your bar. You stared at him, unmoving. 

"Well, you gonna pour that whiskey or not?" He learned on the counter, impatient, and glared at you. Intimidating you would take more work than he was probably used to.

"You gonna give that man his money back or not?" You shot back. His face didn't change, and he steadily held your gaze. He picked up the coin and placed it back on the counter, scooting it in front of you again.

"No," he replied simply.

"Then no." You responded with a shrug and turned to walk off to serve someone else. Rip sighed deeply and put another dime on the counter. 

"But I'll buy him a drink-- on him." You wanted to laugh but didn't give him the satisfaction. 

"Now I'm robbing him, too?"

"It ain't robbin. He was gonna buy a drink anyway," his tone grew even more vexed. You were the one loudly exhaling now. You took the money, poured the whiskey, and offered the other man his "free" drink. Rip was lucky you didn't call the law on him, but he seemed to have enough problems as it was. 

He took to you after that, though, always throwing extra change down for you to have a whiskey yourself. You'd thank him with short words, but never poured yourself a drink, knowing where the money came from. Keeping your distance seemed like the logical thing to do.

Then, someone you'd never seen before pushed open the doors to the saloon on a particularly slow night. You'd noticed Rip's posture stiffen as soon as he laid eyes on the man. He placed a casual hand on his right hip, and his eyes moved to yours for only a second before they were watching the man again. You should've felt something was wrong but didn't have time to think before the newcomer approached you, pointing his gun at you from inside his coat.

"All the money. Now. And don't say a word." Your blood ran cold, but before you could move, you heard a click.

"Put the gun down, idiot." Rip had moved from his seat and was standing behind the intruder, his own revolver pointed to the back of his head, "gonna lose your life over this? I hope you ain't as dumb as you look."

Rip diverted the stranger's attention long enough for you to reach for your own shotgun under the counter. You pointed your gun at the would-be robber, and Rip yelled at the few others in the saloon to get the law. You finally let yourself breathe when the man was taken away. 

Rip stayed for the rest of the night, sitting long past his usual departure time. Faint sunlight was beginning to peak in the windows, and your shift replacement had walked through the doors. Instead of going home, you walked around the bar to sit with Rip. Sometime in the night, he'd settled in a seat on the side of the bar, closer to you, still nursing the same glass of whiskey you'd poured hours earlier.

 "You knew that was gonna go down tonight, didn't you?" You'd asked. You noticed his sudden change of demeanor as soon as the thief stepped foot inside.

He shook his head, looking down at the glass. "Didn't really know. Had a feelin', though. Can't explain it. Maybe it was a look in his eye or how he walked in? I don't know, just a feelin'. I knew fellas like him." He paused for a moment, "Hell, I am a feller like him. "

You didn't know anything about him, but you think you understood. A feeling in your gut told you pickpocketing was the more tame of his crimes. 

"I'm surprised you didn't get in on it," Your tone was severe, but you were grinning at him. He scoffed, laughing a bit. 

"I ain't that far gone. I got morals, you know." You had an inkling that he was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince you.

"Morals." You repeated back to him. You couldn't believe the ridiculousness of it all. "Right"

He threw his hands up defensively, "Do you think I am the type of guy to put a gun in an innocent person's face? For some saloon cash?"

You shrugged, skepticism all over your face, "I can't say I know what kind of man you are, Mr. Van Winkle," you said, adding finger quotes around his name.

He looked down at his glass and let out another sigh. "John-- my name's John...Marston. Since you wanna know so bad," he finally finished off the last of the liquor. You searched his face; he was grimacing slightly.

You hum appreciatively. "It's nice to thank a man with his own name, John Marston. Thanks. You definitely saved my ass tonight. How about some breakfast on the house to show my appreciation?" 

Maybe oatmeal had some aphrodisiac properties you didn't know about, or perhaps you'd finally lost it. Still, somehow, you'd ended up pressed against the wall by the cowboy in a room above the saloon. His kisses were sloppy, and his movements were sporadic and clumsy, even. He'd made a move to pull you towards the bed but stumbled, knocking his head hard into yours. 

"Shit," he stumbled back, rubbing his head. You leaned against the wall, nursing your own sore dome. But the collision seemed to knock some sense into you. 

"This was...it wasn't..." You tried to find the words to let him down softly, but he cut you off with a shake of his head and sat on the bed.

"Yeah, weren't a good idea. Don't worry about it," he gave you a strained but reassuring smile, and you stood there in awkward silence before he spoke again, "I don't know what I'm even doin' these days." He said, eyes trained on the floor. Part of you couldn't believe that he was trying to have a conversation with you after that, but like always, you felt a little sorry for him. 

"How about another drink? For both of us."

He could say no to that, so you made your walk of shame back downstairs. Your colleague at the bar gave you a look but didn't say anything as he poured your drinks. After everything, you felt like he owed you the truth, and he was too tired to argue.

"Ask away," he relented. 

"Why the fake name?" That was your first question, and you had so many more when he was done talking. Almost hanged at twelve, riding with Dutch Van der Linde and robbing trains and banks. No wonder he was so miserable. 

"Left it all, and I don't feel any better. I'm still robbin, still here drinking every night."

"Doesn't sound any better," was all you could say. 

"It ain't. And the worst part? There was this girl, a working girl, who fell in with us, Abigail. Me and her-- well, she was more to me than a working girl, but then she got pregnant. And I got a son, at least, that's what she told me. Don't know if he's mine." He buried his face in his hands and groaned, the weight of it all heavy on his shoulders.

You were silent. You didn't know what to say or how to respond to any of it. All of this, his life, was something out of an Otis Miller tale. A life of crime was utterly foreign to you.

"That's...a lot," was all you could manage. He bobbed his head up and down in agreement. "Did you love her?" Something seemed to wash over him, and he stiffened. It took him a few moments to respond, but he looked off like he was picturing something in his mind's eye.

"I think I did. Think I still do." You could see the turmoil clearly on his face then. You snapped him back, your voice low and soft.

"Think she would lie to you? Especially about something like that?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."

You pondered for a second. "You said you didn't have a father until Dutch took you in. Want this kid to be the same, without a dad? You love his momma; you think she loves you. Give the kid a chance to grow up with parents that love each other."

You could see his jaw clench, and he waved you off without even considering what you said.

"Didn't ask for advice." 

"Well, I'm giving it to you, miserable bastard." He relaxed his jaw and chuckled.

"Fair enough."

More silence fell between you, and he finished what was left in his glass before sliding a dime to your co-worker and leaving. He returned only a handful of times after that, noticeably drinking less. One day, as he was leaving, he took his hat off and met your eye. 

"I'm gonna get goin' now. Thanks for everything." 

And you knew it was the last time you'd ever see him. You just hoped he decided to do the right thing. You had a feeling he did. 

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

CHAPTER 2 MEOWCAH BELL IS INCREDIBLE 🔥🔥🔥🔥 You are doing gods work 🙏

Thank youuu!!!! :”D

hehhe i am suprised and happy about the fan reception of the fic. Idk how strongly i feel on it, i think it was alright but definitely made me go back and revise and write and then revise and then overhaul and then so on. It was a lot of work to make.

my favorite segment is definitely micah freaking out. I was writing him and went, you know what Mr. “I have rags in my pants to catch my blood, my tits are sore, my pants are too tight, my mood is swinging, i am hangry, and i want to go to sleep” needed? FEARING FOR HIS LIFE! Micah 200% has strong family trauma and Dutch is another manifestation of that.

[starlight-and-whiskey]

AO3 Masterlist - RDR2

More People than Ghosts (In Progress) Battered and bruised, when Eleanor escaped the infamous Blackthorne gang, she didn't expect to fall into the arms of Arthur Morgan. But can you ever truly leave your past behind? Arthur/OFC - Word Count: 12,932+

Roping 101 Arthur finds himself a little...tied-up. After all, camp doesn't provide a whole heap of opportunities to really let go. A hotel room with a sturdy headboard does. Arthur/Reader - 18+ - Word Count: 1,342

Fever and Falling You left the Van der Linde gang years ago, but when Arthur Morgan falls ill, you're persuaded to return. Nursing Arthur back to health rekindles more than just old memories. Arthur/Reader - Word Count: 6,430

My Soul has Gone Away Arthur Morgan doesn't say a lot about Eliza and Isaac. He has nightmares about them a lot though. This is one of them. Word Count: 1,513

Don't Call Me Sweetheart Had a dream, wrote a fic. Aimless smut/fluff about reader getting hurt and Arthur caretaking...of sorts.... Arthur/Reader - 18+ - Word Count: 2,733

We Can't Change What's Done Your world is turned upside down when a crazed cowboy claiming to be from the past barges into your home. Your future in his past is told to you through letters from...well, from yourself. Arthur/Reader - 18+ Chapter - Word Count: 19,622

[tinyfishtits]

Saddle Horn(y)

Micah Bell / Female Reader

Summary: Micah shares his saddle with you and things heat up when the saddle horn gets you off.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1,072 Tags: Smut, Fingering, Public Sex

Authors Note: I simply do not care about the logistics of two people riding a horse, let me live in the fantasy I have created 🤠

★ Read on AO3 ★ ☆ Masterlist ☆

Micah drags you away from a bar fight you didn’t start, but were intent on ending. He pulls you onto the back of Baylock and rides off back to camp. The saddle wasn’t fit for two people, and so you found yourself awkwardly half-propped atop Micah’s thighs, squeezed between him and the horn of the saddle which digs rhythmically into the bundle of nerves between your legs. You start to wriggle, attempting to fight back the building pleasure threatening to unwind you. 

A moan begins to rumble up your throat and you force it back down, your body erupting with heat as a climax builds, your stifled moans escaping as pitiful whimpers. You throw your head back against Micahs shoulder, panting as you come down from the apex of your saddle-horn-induced pleasure. 

Micah slows baylock, his voice concerned as he questions you. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did-“ He stops as a residual wave of pleasure causes your hips to jerk and coaxes a proper moan from your throat. “Oh doll…” his voice is a whisper against your ear, hot and crooning. Overcome with adrenaline from the bar fight and body now reeling with heat you turn your head to face him, searching for his hand and guiding it to the budding wetness between your thighs. 

“Micah�� you breath against his lips and a guttural sound, almost a snarl, rips out from him as he takes your lips in his with so much force your hand shoots up to his face, grasping at him both to stop you from tumbling off the saddle and to keep him pressed against you. But he doesn’t let you fall, his arms already tightly wrapped around your waist, holding you close. His strong hands snaking under your clothes and kneading at the burning flesh underneath as his lips take yours sloppily and with so much pent up need you wonder briefly just how long he’s wanted this.

But all thoughts evaporate the second a warm hand trails under the hem of your pants and finds the furnace between your legs, burning for him. Your mouth fills with heat and lips vibrate as you both moaned into each other, sinking into the other as you lose yourselves in a flurry of want and need and primal desire… his thumb deftly circles your clit, pressing into it slow and hard when he brought you too close too quickly, the pressure of his warm digit dragging out the waves of pleasure that wanted so desperately to crash, so close to the edge but never allowed to cross it. 

You could feel his own desire stiffening in his pants at your back, throbbing with every whimper and moan he coaxed from you with only a single finger. You knew he was a dexterous son of a bitch, but this? You never thought you’d be jealous of a gun before, but here you were, wishing you were the one holstered on his hip all hours of the day… that It was you he spent hours tending to, rubbing with oil and swinging theatrically around his finger. 

Micah whispered your name as his lips fell to your neck. Thumb still teasing your clit, he slipped two fingers inside of you and your hips hungrily thrust into them, wanting every inch of him there was to take. You hadn’t been aware of your surroundings, so wrapped up in his touch, that you didn’t even hear the approaching wagon until it was just a few yards away. Micah, likely aware of the approaching witness and just wholly unbothered, continued his work between your legs.

No longer wasting time with teasing, he gave you the full force of his dexterity, the speed and strength of his fingers unrelenting. His other hand found its way to your breasts and started toying with your nipple, already hard and aching. He was giving you everything, the overstimulation bordering on torturous as your mind struggled to process all the fireworks firing in your nerves. His lips and teeth on your ear was the last straw, the sound of your name rasping out between his moans your undoing. 

The wagon was upon you now, the sound of horse hoofs and rattling wood ambling past you. You couldn’t have looked at whoever passed if you wanted to, as a devastatingly powerful wave of pleasure finally crashed, ripping through you like a tsunami, destructive and relentless as it swallowed you up and you gave into it, drowned yourself in it. You couldn’t help the scream that burst out of you as the peak hit and you came crashing back down, body trembling with aftershocks.

Micah chuckled into your neck, lazily kissing the skin there, warm hands still firmly grasping your flesh, though their ministrations had ceased. Micah’s low, gravely voice wrapped around you as you started to regain awareness. “Well well…” His mustache tickled at your neck as he spoke, “that ain’t how I saw this night ending.” He said, the tone of his voice a low, seductive purr. “Ending?” You repeated, breathless and sounding more desperate than you really meant to, but the thought of that being it … the end.   

His lips curved into a smile against your skin. “If you want to keep at it darlin I’ll be the last person to stop ya.” He said with a laugh, peppering more kisses to your neck as his hands fell away from your body, taking up the reins once more. “But we should get off the road… or the horse, at least.” Your eyes shot open at the reminder of where you were. “Oh god did that person- did they see?” You asked, the mortification finally settling in. You’d never been one for PDA, never even gone so far as to kiss a lover in public past a quick peck on the cheek.

Micah barked a laugh. “Didn’t have to, doll. Everyone within a mile heard you scream out my name.” He said smugly. You slapped his thigh, the easiest part of him to reach, and he chuckled once more. “I may have screamed yours…” You said, grinding your hips back into his lap and coaxing a sweet moan from him. “But you moaned mine” You teased, with more than just your words. The sound that escaped Micah’s lips then was practically a growl. “What will it be darlin’? Back to camp, or-” He started, but you interrupted. “Or. Definitely or.”

[megraen]

When I get comments like these on my stories, it literally brings me to tears.

My depressed and anxiety ridden ass just gets so overwhelmed that someone out there actually thinks so highly of me and my capabilities, and makes me wonder that maybe I can write that novel idea that has been in the back of my mind for years.

[breeezytoast]

John: Why is everyone so obsessed with top or bottom? Honestly, I’d just be excited to have a bunk bed

Arthur:...

Arthur: I’m gonna tell him

Charles: Don’t you dare

[olliethecat13]

I NEVER POSTED MY WARRIOR CATIFIED RDR2 DESIGNS. OR SPOKE ABOUT MY FIC FOR THEM 💀

Dutch, Arthur, John

Molly, Hosea, Sean

the unnamed johnigail daughter, Jack, and abigail/sadie (I merged them)

Annabelle (Jewel), Isaac, Eliza

Micah, Colm, Mary

There's a lot more to come but I just haven't gotten around to them lol. I've been making a little uhh... fic surrounding them I changed a TON of stuff. The plot obviously, kind of warrior catified it and some changes just came along. Charles will be next & the rest of the supporting gang members will be drawn... eventually.

Notable changes:

Redrabbit & Harepoppy (Sean & Molly) are siblings! And Red/Sean is older than Stag/Arthur. Was his mentor.

Sadie and Abigail are merged, as Addergale (get it. Adler-gail). Nothing against either of them I love them dearly but I felt it'd be fun to have a character who could be John/Wolf's love interest but also Stag/Arthur's best friend.

Stag/Arthur has lung cancer instead of TB. I had this idea that instead of the Downes & the bank robbery which kills Hosea, there's going to be a huge fight with the 'pinkertons' (Skyclan) & the 'o'driscolls' (Windclan) join in as a show stopper. Theres a lighting strike which sets the battlefield on fire, which gives WC & SKC the upper hand, taking Slate/Hosea hostage & giving Badger/Dutch a chance to back down- He hesitates, and they kill Slate/Hosea 😋

To show how Dutch/Badger always preached "Revenge was a fool's game", yet didn't follow it & taught this to his sons, Stag/Arthur bolts after the killer of Slate/Hosea, who goes down a Windclan tunnel or a rabbit hole (have not decided) which has been filled with smoke from the fire. Stag/Arthur kills him, and in turn signs his death warrent.

There's a lot more, but you'll have to read the full fic to find out :] Have so much planned. It's called Warriors: Severance (meaning the severing of a relationship... I wonder what that could entail.) and it's posted on my other blog (warriorsseverance) or on ao3. I try 2 post every 2 weeks!

AO3 LINK

[maowmaowme]

recommendations for a long, slow burn Arthur Morgan x afab!reader?

guys please... I just need a long, well-written Arthur Morgan x fem reader fanfic and I promise ill make it to next year, PREFERABLY NOT TO FUCKIN SAD CAUSE DON'T KICK ME WHILOE IM DOWN! and also set in the original au <3<3 im beggin you guys for any Arthur morgan x reader actually...

[roamingtigress]

"I shocked my Friday date when I arrived at his camp; he brandished a knife, but when he learned who I was, he served me some fresh stew and told me all there was to know about Evelyn Miller.

I admittedly dozed off, but he was cuddling with me by the bonfire when I woke up. He made up nonsense about hearing some wolves; he wanted to protect me, but I knew better. This Dutch fellow has spent too much time on his own. But he's' charming, even if he doesn't shut up. I think we'll go on another date."

[zae-heeyyy]

Stelliferous

Summary: You stargaze with Arthur. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 1,353 Tags: fluff, shy, high honor Arthur Warnings: no warnings, enjoy the fluff.

a/n: Just a little something I thought of when I found this camp. Plus, I really wanted to draw a constellation. Fun fact, the game has accurate constellations, and Orion is one of them! I had a lot of fun reading about Orion mythology for this one. And TYSM to my tumblr bestie @littlemistey for helping me get the journal entry just right!

stelliferous: filled with stars or bearing stars, often used to describe a visibly starry night.

As everyone went about their business for the night, you headed to a deserted clearing just beyond camp and sat on the ground. You loved sitting alone, getting lost in the stars and the tales that went with them. Just as you were settling down, the snap of a twig alerted you to someone else's presence. The stars had aligned perfectly for you that night, putting you and Arthur in the same place at the same time.

You rose and looked around, spotting the cowboy leaning against a tree. If it were anybody else, you'd be annoyed, but seeing him there made your heart flutter in all the good ways. You loved looking at him just as much as you loved looking up at the stars. But the stars didn't make you weak in the knees at the sight of them or make you laugh until your stomach hurt. But just like the stars, Arthur always felt so out of reach.

"Things're really goin' downhill back there if a lady would rather sleep in the grass than in her tent," he said. His face was neutral, but you could see a playful glint in his eyes. You hugged your knees to your chest and tried to hide your shyness.

"Oh, hey Arthur, I was just––"

He held out a halting hand and tipped his head.

"I was just jokin, miss. I know what it's like to want some peace and quiet." He pushed himself off the tree and gave a two-finger wave. "Anyway, I won't disturb you."

You spoke out before he could leave. "It's no trouble, Arthur." You turned away from him and cranked your neck to the sky. "Y'ever wonder if it's just us out here?" It wasn't a question you expected him to answer. You were just thinking aloud. He didn't respond for a long moment but sauntered towards you, his boots appearing in your peripheral.

"I don't do much thinkin'."

You turned to glance at him again, shaking your head.

"Oh, hush, Arthur Morgan. We all know you do more thinkin' than any other fool around here."

You could tell he was fighting hard to keep the frown on his face from curving upward.

"That ain't saying much." He chuckled on his exhale, then, with a grunt, sat down beside you. "This whatchu' always doing out here? Just—" he gestured to the sky, "—looking up?"

"Don't knock it til you try it, Arthur." A soft smile formed on your face, and you waited expectantly. He quirked an eyebrow, then put his hands behind his head and laid back. A satisfied grin crossed your face, and you dropped down, too.

You spent the rest of the night pointing out stars and constellations to Arthur, sharing all the stories you knew about them. An hour crept by before a yawn escaped you. Arthur didn't show it, but your departure was the last thing he wanted. With one arm still behind his head and the other slung across his stomach, he kept his eyes trained on the sky above.

He was hooked—not on the stars, but on you. Then and there, he realized he could spend eternity on the ground, captivated by the rise of pitch in your voice when you got excited and how your eyes crinkled at the corners when your smile stretched from ear to ear.

From that night, Arthur used stargazing as his excuse to be near you, sometimes sitting so close to you that your shoulders rubbed when you pointed upward. Once, you turned to ask him a question and noticed him staring at you instead of the sky.

"It's impolite to stare, Mr. Morgan." His expression faltered, and he opened his mouth in a stuttering attempt to damage control.

He didn't need to be ashamed, though; you'd felt his eyes on you many times before. He admired you like you admired the stars, and knowing that sent waves of adoration through you.

Arthur caught up with you another evening just as you were finishing dinner. Golden sunlight reflected on his face as he glanced down at his feet, clutching his hat between his fingers. He reached nervously towards your hand, thought too hard, and placed it back on his hat. He started to speak, his words low and careful.

"Got somethin' to show you—somethin' I found— if you'll ride with me?"

You suppressed a building laugh, trying to save him further embarrassment. It tickled you that someone as audacious as him could be made so flustered by the likes of you. Your amusement was well hidden, and you reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.

"It's about time you asked me on a ride, Mr. Morgan." He nodded and placed his hat back on his head, the brim shielding the building smile on his face. He walked you to his horse. He got on first and held a strong arm down to pull you up.

The two of you road down the Heartlands, across the Dakota River, and through Bard's Crossing. He slowed when you approached a hill outside Lone Mule Stead. Arthur helped you off the horse with one hand, keeping hold until you stood in front of a campsite that overlooked the Upper Montana River and beyond. The site was breathtaking; you could make out the lights of Blackwater, boats on the water, and the expansive night sky in all its glory. Just to the side of the spot stood a small brass telescope. When you finally saw it, your eyes widened, and you met Arthur's, your mouth agape.

"Found this out here the other day," he gestured towards it, beckoning you.

"Oh, Arthur," you ran your fingers across the smooth brass cylinder. You shook your head in slow incredulity. "I've never seen one in person, only seen 'em in books."

Arthur removed the cap on the end, letting it swing on its chain. He nodded toward the viewing device again, and you walked around to the lens, bending to look through it.

"I hope it's everything you read about, miss." His voice was comforting, like the soft rumble of distant thunder. Breathless, you pressed your eye to the lens, and a speckled blanket of black engulfed your vision. Truthfully, the stars were the same as always, but knowing Arthur had curated this moment, just for you, made the night sky more beautiful than ever. When you were done taking it in, you stood to see Arthur watching you from a few feet away. You approached the crate he was sitting on, your hands outstretched and reaching for his.

"Thank you, really," you said. The gunslinger stood and accepted your hands, his lips pressed together tightly as if opening his mouth would betray him. His eyes were strictly focused on your clasped hands. Surely, if his mouth would betray him, his eyes would too.

"Arthur." His name coming off your lips so endearingly could kill him. He finally looked up, his mouth falling open to speak, but you didn't give him the chance. You rose on your toes, your lips crashing against his hurriedly. When he finally realized what was happening, his shoulders fell relaxed, and he wrapped two arms around your waist, pulling you into him. Your mouths moved in sync with each other's until you pulled away for air. Heat had built up in his face, and you saved him the trouble of hiding his blush by wrapping your arms around him tight.

As breathtaking as it was, you forwent the telescope for the rest of the night, opting to wrap yourself in Arthur's arms instead. You pointed up at a line of bright stars.

"See those three? That's Orion's Belt."

"Orion?" he asked, saying the name as if it were a foreign language.

"Orion. He was a hunter—a big and strong one. They say he was a bit of a drunk brute, too. He reminds me of someone." You didn't need to peel your eyes away from the warrior in the sky to feel the warmth of the one right next to you, a knowing, gentle smile on his lips.

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

Chapter 2 of Meowcah Bell IV

Summary:

“‘They’re managing.’ He said it with a finality, like he was already making peace that the kittens were as good as dead. Arthur knit his brows.

The trees of the canyon thinned till they were hugging the rock walls. The beaten path up and out of the corridor was like the gates to heaven ushering them to safety.

Micah grunted and pulled himself tighter to Arthur when he quickened their pace.

‘Hold on, we’re almost there.’”

Arthur and Micah were supposed to return to Horseshoe Overlook, quick and easy. Of course, nothing is quick or easy when you have Micah along for the ride.

Ping list: @lululandsiiska

[mileycyprus-hill]

Barbells and Barstools

Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Summary: So, yeah this is totally not a self-indulgent fic at all *cough cough*. Reader is an Olympic-level strongwoman who travels with Miss Marjorie's Medical Miracles troupe. Being overprotective of simple-minded Bertram, you find yourself looking for a fight with the man who beat him up at the Van Horn saloon. Things take a turn as you and Arthur find yourselves quickly turning from enemies to lovers.

Warnings: violence, mature language. Part 2 gets steamy.

…………………………

You burst through the rotting door of the old Van Horn saloon, your cheeks hot and teeth clenched hard.

"Alright, who's the asshole who thinks he can beat up a poor simpleton!" You bellow as you push the saloon doors with such force, one of them cracks as it bangs against the wall.

A silence falls upon the saloon, which is unsurprising given the lack of clientele in this filthy establishment. All at once the eyes of the haggard labor men look to you. Once they glance at the sight of your tall frame blocking the doorway they quickly avert their gazes to their cloudy and nearly empty glasses.

You remain standing with your hands placed at your hips and feet apart on the dusty floor. A gust of wind behind you blows a stray hair from your braid onto your flushed cheek. Dust blows onto the floor, which is indistinguishable beneath the thick layer of dirt.

A deep and hoarse voice answers from your right, towards the bar.

"That would be me," says the voice.

With a scowl painted on your dry lips and sweaty brow, you dart your eyes over to the bar. A man of similar height to yourself leans forward on the bar in worn and dusty clothes. Upon his head he wears a black leather hat, scuffed and dirty. His face is hidden from view until he finally raises his head. Steely eyes glare at you from beneath the wide brim of his hat.

"Shit." You breathe in a frustrated whisper that's as silent as the wind. You notice the black eye already forming on the man's face and the beer bottle held to his reddened cheek.

The man is barrel-chested and his shoulders are broad beneath a light blue, cotton button-down shirt that tapers into a loose tuck in his lean waisted pants. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows to expose his pale, thick forearms. No doubt this man packs a punch hard enough to knock back the mighty Bertram.

However, what this man may not know is that while Bertram lacks speed in favor of brute force, you carry the skills of both agility and strength. Upon further inspection, it also appears that Bertram has worn this bastard out, as you watch the man continue to catch his breath while leaning on the bar counter. This lesson you plan to teach him should be quick, you think to yourself.

Appearing annoyed from under your scrutinizing gaze, the tired man speaks from across the bar, "And before you start throwing fists at me, I'll have you know, he started it."

"He doesn't know any better!" You defend with heated venom on your tongue. Walking closer to him, you scold, "He's got the mind of a child."

You cross the hollow parlor in just a few strides of your long legs. Broken shards of glass crackle against the dirty floor beneath your feet. Your thumbs rub against your index fingers anxiously as your arms swing at your sides.

The man exclaims with a snarl, "That ain't no excuse! He nearly killed the barman, not to mention myself!"

He points to his own beaten face with a hand that's equally bruised and slightly bloodied as you had seen Bertram's.

The barman behind the counter raises his palms, "Now listen! If you two wanna continue this, then do it outside. I don't want any more damage to my place!"

The two of you ignore the barman pointing to the broken glass and splintered wood that litters his floor.

"I'm staying right here." The tired man says, promptly ignoring you to sit himself on a rickety stool beside him. "I ain't done anythin' wrong."

With a barely audible scoff, you cock your head to the side and watch him slowly blink his eyes.

"Guess again, asshole." You lunge forward and grab the front of the man's shirt. Like a heavy sack of potatoes, you yank him off the chair towards you. You need only to drag him a few feet towards the door before you turn on your back leg and toss him through the saloon doors with minimal effort.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arthur felt his feet float beneath him as you grasped his shirt and pulled him away from the bar counter. His breath caught in his throat and before he realized what had happened, he found himself stumbling through the doors of the saloon into the street.

"Shit!" Arthur yells, swinging his arms to balance and prevent himself from falling face forward onto the dirt.

Arthur thought you looked big, but assumed it was just his perspective from the barstool. Jesus, the last time someone threw him like that it was through the bar window in Valentine, and that man was a giant.

How far was he from the door when he sat on the stool? You threw him further than he could spit, which is a considerable distance.

He hears the doors swing open again and turns to watch you stomp outside to the street. In the bright afternoon light, he's finally able to get a better look at your frame.

By god, you're the brawniest woman he's ever laid eyes on.

The tight, pine colored trousers tucked into your leather boots do you no favors in hiding your thick, hard thighs and brawny backside. A dark brown belt cinches your stocky waist and tucks your tailored, ruffled white blouse into your trousers. You push the long linen sleeves of your shirt up past your elbows to expose your chiseled forearms. Your rounded biceps and wide shoulders flex underneath the light fabric. All of the buttons of your blouse are done except for the first three of the top, showcasing your jutting collarbones in contrast to your buxom chest.

In Arthur's moment of awe-struck weakness, that chest of yours is suddenly directly in front of his face. You grab him again by the front of his shirt, lift him up onto his toes, and forcefully push him to the ground. He lands flat on his back with your hands still entangled in his shirt while you kneel over him. The air escapes his lungs from the impact and he gasps like a fish out of water. A tightened fist hangs above his face and threatens to come crashing down on his chin.

Instinctively, Arthur stops you by grabbing your fist with one hand and wrapping around your wrist with the other.

"Goddammit, she told me to do it!" Arthur shouts. He kicks his heels against the dirt beneath you. Your knee is pressed against his lower stomach, just above his groin, pushing your weight upon him. Your other leg is outstretched to your side, steadying you while he attempts to push you off of him.

Visions of the muddy street in Valentine flash through Arthur's mind as he holds back your fist with both hands. Memories of a brute named Tommy shoving his face in the mud cause his heart to beat at a panicked rate.

With your fist immobilized, you reach with your other hand to wrap his throat. Arthur feels your powerful fingers grip tightly around his own thick neck. The base of your thumb presses against his bulging Adam's apple.

He kicks his feet and thrusts his hips in a manic attempt to buck you off, but no matter how much he pushes, his strength is evenly matched. In a panic, he sacrifices the holding strength of one hand from your wrist to reach for your hair. Calloused fingers interlaced with silky fibers of hair, he curls his fingers closed and pulls downward.

Goddammit, it only makes your grip tighter on him. You shake your fist free from the hold of his hand and wrap it around his throat. He pulls your head closer to his. You don't make a yelp or a cry at his pull on your scalp, only an angry growl through your tight lips as you stare into his eyes.

His eyes begin to water until your hand quickly loosens its grip at the sound of a pleading voice.

The voice is deep yet has the meekness of a small child.

"Don't, (Y/N)! He'll hurt you!" The voice begs you.

You both turn, locked in your position with Arthur's hand in your hair and your hands around his neck. You both look to see Bertram standing there, hands raised and shaking. His face is cringed with worry and sadness.

Noting your distraction, Arthur takes his opportunity to strike a swift punch to your ribs. You exclaim in shock instead of pain, despite how hard he struck against your side. Nevertheless, he rolls you over to the ground and straddles your waist, grabbing both of your hands and holding them by your head to pin you beneath him.

Arthur stares into your angry eyes and warns, "Listen! Now, I don't want more trouble for beating a nitwit and a woman, but if you don't--"

Bertram cries again, "No! Don't hurt her!"

Bertram takes two steps towards the both of you as you wiggle against each other for dominance before a shrill whistle cuts through the air like a steam train through the open plains.

The three of you cinch your eyes shut and cringe at the intrusive sound. Poor Bertram stands with his hands covering his ears, nearly buckling over in pain.

A familiar, scrawny woman rushes to you and Arthur in quick steps with a small silver whistle in her mouth. Arthur keeps his full weight on top of you with your hands still pinned to the ground.

Spitting the whistle from her lips, Miss Marjorie shouts, "Enough! Can't I turn around for one minute without you getting us into trouble again?"

Arthur turns his attention from Miss Marjorie down to you, then back to her. He realizes her anger is solely directed towards you, as he feels you release the tension in your arms and sigh. Turning his gaze to you once more, he watches your eyes clench shut and lips tighten in frustration. You refuse to look back up at Marjorie who glares down at you with her hands on her hips like an angry mother to her troublesome child.

Miss Marjorie continues, "Your job is to find that little bastard Magnifico, but here I find you fighting this poor gentleman who was only helping me just moments ago!"

"You call that helping?" You retort, lifting your head and pointing with your eyes over to Bertram's bruised face, who maintains his distance from the three of you and attempts to cover his face with his hands in shame.

Arthur's gravelly voice rises in pitch in response, "What else was I supposed to do? Fight him with my words?"

He feels your body tense again as his words incensed you. Your nostrils flare and your bright eyes cut him down as if he were nothing but a rabid mongrel deserved to be put down.

Through his arms and legs, Arthur feels the seething rage return to your muscled body and he tightens his grip on your wrists in response. His thighs pinch your ribs, as if steadying himself on top a wild mustang who refuses to be broke. The two of you stare into each other's eyes, waiting for the other to relent and turn away or even blink.

Suddenly, Arthur can't help but let a smirk pull at the corner of his lips. The sight of you laying pinned beneath him in the dirt, cheeks red hot in fury and eyes of steel piercing through him, it makes his own cheeks flush with a warm desire from the depths of his hardened heart.

He's won this wrestling match, he thinks, but you refuse to admit to defeat despite him holding you down with all his weight and Miss Marjorie watching you from above.

You could easily push him off of you, he thinks. As effortless as it was for you to toss him like a bale of hay, it should be no different now to simply buck him off like a wild mare.

So why haven't you?

He finds it amusing, seeing you so angry like this and holding yourself back to avoid further rebuke from your matriarch. He relaxes his furrowed eyebrows and crinkled nose. His smirk pulls higher at his lips now as he watches your hot-tempered stare cool down to confusion. Your well-manicured eyebrow quirks up and your eyes slightly widen in distrust to his smile. Your bosom that was once rising and falling in deep, angry breaths has now paused. Slowly, you let out a shallow and reluctant exhale from your nose. Your lips remain tightly pursed. Arthur notices the subtle cock of your head against the ground, like that of a perplexed puppy.

Your gazes both remain locked as Miss Marjorie speaks, "I am sorry for her behavior Mister, uh...what did you say your name was?"

Arthur unfurls his fingers from your wrists and straightens himself up, sitting back on your hips.

"I didn't," he replies, turning his head to Marjorie before turning back to you. "Arthur Callahan."

Still straddling you, Arthur looks into your eyes and extends a calloused hand to you as an offering.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you raise one arm to receive his hand.

"(Y/N) (L/N). But, most people call me Miss Atlas."

You both grasp the other's hand firmly in a show of strength. You squeeze his hand tightly, and he squeezes back in response. His eyes scan your face for any discomfort from his grip, but he sees only a roguish purse of your lips that barely mimics a smile.

Arthur repeats with a soft, rumbling chuckle, "Atlas...Was 'Lady Hercules' taken?" He gingerly rubs his throat.

He takes a moment to watch your eyes roll in response. Finally, he rises up from you and onto his feet to offer you a helping hand, to which you ignore and stand yourself up with a small grunt and brush away the dust from your clothes. What you don't ignore though, is Arthur's attempt to sneak a quick glance at your plump backside. He feels you stare at him, angry and confused at his lewd gaze, as if he's a randy teenage boy who's been caught peeping.

Miss Marjorie speaks up between you two with urgency, "Well! Now we're all properly introduced and can be friendly again, perhaps you won't mind Mr. Callahan helping you find Magnifico?"

Snapping your head towards her with a glare, you state firmly, "I can handle it. I don't need--"

"I'd be happy to help, ma'am." Arthur replies, ignoring your attempt to dissuade her.

He doesn't face you, but he peers at you through the corners of his eyes. You stare at him with such heat in your glare that he'd be surprised he doesn't burst into flames at this very moment.

Another crooked smirk falls upon his lips and he quirks a brow as if to mock your boiling frustration. His eyes slowly move in attention to Miss Marjorie.

"Great!" She exclaims happily.

This should be interesting, Arthur thinks to himself.

[tinyfishtits]

Join Me?

Micah Bell / Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Reader stumbles upon Micah skinny dipping. Word Count: 2,973 Rating: Teen and Up ~ for foul language and suggestive themes Author's Note: More fluff! This is Ch. 2 of 'Need a Haircut, Doll?' ★ Chapter 1 ☆ Read on AO3 ★ Masterlist

Life in camp finally seemed to settle and find its rhythm over the next few weeks in Clemons Point. The men were out most days diddling around Rhodes playing cops and robbers and stirring up trouble… I tried to keep out of it for the most part. In fact, I was so on edge being in Lemoyne Raider territory I hadn’t left camp at all since the move, I was starting to go stir crazy. 

Since joining the gang back in Colter, I'd established myself as a pretty proficient hunter. I was good with a bow and even better with my knives. I gave Charles and Arthur a run for their money when it came to clean kills and high quality pelts. I wasn’t used to being so cooped up and Grimshaw was really taking advantage of all my time loitering in camp. She knew I was an easy target for the chores everyone else seemed to avoid, and now I understood why. After weeks of scraping up horse crap, Karen's vomit, and cleaning dog piss out of bedrolls and blankets that the new camp mutt seemed intent on marking as his territory, I both smelt and felt like shit. 

All this was just compounded by the fact that I couldn’t seem to get a good night's sleep. And so I found myself, for the fifth night in a row, tossing and turning restlessly for hours until I finally gave up the fight and decided to go on a walk. Bundling up in my wool blanket, I made my way down to the lake. It was still dark out, probably just nearing four in the morning. The sun wouldn’t paint the sky for at least another hour. I walked barefoot across the rocky shore, treading slowly over the uneven terrain until the pebbles tapered off to finer grains of sand and I finally felt the warm relief of water at my feet. 

Listening to the soft, rhythmic lapping of the waves, I let my mind wander as I walked. I thought of what I would do when I left camp next. Perhaps I would convince Charles to go hunting with me, or maybe Keiren would finally take me up on my offer to teach him how to throw a knife if he’d show me how to fish. Being surrounded by so many beautiful and bountiful lakes, rivers and swamps in Scarlett Meadows alone, it seemed a shame that was one of the few skills I never even attempted, having written it off early in life as a needlessly boring activity. After all the chaos of the last year, though… I’d grown to cherish those simpler, quiet moments. What was once dull, was now peaceful. 

A few yards out in the water I heard a faint splashing, like a large fish breaking the surface. Straining my eyes in the darkness, I could see something shiny and dark floating on the water. The longer I looked, the bigger it got, slowly emerging from the depths and coming toward where I stood on the shore. The moment the moonlight caught his skin I gasped and turned away, almost falling on my face as my foot caught the edge of my blanket. 

“Jesus! Christ, I- I didn’t-” I stuttered, frozen in embarrassment as I realized what exactly I’d stumbled on to. Micah Bell was half submerged in the lake, a few yards behind me, completely naked. “I didn’t… see… anything.” I said sheepishly. It was mostly truthful. I didn’t see anything, below his waist at least… But I had seen more of him than I ever had before. My cheeks burned hot at the image cemented in my head. Micah, glistening wet in the moonlight, toned arms reaching up to wipe the long hair from his face, freshly trimmed mustache dripping water onto his chest and falling down his soft stomach, the golden hair that trailed down it to what lay just below the water's surface.

The silence following my accidental peeping was painful and I found myself desperately wanting to escape, wishing I had just sat by the fire like every other cold, restless night. Was this what he did? Where he disappeared to after everyone else was asleep?  I had been surprised before when I never ran across him on my midnight walks around camp. Part of me always hoped I would…

“I- I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I said, starting back off in the direction of camp. I’d only made it a few clumsy steps before I heard my name, soft and velvety on the wind at my back. I stopped dead in my tracks, still too red in the face to dare turning to look at him just yet. 

“Wait.” Was all he said, the silence that followed filled only by the subtle splashing of water as he moved through it. “Join me?” His voice rang out from the darkness. The water at my feet, once warm against my skin, now felt ice cold in comparison to the fire raging through me. I’d never heard him so… serious . He always had such a cocky air about him, laced every word in sleazy armor as to not give too much of himself away. The rawness of this one small request, just two simple words… it hung between us like a lightning bolt on the edge of a knife. 

The pure shock of it had me turning to face him, embarrassment over my red face overpowered by curiosity. “What?” I gawked back at him. Even if he couldn’t see my flushed cheeks, it was obvious by the way my voice rose two octaves how flustered I was. Only his head bobbed above the water now and he met my wide eyes with a sly smirk. The moonlight shimmered off the water and reflected in his light blue eyes, igniting them like the fluorescent irises of a predator stalking its prey. It sent a shiver down my spine. 

“I-” I started, feeling the need to speak when he let the silence drag on, but had no clue what to say or do. The thought of going for a much needed soak in the pleasantly warm water was all too enticing… Would he think me a prude if I waded into the water in my clothes? Or even more so if I walked away? If it were anyone else, Charles, Arthur, Bill… I wouldn’t have cared what they would think. But something in me desperately wanted to be vulnerable in this moment, not to turn away or hide myself in fear this chance would not come around again. 

“Turn around.” I said, my voice much steadier than I felt. His eyebrows shot up at first, then his lips twitched with a smile and he turned away to face the horizon. I shuffled out of my clothes, setting them beside where his were, to my surprise, neatly folded on the pebbly ground. Another facet of his personality suddenly fell into place. The gruff, grimey outlaw valued order and care when it came to his possessions. It was clear in the way he tended to his weapons, his horse, his facial hair, and now, his clothes. 

The water felt incredible. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone swimming, or even had a proper soak in a tub. It’d been long enough I forgot how light it made your body, how, when the water was the perfect temperature as it was tonight, it felt close to flying. If it weren’t for the light of the moon flickering off the water's surface it’d be hard to think otherwise, the darkness of night and water were practically one in the same. Once the water met my chin and the lakebed disappeared beneath my feet, I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me. 

Micah turned to face me then, “What’s so funny?” He asked, a gleaming smile painting his face as he examined my own elated expression. 

“It just-” I giggled, feeling the water flow through my toes and fingers so softly it was almost ticklish. “I really needed this.” I admitted. 

His smile softened and he hummed in acknowledgement. “Yer workin’ too hard. I don’t know why you let that old bat order you around so much.” 

I wasn’t overly fond of Grimshaw, but I understood at the very least where she was coming from. The camp would fall to pieces overnight if it weren't for her. “She only has me do what needs to be done, I don’t see you pitchin’ in on chores.” 

Micah scoffed. “I bring in cash, sweetheart, I already got a job.” He was just a few feet away from me now, effortlessly paddling his arms and legs. I wasn’t as skilled of a swimmer and could already feel my limbs growing tired at the energy I was exerting just to keep my head above water. Micah noticed my struggle and positioned himself behind me. “Lean back” His gravely whisper brushed against my ear. I did as he ordered and found myself supported by two strong hands on my back as I let my body relax against his hold. 

I let out a content sigh and heard his chuckle ring out above me. “Thank you” I whispered back, my eyes closed as I enjoyed the bliss of feeling as though I truly was floating, suspended in air. 

“Least I could do, darlin’.” He replied, his voice soft and soothing. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to give in completely to his hold on me. As I began to drift off, I could have sworn I heard Micah hum to me, gentle, sweet tunes. One I even recognized as a lullaby from my childhood. I wondered briefly if his mother sang to him as a boy, if he’d ever had a moment as peaceful as the one he was gifting me tonight. He held me like that for so long that by the time I opened my eyes, the sun was rising at my feet, the sky a beautiful deep tangerine.

He slowly released me from his hold once I began to stir awake in his arms. “Mornin’” He whispered, so close I could have sworn I felt his mustache scratch my ear. I turned to face him and he made no effort to move away, our bodies just a foot away from each other. As the sun lit the sky and the water, I became acutely aware of how naked we were. My cheeks reddened in an instant, it took more willpower than I was willing to admit, not to look down. As if he could read my thoughts, though I’m sure they were clearly written on my face, Micah waved a hand toward the shore, splashing the water with his gesture. “Go get dressed doll, I ain’t lookin’.” 

I waded to the shore, my legs a bit wobbly as I readjusted to the weight of my body. The bite of the morning chill prickled at the soft hairs on my body and I shivered against it. Quickly pulling on my clothes, I watched as Micah dove under water. I was surprised how long he could hold his breath, staying submerged for over a minute before his golden head broke the surface again. Fully dressed and bundled once more in my blanket, I yelled for him. “You comin’ cowboy?” 

Diving once more, Micah resurfaced just a few feet away from the shore, shaking his head and flinging the water from his hair like a dog. I yelped as droplets showered my bare legs and jumped back, much to his amusement. Chuckling, he rose from the water, giving me no warning as his bare body came into view. His tanned, toned, glistening body… My mouth went dry and I stumbled once more to turn around in time, giving him the same privacy he allotted me.

I walked over to one of the many large boulders scattered across the shore and took a seat, staring at my hands as he dressed. The faint rustling of fabric and Micah’s soft grunts as he pulled his clothes over damp skin filled the silence between us. The strike of a match and the subtle crackling burn that followed caught my attention and I looked up to find Micah watching me, a cigarette lazily perched between his lips, dressed except for his shirt which he left completely unbuttoned, his chest on full display. 

I opened my blanket and patted the space beside me, a silent invitation. He sauntered over and joined me without a word. His body was so warm , like he had his own fire burning under skin. Micah stiffened as I cuddled up to his side, my arms automatically wrapping around his bicep, pulling him closer. Another shiver wracked my body at our temperature difference and he relaxed, snaking his arm out of my grip to wrap around my waist and bring me deeper into his embrace, pulling the blanket around us both. 

We sat in companionable silence and watched the sun rise, basking in each other's warmth. That faint lakey musk clung to us both, but Micah scent was… deeper, more complex. The ashy burn of salt tingled at my nose, melded delectably with the tobacco smoke and a greener, fresher aroma, like prairie grass. I didn’t realize I was nuzzling his neck until he let out the faintest moan, just barely more than a sigh. But the vibration of it through his throat tickled at my nose and I shot up, suddenly aware how tangled up I was with him. He peeked sidelong at me, taking the cigarette from his lips and blowing a puff of smoke from the side of his mouth, away from me. “Why’d ya stop?” He asked, his voice so low it was barely more than a whisper. 

Instead of searching for an answer I reached for the cigarette in his hand and brought it to my lips, drawing a deep puff before returning it to his still outstretched fingers. I could feel his eyes on me as I gazed out at the brightening horizon. “You been havin’ bad dreams?” He asked suddenly. I turned to look at him, surprise and confusion painting my expression. “I- um.” He stuttered, clearing his throat before continuing, “You haven't been sleeping…” 

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and sighed as I sunk back against his warmth. “I’ve just been going a little stir crazy is all.” And when he didn’t reply added, “And it’s cold as hell here at night. I don't know how anyone gets any sleep.”

“Well go into town today, let Grimshaw do her own damn chores for once.” He said, as if it were that simple, and for him I’m sure it was. I didn’t want to admit the real reason I’d confined myself to camp the past few weeks… couldn’t bring myself to say the word, scared. I was scared. I’d made it my mission the last year to improve my knife and bow skills so I’d never feel helpless again, and I’d done a damn good job of it. But the memory of the raiders, the trauma I'd endured at their hands… It wasn’t easily forgotten. And although I could effortlessly take down an Elk, a dozen men with nothing but malice coursing through their veins was a different story entirely. 

When my silence dragged on Micah added, “I can come with ya, if you want.” I perked up, my heart fluttering at the idea of spending a day with him. 

“Would- Would you go hunting with me?” I asked, suddenly excited for what the day ahead of me held. Finally, I thought, something other than chores! Micah let out a breathy laugh and flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground. 

“Animals?” He said with a theatrical sigh, “It’s not really my… area of expertise.” But after a moment relented, “Alright..." He drawled, "What are we huntin’?” A wide smile spread across my face as I looked up at him, “Yotes!” I said, the excitement clear in my voice. I’d been dying to get some pelts to make myself a propper, warm bed. 

Micah laughed, a genuine, deep laugh that shook me. “Coyote's it is then.” And pulled me in closer to his chest with a sigh. “Maybe I-” He started, a hand idly playing with a strand of my hair as he searched for what to say. “Could I teach you how to shoot?” He whispered into my brow. 

“I know how to shoot.” I said and he quickly retorted, “A gun darlin’.”

I hummed, feigning that I had to think it over. I’d wanted to ask him to teach me to shoot the first time I saw him twirl his revolvers around his fingers. “Sure.” I said finally, “But I don’t have a gun.” 

“I can fix that.” He said, getting up and stretching a hand out to me. The smile he gave me was soft and sweet, his silver-blue eyes alight. He looked like he’d emerged from a painting. The sun behind him gave the appearance that he glowed with golden light, beckoning me toward him like some rugged, gunslinging siren. I took his hand and let him pull me up, our hands lingering in each others for a moment longer than need be. 

He leaned down then, picking up his hat and dusting the sand from it before placing it on my head. “Looks better on you.” He said quickly, his voice a bit rough, and turned back toward camp. Blush burned at my cheeks as I watched him walk off, my eyes lingering on his broad back, his hips… “Comin’?” He yelled back at me, and I jolted, hurrying to catch up with him.

[megraen]

More Than A Quick Shot - Chapter 07

“Has Arthur always insulted you?” Johanna had enquired, causing John to jerk on the reins, unexpecting such a question from the woman. “Uhh…” John uttered, redirecting the horses back onto the road. “It wasn’t always like that.” He admitted shamefully, his eyes fidgeting, looking at everything but the woman next to him. “I…uhh…left a couple of years back, went out on my own for a while. Arthur saw it as me betraying the group.” His hands tightened on the reins at his admittance, something Johanna could easily take notice of. It was obvious that John didn’t appreciate the negativity that Arthur constantly threw his way. As kids, they had fought like blood brothers rather than surrogate siblings, yet Arthur and John had always gotten on well. Now, there was one-sided hostility between them. John knew it wasn’t just him leaving for a year that had angered Arthur. It was abandoning Abigail and Jack. “Only Arthur found an issue with you leaving?” Johanna asked. She knew there was something more to it and that she was probably prying more than she should. If more than Arthur had found issues with him vanishing for a year, he may have never been allowed back into camp. John had only responded with a ‘yeah’, indicating that he didn’t want to discuss the matter further. “So…the supplies you’re buying today…no sack with a dollar symbol painted on it?” Johanna asked, a single eyebrow raised. John sat back in the wagon, looking at the woman sideways. He wasn’t sure how to respond at first, but he soon chuckled, shaking his head when he noticed the small smirk on the redhead’s lip, the woman attempting to crack a joke to lighten the mood and ease the tension rising in John from her questioning. “No,” John spoke. “But I can get one.” The two laughed hard, enjoying the small bonding session. 

@photo1030 @cassietrn

[flw3rrr]

Dutch just causally taking you down in his tent with his hand around your mouth to silence your sounds after teasing him all day around camp. 🫶🤍