#Red Dead Redemption 2 fanfic

[hyper-fixates]

low honour!arthur morgan x virgin!reader

this is really just one long-winded fic idea that i need to speak into existence.

tags: literally save a horse ride a cowboy, afab!reader (feminine pronouns, descriptions, and names used), religious topics/imagery, obsessive!arthur, virginity kink, age gap relationship, loss of virginity, corruption kink

Reader is in her early 20s, privileged to come from a family with wealth from their heritage and inheritance in the oil industry.

The era of cowboys and outlaws has started to become a thing of the past from the shifts in climate and industry throughout the country. Reader has resided in Saint Denis her whole life, never needing to worry about gangs, outlaws, or even cowboys.

She has never even seen a cowboy before, but she’s heard stories; none of them particularly pretty. The presence of law enforcement throughout the streets and the sheer distance of Saint Denis from other towns is enough to deter most of them from causing trouble.

Functionally, she should never be compatible with a cowboy.

Her father has always preached about her waiting for a “good, proper man” that can marry her into another family with obscene wealth. And so, she protects her chastity and innocence just as she is expected to—just as her father expects her to.

Hell, she doesn’t even know how to ride a horse! Her father believes that riding horses is beneath them, so anywhere she wants to go is accommodated by a stagecoach.

Cut to: reader is accompanying her father on a trip to Annesburg to discuss potential investments in the mining industry. He hates leaving her alone. She knows he worries that she’ll get “up to no good”.

Her father has chosen one of their more comfortable, flashy stagecoaches for the longer ride, giving him more storage for his financial documents and whatnot. A perfect target for gangs.

And, inevitably, they get robbed.

The robbers’ faces are all concealed by hats and bandanas, and one of them ties her arms behind her back with careful hands before guiding her to her knees on the wet grass.

The man who tied her up stays close by her side, and she can see her father pleading for his life to another man who’s not listening.

“Are you a cowboy?” Are the first words she says to him, not a note of fear in her doll-like eyes that make her look so fuckable in this position with her on her knees next to him, dress billowing out around her form.

He looks down at her confused. “Uh, once, I suppose.” His voice is a little muffled by the black bandana hanging over his nose and mouth.

She can see that his hair is so long that it starts to curl up and out at the ends under his hat.

“Well, you got the hat. And the horse,” she reasons, wondering if she’s truly meeting a cowboy under circumstances she thought she’d never be in.

He looks to her again, left hand causally hooked in the leather of his belt as he waits for the rest of his gang to finish up. “I guess you’re right.” He tips his head to her in agreement.

“Leave them! These people are leeches. Let the wolves decide their fate.” A man with a deep, booming voice announces atop his white horse.

Now she starts to panic.

She pulls against the rope around her wrists, looking up to the man who tied her as he begins to walk toward his horse. “Wait! Mister, please! Please don’t. Please,” she yells to him.

He looks back to her, then his horse, then back to her again. “Hold on.” He signals to the man on the white horse before walking back over to her.

“Take me home. Please just take me home, mister. I won’t say nothing, I promise, but just take me home and I’ll give you anything you want,” she begs to him.

He sighs, but not out of annoyance or hesitation for her request. He sighs because he has no idea what she has just done to herself.

He places his bandana over her eyes and leads her to his horse. He unties her hands and lets her blindly climb into the saddle, legs shaking from unfamiliarity.

When she settles, she blindly grips onto the saddle horn for dear life, wishing her father let her ride at least once in her life so she wouldn’t appear so delicate in this situation. The man chuckles off to the side before mounting up behind her. She notices the saddle is not quite meant for two as he pushes in tightly against her ass, seemingly not even concerned about it.

This is probably the closest she’s ever been to a man.

“Where to, miss?” The man leans forward against her back to grab the reigns, caging her in with his arms.

She tells him in a quiet voice, and he kicks against his horse, setting them into motion.

When they arrive at her French two-story home on the outskirts of Saint Denis, the man dismounts swiftly, hand circling her wrist before saying, “Swing your right leg over and I’ll help you down.”

She slowly brings herself around, feeling the man lock his hands around her waist to guide her to the ground.

He tugs at the knot holding the bandana around her eyes, and she doesn’t let herself turn around until she feels he’s had enough time to tie it back around his face.

“Thank you, mister,” she whispers.

He tips his hat and leaves without another word.

In the following week, the man watches her after the sun sets. He watches her pray before bed and change into her silk nightgown, waiting for the night he can maybe finally see the more explicit side of her. But it never comes.

She’s perfect.

Eventually they cross paths again one day. The man purposefully chooses to ditch the bandana, too.

“I don’t think my daddy would appreciate me talking to someone like you,” she admits slyly as she continues her trek into Saint Denis.

The man follows beside her on his horse, left arm lazily hanging down by his side. “Someone like me? And who’s that?” he asks, a slight smile also on his lips.

“A cowboy. An outlaw,” she says, sneaking a glance up to him as his horse steps in time with her down the path.

“Well your daddy ain’t here.”

“No, mister.”

“Come for a ride then.”

And that’s how it’s starts for them. He introduces himself as they ride to his gangs camp, and she complains about how sore her legs are when they arrive.

“You don’t ride?” Arthur asks, intending for it to be a joke.

“That was my second time. Ever,” she laughs.

And that’s when he understands what type of lady he’s dealing with, so he goes for it.

“Maybe you should practice on me sometime,” he remarks, untacking his horse.

She wonders if she heard him right. “Uh, mister—”

“Arthur,” he corrects.

In that moment, she realizes he can teach her everything her father has kept from her, show her everything he had protected her from. Throw away the innocence and chastity and truly experience what life should be. But Arthur doesn’t know the entirety of her sheltered life. She needs someone like him.

“Arthur…I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” she admits. “I…I’ve never been with no one. Ever.”

“You’re untouched, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Just as my daddy said I should be. Until marriage.”

And Arthur makes it his mission to make her experience her own sexuality in its completeness, so he starts off slow.

He would always touch, never breaching her or letting her do anything to him. The focus was always on her.

Her virginity and pureness made him conflicted: he wanted to ruin her in all the ways she has never been, but he wants to tease and rile her up and watch her experience all the sexual frustrations for the first time.

It was cute. The more bold he got with his touches, the more bold she got in trying to take what she wanted. He would take her behind a tree and slowly lift up the dainty material of her summer dress, gathering it in his left hand as he used his right to rub her clit through her underwear while he licked and sucked along her neck, careful not to leave marks.

She would get weak so fast, Arthur could barely handle how virgin her body truly was. She would grip onto the leather straps of the rifles hanging down his back, trying to force his hand harder and faster.

However, the first time he made her cum was an accident.

He confidently placed a gentle kiss on her lips while they were alone in his tent—he just wanted to see how she would react.

She leaned in and returned it, snaking her hands around his neck and pulling him down to her. He pulled her into his lap, laying them down on his cot as they started making out like a long-distance high-school couple.

Arthur mindlessly starts grinding against her, ignoring the clothing separating them. She doesn’t realize what she’s feeling as Arthur’s hard cock slides against her clothed pussy.

Her orgasm just kind of happens.

Arthur watches her shake and twitch under him as he pulls away to see what happened. The wet spot on her underwear is all the evidence he needs.

Ever since, she’s been insatiable. She wants Arthur to show her everything. Teach her everything. She wants to feel everything if that means she can cum like that again.

Around the campfire she’d sit on his lap, tightly circling her hips against him until he’d grow hard before stopping. Then she’d do it again.

Arthur would mostly ignore her teasing. He didn’t want her to know how much she was driving him up the wall, so he’d retaliate in a way that was ten times worse then whatever she did just to prove a point about her innocence, how she knows so little compared to him.

The first time they fuck, he makes the horse riding joke again: “I’m sure this’ll be good practice for you, sweetheart.”

She huffs a laugh, rubbing his cock through her folds as she straddles him. He’s built up her confidence so much, it’s all been leading to this.

He’d guide her up and down, back and forth, testing her body to see what she likes. Seeing what spot makes her tremble.

He finds it. “Fuck, there it is,” Arthur groans.

She can’t even think. She doesn’t know what to think. She’s doing everything her father told her not to.

Premarital sex.

Premarital sex with a cowboy.

“Oh, Lord, forgive me,” she prays, her pussy sliding so perfectly along him as he grips her hips harder.

Eventually, he’d eat her out in her childhood bedroom. Her father sleeping in the room above her own, separated by the thin wood of the floor. She arches against the bed, and her eyes meet the iron cross hung above her bed frame.

She’d often ask him to leave the hat on, and he’d laugh, pleased that she is slowly adopting sexual preferences and interests.

She was his perfect, sophisticated woman that he was free to defile and poison with his desires.

[laylasredemption]

Wtf so I now can post long fics? Well, thanks Tumblr I guess the beef between us didn't last long. Here's the sad Arthur fic I wrote, hope you like it guys<3

arthur morgan x dutch's daughter!reader 3,9k words chapter 6 spoilers, death, violence

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Until the last breath

Never in a thousand years would have Dutch van der Linde thought his own daughter would betray him. He would suspect anyone - recently even John or Arthur. But not [Y/n]. She was his daughter, his only child, the only thing he had left of Annabelle.

And yet there she stood - a gun in hand, pointed at her father, who had his own guns pointed at Arthur and John.

"You're on these two rats' side? That's what I get for raising you?" Dutch asked, his angry gaze fixated on his daughter. "You ungrateful brat."

"You didn't raise me!" [Y/n] countered. "Hosea was more of a father than you. To you, money has always been more important. You always had a plan to get more, and more, and more. I'd be in Tahiti if I had a dollar for every plan of yours that didn't work out."

"I gave you everything I could!"

"You gave me everything?" She had to stop herself from scoffing. "I spent my whole life trying to make you happy for once. Trying to make you proud of me. I gave my heart and my soul for this gang, and you ruined it all when you took in this rat!" Her voice started to crack, but she forced tears away. She reached for her other gun and pointed it at Micah.

Dutch asked, "You really think Micah is the reason you're turning on me?" His tone was strangely calm, too calm. "You think I never noticed the way you and Arthur were plotting something behind my back? But, of course, he didn't sneak into your tent at night just to plot. You disgust me, [Y/n]."

[Y/n]'s mouth fell slightly open as she attempted to form a sentence, and yet she wasn't able to. How did he find out? She thought her and Arthur had been sneaky enough.

"You lost your mind, Dutch," Arthur spoke up, "we were worried about you."

Dutch turned his eyes to Arthur, his anger growing at the man's comment. "I'm the one who gave all of you a home! A purpose! A damn family! And you had the nerve to get with my daughter behind my back, and turn her against me."

"All these years, Dutch..." Arthur shook his head. "Just to waste it for this snake?"

"Be quiet, Black Lung." Micah said, his gun pointed at Arthur.

"No," miss Grimshaw appeared with her rifle pointed at Micah, "you be quiet, mister Bell. And put that gun down."

It escalated in a moment. Micah pulled the trigger, sending a bullet towards miss Grimshaw. He took the last remaining mother figure [Y/n] had. Miss Grimshaw was a cold woman, but she cared for her, she cared for all the girls. And now she was dead.

But there was no time to dwell on that.

"Pinkertons are coming!" Javier ran up to the group, warning them.

"Now," Dutch spoke way too calmly for [Y/n]'s liking, "who amongst you is with me, and who is betraying me?"

"Bill, Javier, think for yourselves." Arthur spoke, but they didn't listen.

The both of them were too blinded by the doomed loyalty to Dutch. They sided with him, while Arthur was left with just [Y/n] and John. Besides them, there was also Micah and his own friends he had brought to the gang recently. They were outnumbered.

"My own flesh and blood has turned against me." Dutch concluded in a cold voice [Y/n] hadn't heard before. He had never been a good father, but now... his transformation was complete. The man who had once been a leader, had been replaced by a ghost of himself, driven by greed and paranoia

"You brought it upon yourself." [Y/n] spat.

Micah sneered, "And here I was thinking blood runs thicker than water. Seems a good fuck can change a lady's mind so easily. Wouldn't suspect that of cowpoke, but seems this day is full of surprises."

[Y/n] winced at Micah's remark. She wanted nothing more than to shoot him then and there.

And she tried to. But her hands were trembling with anger, and she missed.

"Put your guns down!" An unknown voice yelled out.

The pinkertons. They ran into the camp, or whatever was left of it, and started shooting. The Pinkertons had arrived, their shouts and gunfire piercing through the madness. The world started to crash down. [Y/n], Arthur, and John found places to use as a cover. The girl didn't even care what would happen with her father now. She had to focus on the pinkertons.

After a few minutes, when the trio knew they won't get out of it this way, John called out, "[Y/n], Arthur, into the caves!"

They didn't think twice before running inside the cave, following the gloomy and scary passages. The pinkertons ran after them and [Y/n] hoped John was leading them to some second entrance. They couldn't afford hitting a dead end.

"Micah was a rat, Milton told me." Arthur confessed as they kept running.

"We should've let him rot in that jail in Strawberry." [Y/n] thought out loud.

There was a ladder, leading them upwards. And another one, and a third one. As the surroundings started to become lighter with the outside's air, [Y/n] thought they might be getting out of that cave before the pinkertons get them.

"John," Arthur turned to his friend when the trio reached fresh air finally, "Abigail is safe, Jack too. They're with Sadie." Then he turned to [Y/n], and tried to stop a cough before speaking to her, "You, [Y/n], I want you to go and–"

"Go where?" The girl interrupted him. "Go and do what?"

"We have to separate here. John and I will go this way, you'll go join Sadie."

In the meantime, John called for their horses. Except that [Y/n]'s didn't come, which could only mean one thing.

"They killed her..." [Y/n] mused, and for a moment she couldn't fight the urge to cry. A few tears had escaped. "Now I have to go with you."

But, again, there was no more time to think. They mounted their horses, Arthur insisting [Y/n] rides with John in case they had to go separate ways. She didn't mount John's horse, she sat on the back of Arthur's. She knew that he knew there was no time to argue.

And they ran again. Ran, followed by the bullets shot by Dutch, Micah, Bill, Javier, and those men Micah brought to the gang. Dutch van der Linde was many things, and he never played the role of the father well, but even now [Y/n] was shocked to see him chasing after them, not afraid of the risk to shoot his own daughter.

When they escaped them, they kept running into the pinkertons. They seemed to be everywhere, as if they knew their next moves.

The trio tried to escape running up a mountain, but they were stopped. [Y/n] saw John falling off his horse, and no sooner the same happened to herself and Arthur.

"Buell!" The girl called out, seeing the animal lying on the ground with a bullet wound. "These motherf–"

They had to shoot now. There was no way out if they didn't kill all those pinkertons. And, fueled by the rage, [Y/n] felt as if she could shoot them all by herself. Hell, she would gladly choke all of them with her bare hands if she got the chance.

"Come on!" John called out after they have dealt with pinkertons. He knew this wouldn't last long.

[Y/n] ran up to Arthur, who was kneeling next to Buell, gently petting the horse's mane. The girl didn't even get to be with her mare when she got killed, so she had to be at least with Buell.

"Let's go!" John repeated.

"Give us a moment!" Arthur shouted back.

[Y/n] touched the horse gently and Arthur leaned over his head. This was such a heartbreaking thing to witness. Arthur received this horse from a man who had lost his leg in the war. Found him randomly in the woods, when the horse bucked him off and his leg got stuck in a stirrup. Arthur helped him and became friends, visiting from time to time. They went hunting once, and the veteran got attacked by a giant boar. With his last breath, he asked Arthur to take care of Buell. And Arthur did, until the horse's last breath, too.

With one last final, "Thank you," that Arthur whispered to Buell, they were ready to run further.

"Let's go." John said for the third time.

Arthur asked, "What about the money?"

"Money?" [Y/n] sobbed, wiping away a few last tears. "What about Micah? We have to get rid of him."

"I go down there, I'm dead in five minutes," John stated, "I have a family, that's more important."

"You're right," Arthur admitted, thinking John must be making sense for the first time in his life, "[Y/n], you go with John. I'm going back for the money."

"No, you're not." The girl protested firmly. She wasn't losing Arthur, not like that. "We go together or we don't go at all."

Arthur knew it was pointless to argue with [Y/n]. If she inherited anything from Dutch, it was the subborness.

Arthur also knew that he didn't have much longer left. He was actively dying from tuberculosis that he hasn't even told [Y/n] about yet. If soon he was going to take his last breath, he wanted [Y/n] to go, not see him like this. He had always been a tough man, he couldn't let the girl he loved more than anything in the world see him die beaten by a stupid illness. "Fine, let's go." He muttered and the trio started once again running. He had no idea how to get out of this. There was no way out for him, but he still could help [Y/n] and John.

They needed to find a higher ground, running up a mointain. It was very steep, they had to be careful. At least they knew they were safe from the bullets, for now. The pinkertons would come back to the cave, as Micah most likely told them about the money hidden inside.

"Keep, pushing, Arthur!" John said.

Arthur stopped running. He stood bent slightly, propping his arms on his knees. It seemed to [Y/n] like he has difficulty to take a breath. An expression of worry grew on her face. She knew he had some kind of sickness, but she didn't realize how serious it was until this moment.

"Arthur, let's go, we've made it so far." She said, the tears threatening to appear in her eyes once again.

"I think I've pushed all I can." Arthur admitted, coughing out some blood. He straightened his posture, being able to breathe a bit better momentarily.

John walked up to him, "We ain't got time for this."

"We ain't all gonna make it."

His words hit [Y/n] worse than any bullets. She ran up to Arthur, grabbing his arm, trying to make him step forward.

"Don't talk nonsense," she tried to pull him, but even in this state he was still stronger than her, "Arthur, I'm not going anywhere without you."

"You both go." Arthur insisted. "I'll hold them off. There ain't no more time to talk." With these words, he reached for his sachel and handed it over to John. Then, he took his hat off and placed it on [Y/n]'s head.

She knew what that mean. She knew Arthur was prepared to die. But she couldn't let him. She couldn't imagine a life without him. He truly was the love of her life, how was she supposed to keep going if he died on that mountain?

Arthur turned to [Y/n], his eyes softening as he took her face in his hands. "You need to keep going, no matter what happens. You understand?"

[Y/n] shook her head, tears welling up again. "Don't talk like that, Arthur. We're getting out of this. All three of us."

But Arthur knew better. He could feel the life slipping away from him with every breath, every step. "I need you to promise me something, [Y/n]."

"No, Arthur, no." She closed her eyes, hoping this would at least stop the tears.

"Look at me," Arthur said, gently placing his thumb on her chin and tilting her head up, "look at me, doll."

She slowly did as she was told, opening her eyes to meet his. Her heart was racing, knowing that these might be the last moments they have together. His gaze was full of love, as if in these seconds he wanted to love her for all the time he won't be able to in the future.

"You've been the light in my life, the good in me." Arthur told her.

"You've been my everything." She whispered, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak.

"You get out of here with John. When I'm gone, you'll find a good man, one that'll give you the life you deserve. You're young, you can start a family, forget about me. I don't know what I did to deserve your love, but it's the time you bless someone worthy with it."

[Y/n] shook her head, her hands gripping Arthur's coat as if she could somehow anchor him to this world, keep him from fading away. "I'll never forget you. You're the love of my life."

"You deserve so much more than this life, [Y/n]. More than what I could ever give you. But you can still have it. You can still have everything you want, a future, a family, happiness."

But [Y/n] was stubborn, as always. "There's no future if you're not in it."

For a moment, Arthur looked as though he might break, as though he might give in to the desire to stay with her, to fight for a few more moments together. She tried to kiss him, and it took all the strenght his ill body had to stop her.

"I love you, [Y/n]," sounded his final words, "I love you more than anything in this world. But you have to go. For me. I'll love you till my last breath."

"And I'll love you until mine," that was the only thing she could promise him, "I'll never forget you."

The sound of gunshots echoed nearby, and the trio knew there was no more time. [Y/n] would trade anything to have a few more minutes with Arthur. She would walk down to Hell to speak to the Devil himself if he could grant her a bit more time.

John grabbed [Y/n], as much as it pained him, he had to drag her away. They had to run. That's what Arthur wanted.

As she was being dragged away, [Y/n] watched Arthur climb, trying to reach an even higher spot of the mountain.

"Arthur is doing this so you can live. Don't let it be for nothing." John said.

[Y/n] didn't reply. They had to make an escape, and they did so in silence, but the girl didn't even feel her own legs, she just trusted they were there. There was no life for her if Arthur died. This life had been all she knew. How she was supposed to live without the gang, and without him?

"John." She said firmly, somehow finding the strenght in herself to not cry anymore. "I'm going back there."

[Y/n] had been hit by the realization that she doesn't have anything to lose. Everything she had, she already either sacrificed or lost. Her mother, the gang, her father, her horse, and now Arthur, her Arthur.

John stopped dead in his tracks, turning around to face [Y/n]. "No, you ain't."

"I ain't got nothing to lose. Either I'll be dragging his dead body to the pearly gates and bribing the God to revive him, or I'll die there with him."

John looked into her eyes just to see fire in them. He understood her love for Arthur and her desperation to save him, and maybe he would have even done the same for Abigail. Except it was plain stupid to do such thing for a man, who was already dying.

"Damn it," John muttered, knowing he can't stop her, "you're as brave as you're stupid. The both of you."

[Y/n] took off Arthur's hat that he had given her, and passed it to John. "You're the best brother I could've had. When I die, I'll look up at you and expect to see you treating Jack and Abigail well. No more running away."

"You mean look down." He corrected her.

"Oh, I'm definitely going to Hell. And I'll be waiting for you, just wait at least fifty years." She chuckled and pulled John in for a quick hug. When they pulled away, she could see tears in his eyes. But [Y/n] wasn't going to cry, not anymore.

She had no reason to cry now. Her time was over. If Arthur was going to die, she was dying there with him, and she was ready for this. More ready than for a future without him.

"Take care of your family," [Y/n]'s last words for John sounded, "make sure they get the life they deserve. Make sure you get that life, too." And with that, she turned away and walked back to where Arthur was supposed to be.

John nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He knew he would carry this moment with him for the rest of his life. The night he had lost the two people who were like siblings to him. He had lost much more, but it didn't matter.

[Y/n] had nothing left to lose, nothing left to live for but this one last act of love. If she could save Arthur, it would be worth it. And if she couldn't... then at least they would die together, side by side, as they should have lived.

There were no more gunshots to follow, not a sound of any fight. [Y/n] climed up the rocks, finding the path where she had last seen Arthur. She saw someone walking her way, not someone who she yearned to see.

"You goddamn rat!" [Y/n] yelled as she grabbed Micah by his coat. She didn't know where she found this strenght in her body, but she managed to throw him such a powerful punch in the face that he had to take a few steps back, almost falling off a cliff.

"You just won't give up, will you?" He said, his usual malice still audible in his voice.

"Did you kill him?" She asked, pointing her gun at him.

"He's alive. Not for much longer though."

[Y/n] clenched her jaw, her grip on the gun tightening so hard her knuckles went white. She felt her anger building up inside her, threatening to explode at any moment. "I should've put a bullet in your head a long time ago."

"Come on, do it now then," he laughed, the sound getting into [Y/n]'s head as she contemplated the decision, "we both know you're too soft to do it. How can such a failure be Dutch's daughter? I bet your mama wasn't the most loyal to your daddy."

That was it, her breaking point. [Y/n] knew putting a bullet in Micah wouldn't fix what was already broken, but at least she could stop any further damage he would cause if he stayed alive.

[Y/n] pulled the trigger, aiming for Micah's head, right between his eyes. His body fell down the cliff, and [Y/n] watched that happen. She felt absolutely nothing. No remose. But also no ease. Not until she could see Arthur.

She ran towards where Micah came from. She found Arthur lying down, his upper body propped on a rock. His face was turned towards the east, looking at the sunrise, even though he had always loved the sunset.

"Arthur..." She said.

His eyes searched for the source of the sound, Arthur thought he was having hallucinations. He forced a smile on his beaten face when he saw her.

"You damn fool, [Y/n]." He said in a weak, raspy voice. Not the kind of rasp [Y/n] loved to hear in the mornings, but the one that emphasized Arthur's condition. "I told you to go with John."

"I couldn't leave you, Arthur." She said, losing all her power to not cry. She knelt down beside him, looking at his injuries. His face was full of little cuts and bruises, some blood. But he didn't seem to have gotten shot.

Tears shone in her eyes. And she must have been the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever laid his eyes on. The way the orange morning sunrays touched her face made Arthur feel butterflies in his stomach. It was way nicer to die when he had this sight in front of him. But it wasn't fair to her.

"Doll," he breathed out, "I'm dying."

"No, you're going to be fine." She stuttered, the pain in her voice betraying how delusional she was being. She couldn't accept the reality of the situation. She refused to believe that the man she loved more than anything was slipping away from her.

She took his hands in hers. His touch used to be so hot it could put the Devil to shame. But now his hands were colder than the coldest night in Colter.

"I've got tuberculosis." Arthur confessed to her finally.

"What?" A puzzled expression appeared on her face. "Since when?"

"Since I killed Thomas Downes."

[Y/n]'s heart dropped. She had heard rumors about the sickness, the way it slowly drained the life out of a person, but she never imagined that Arthur, her Arthur, had been battling it all this time. It explained so much, the coughing fits, the way he had grown weaker, more distant. And yet, he had never told her, never let on just how bad it was.

"I deserved to know." She replied, her voice cracking. "I could've helped you."

"I didn't want to worry you, doll. Didn't want you to see me like this. You deserved better than that."

"I loved you, I still do, and I would've stayed by your side no matter what. You should've told me. We could–" She choked on her words, realizing there was nothing they could've done to stop it.

A small, sad smile tugged at the corner of Arthur's lips. "You've always been too good for me, [Y/n]. I ain't ever deserved you, not really."

"Don't say that, Arthur. You deserve everything. And now you're dying here. Alone."

"I ain't alone." Arthur murmured, his voice growing weaker with every word. "You're here, right? That's all I ever needed."

She nodded, her heart breaking as she watched him struggle to keep his eyes open. The sunrise was casting a warm glow over his face, and for a moment, [Y/n] could almost pretend that they were somewhere else, somewhere safe, where they could live the life however they wanted to. Away from all the bullshit they had to go through.

But reality was cold and its walls were closing in on them. She could feel Arthur slipping away, his fingers holding onto hers weaker with each passing moment. She wanted to scream, to beg for more time, but it would be in vain.

Arthur stopped fighting the urge to close his eyes. "Promise me, doll... you'll find a way to live... without me." He could barely speak anymore, yet he managed to utter these words.

"I love you, Arthur." [Y/n] said instead, because she didn't want to make a promise she couldn't keep.

His grip on her hands loosened, and his chest rose and fell one last time. [Y/n] leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She held him close, cradling his head in her arms as they were bathed in the warmth of the sunrise. She stayed like that, long after he was gone, her tears mixing with the blood and dirt on his skin. Arthur was gone, and with him, a part of her died too. She had nothing left to lose, nothing left to fight for, except the memory of the man she loved.

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

Gossip

Masterlist Word count: 550 Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Summary: You know that John likes you. You know that Arthur likes you. They know about each other, but the others don't. Gossip spreads and, what feels like a ticking time bomb, turns out to be unconnected. 

---------

'I don't think he knows,' Abigail says as she sits, knitting with Mary-Beth and Tilly while watching you and Arthur talk. John has gone out hunting with Charles to learn how to use a bow as he is useless with it. Arthur had asked Charles to do so but Abigail suspects he had other motives for getting John away from camp.  'I think he does,' Tilly argues with a grin, 'why else would he ask Charles? Everyone knows John is too impatient to learn how to use a bow.' She's got a point, Abigail figures.  Things had been weird ever since you joined the gang. Sadie had found you in Valentine and recognized you as an old friend. In fact, the friend who set her up with her husband. She told the others you seemed lost and needed some place where people have your back. Most were sceptical but your turned out to be a hard worker and a great hunter, bringing in huge game for the camp whenever you went out. Dutch had almost considered letting you take a wagon along so you could bring enough to sell it.  That great aim of yours also pulled in different attention. Both John and Arthur became more than smitten with your friendly and kind demeanour. Mary-Beth had suggested that Arthur liked you for your kindness and willingness to listen while John liked you for your viciousness and rough edges. Both great attributes that make you who you are.  'Well, either way, they're both fools,' Mary-Beth claims, ending the argument.  'Do you think she knows,' Tilly questions.  'For sure she knows,' Mary-Beth answers as all of them watch you gently touch Arthur's shoulder as he makes a joke not worthy of the laughter that comes out of you.  'She's really toying with them, ain't she,' Abigail grumbles. Despite liking you quite a bit, she fears what it might do to the gang if Arthur and John are pinned against each other. It's a bad predicament to be in and since the year that John left the gang is still a sore spot for Arthur, Abigail fears things might explode with the littlest of meddling. When her and John put an end to it, she was slightly relieved, but this is just insanity. 

'Do you think they know,' Arthur questions you. You shake your head with a grin.  'No, they probably think I'm hopping between you two. They wouldn't be gossiping about us as much if they knew.'  'Fair point.' He puts a gentle hand on your waist to pull you closer and watches at the jaws drop across camp.  'Are you trying to rile them up, cowboy,' you tease as you take a step closer to him. He shrugs. You roll your eyes and press a kiss to his jaw. 'Come on, let's go join Charles and John.' Arthur looks over at the women once more as he leans towards you.  'If only they knew about Charles.' You shove him away with a laugh.  'Oh, stop it. I liked you better when you were still being shy about liking me.' 

[ergman777]

did john look for arthur?

What are yall's thoughts/headcannons on what John did after he left Arthur on that hill? How long do you think it took him to go back and look for Arthur, if he ever looked at all? Because at the time ofc his focus was to escape while protecting Abigail and Jack, and I'm assuming the area would be swarming with agents for awhile after, making it hard for him to look (cause hes not sneaky like charles).

But I like to think that even though he knew Arthur was sick and probably wouldn't make it, he still hoped his brother was able to slip away like he always had. That maybe Arthur giving him his hat and satchel wasn't a final goodbye, but a promise to come back and retrieve them later. I also like to think that he'd risk going into town and getting the newspaper to see if there was any word, or use Arthur's old binoculars to spy on the sheriff's "wanted" poster board from afar, to make sure his bounty wasn't taken down.

I imagine he held onto hope for a little while like this, maybe a few weeks, few months, maybe even the whole first year of Arthur being gone. Even if that hope was only an excuse not to mourn, or face the realization of his brother's death.

Maybe he made sure no one touched the things in Arthur's satchel for awhile, figuring it'd be rude to riffle through his things if he ever came back.

but he never did

Idk I feel like we never realize it bc our minds are usually elsewhere when chapter 6 ends (just like FULL ON sobbing) but 8 years is a MASSIVE canonical gap between John seeing Arthur for the last time and Charles confirming he indeed buried him- 8 YEARS FOR THIS KIND OF ANGST BABE

(also forgive the sketchiness, I did this on a trackpad bc I left my drawing tablet back in the states T-T)

[noxspluto]

okay but colter Arthur and his big fluffy coat?? if you two were alone, he’d grab you and stuff you in the coat with him in it and just hug you tight. he’d close the coat around you and make you feel so safe, so warm, kissing the top of your forehead while you say his lips feel like ice, only encouraging him to kiss you more.

[devnmon]

by the lantern light.

Summary: Pining for your bounty partner is manageable most times, but it becomes extremely difficult when the hotel screws up your room choice and you're forced to share a bed.

warnings: smut, fingering, some oral (r!receiving), a cutesy love confession too & a tiny bit of angst

wc: 4.4k

Another long day of riding from West Elizabeth to Annesburg and back had come to pass. An Era of outlaws and gunslingers had come to a close, while Sadie Adler found herself a successfully skilled bounty hunter.

Everything ached; your legs, your back, your heart for the woman you called the other half of your bounty hunting duo.

Sadie Adler continued to be the one constant in a world that showed you anything similar to it. A sickening love for her had grown with it, overtaking you to no end.

In turn, the day was finished with more than enough pay to last you both a while. To treat yourselves, Sadie suggested a night of hearty meals and the nicest rooms in the local town.

Add a bath to your expenses for the sole purpose of relaxation and hot water, your night was simply made.

Your boots were giving you countless blisters, and your thighs ached just standing upright.

Remind me never to suggest this many jobs in one day again...

Her low chuckle at the words you murmured while entering the hotel was almost enough to let her have a chance at the bath before you. But she took one look at you and basically ordered you to get in immediately.

Something about how she bossed you around, enjoying the way it made you feel wanted—no, needed, by her.

In her defense, you looked like shit.

For the meantime, you were to clean yourself while she ran a couple errands in town after booking the room. Most times, you had to pay extra for a specific room with two beds, lest society began to wonder if you were sharing the same bed.

Each muscle ached a bit more trudging up the hotel's steps, spurs clinking with each slow movement.

Shoving the bath's door closed was your next action, followed by peeling each and every item of clothing off of you for the time being.

While the tub filled, your mind floated back to the way Sadie had praised you earlier that day. Her drawl made your knees weak without fail, the thickest you've ever heard but no one else's you would listen to every day.

There you go, you got it... Nice job, honey.

Sunflower colored strands of her hair always remained neatly pulled back in that familiar loose braid of hers, wondering what you lengths you would go to for just a chance at running your fingers through it.

Your palms sweat around her just thinking about it. Other times about how you might look in one of her shirts, aroma of orchids and vanilla intertwined in the fabric.

With the first dip of your body into the steaming water, the outside world ceased to exist in that moment. Goosebumps flooded your skin and pricked up those little hairs along your body.

Upon the lack of sleep you'd received the night before, the warm water had you ready to nod off and rest your eyes. All you wanted to do was stay submerged in the clean water and dream of a certain blonde woman.

Your whole body ached for her; the warmth in her presence, the way she called your name, joked around with you, put every part of her trust in you on jobs. Your heart had held a special place for her ever since the day you two met.

Dreams of yours mainly consisted of her figure, putting you in not-so-safe-for-work positions that arose many confusing feelings in you.

Once the word love crossed your mind regarding her, there was no other way for you to see her. But in that golden light right before dusk and how she smiled when you genuinely made her laugh.

If there was a future for you out there, Sadie was painted in along with all the images you envisioned.

No matter how much being in her presence sparked a flame inside you, there wasn't enough evidence in the world to speak how you felt.

Just the deep thrum of heat flowing from the true center of your body, suffocating you in desire. Your skin under the water managed to be more sensitive, reminding you of the gentle but calloused hands of your partner.

Ease in her touches that had patched you up multiple times had been ingrained into your memory.

Ignoring the heat between your legs to clean your body, you tightened your thighs together in attempt to suppress it.

Sooner than later, a knock at the door pulled you from your daydream and alerted you of how cool the bath water had become. That familiar feminine drawl called out from the other side.

"Y'done in there yet? Our room's 'bout ready an' my feet're killin' me."

Shit.

Having to face the woman you were just daydreaming about— there were more things you'd rather do. She won't notice the blush on your cheeks because the room was hot from the steam. Right?

"Oh- yeah! Just gimme a minute."

Clothes returned to your back, clutching your gun belt and satchel in hand while your boots clicked on the floor once again. Upon opening the door, Sadie stood against the nearby wall, sighing when she noted your refreshed state.

"Well don't you look purdy." She smirked, dragging her eyes up and down your figure, impressed you actually listened to her.

Her comment was met with a roll of your eyes, walking past her and further down the hallway. Because of course you listened to her, you would walk into hell itself if it was what she wanted.

"Hey, it's room 2A, should be unlocked already." she called out to you, giving her a thumbs up wordlessly without turning back to face her.

Your eyes coasted along the wooden walls, finding the door unlocked like Sadie had said.

What she wasn't aware of was the lack of two beds and presence of one. Only one bed possessed this godforsaken room, and somehow that was seeming to be the last straw for you today.

There had to be some mistake, you were sure the hotel's clerk took bribes for preferred rooms. It had worked in the past, why was now the time for that to get thrown out the window?

You couldn't sleep in the same bed as her. You were sure you wouldn’t survive.

You always knew she wouldn't see you as anything more than her best friend and bounty partner. Which should've been enough. It should've been enough to satisfy you in this life. Lucky enough to even be graced with her presence on a day to day basis.

Not many men in this world could say this woman would even look twice in their direction.

But the sickening feeling when she pulled you close in the cold or when she gave you the last of her food. Those moments were when you wanted to break the silence and pull her lips to yours.

Organizing your things around the room was how you passed the time before Sadie eventually came knocking at the door.

One creak of the door opening was enough for her to realize exactly how she'd fucked up.

"What the hell? I could've sworn I paid that jackass at the front desk enough to get us the exact room I specifically requested! I should kick his ass—"

As much as you'd pay to see her cuss out the clerk at the front desk, the two of you couldn't handle all the attention it would bring. When Sadie doesn't get what she asked for, it was never long before hands were thrown.

"No—" you sighed, "we can't afford gettin' kicked out, Sadie. My back cannot take another night on the ground."

"Well, yer right," she drawled, "You ain't gon' make it five feet out them doors before needin' a lie down. Plus, we're both beat."

She took a quick look around the room, then placed her things down on the opposite wall.

"I think we can tough it just one night. Whatchu think?"

Truth be told, you were much too drained to argue or find another reason to protest the situation any longer.

When your figure hit the mattress, feet free of the cowboy boot leather, the comfort of soft sheets was enough to lull you off into a deep sleep.

Though your subconscious dug deep into the layers of your mind, unearthing the most filthy words in Sadie's beckoning voice.

You have no idea how much I want you right now... as her hands pin your wrists to a wall.

God, you look amazing like this, while you're perched kneeling between her thighs.

You're a needy girl, aren't you? Tell me what you want... the minute she gets you undressed.

Her closeness has you sweating and your body is on fire. She reaches for your waist, hands eager and steady; that is, before the vision fades and your eyes jolt open to the low lit room.

Gasping slightly, you're frozen in place upon waking from sleep. Stuck sleeping in a bed with the woman that embodied your dreams just a moment ago.

Quiet breaths filled the room, another reminder you were in such a situation that there was nothing you could do. About these overwhelming sensations, the feelings you bared, an urge to take care of how turned on those dreams had made you.

This situation was beyond impossible to weasel your way out of. Sleeping on the ground was terrible, but at least you could sneak away silently; any slight move or sound could wake her on this mattress.

Though you attempted to drift back off into sleep, your overactive thoughts of Sadie intensified.

How long would it take to kiss every inch of her body?

Which spots would be more sensitive to your touch?

Your eyes shot open again, void of any fatigue you felt a couple hours earlier. Only thing inhabiting you now was the heat radiating from under the covers. Sadie's body heat next to you on the bed contributed to the raised temperature, but you could tell that wasn't the only heat you felt.

Not only were you drenched in sweat, but the overwhelming heat painting your body radiated from between your legs. Aching something awful the second you squeezed your thighs together.

Having to share a bed with her was anxiety inducing enough— add the effect of seeing her laid out for you perfectly behind your eyelids, and you felt helpless to do anything.

Attempting to fall back asleep was out of the question as well, seeing as those thoughts of her positioned so nicely for you lingered distastefully. It just had to be the night you couldn't keep your mind off her that she lay the closest she's ever been to you.

The more you attempted to avoid what was keeping you awake, the more your cunt throbbed and begged to be touched.

At this point you'd become desperate, wanting to be relaxed so bad that the idea was more appealing now than it was five minutes ago.

Anything for you to rest again.

Very delicately, one of your hands moved to slide down the front of your underwear. You were betting on the fact that Sadie was exhausted that night and wouldn't be woken by the slightest movements.

Just as your fingers snuck past the waistband, the woman beside you shuffled slightly. Your movements halted until you were sure she didn't wake easier than you thought. Upon the lack of evidence afterwards, you decided to continue and reach down between your legs.

It was almost surprising how soaked you were upon running your finger over your cunt, holding back a whimper when just the pad ran over your clit. You were clenching around nothing just from it, tempted to go further but knowing someone could hear you.

God— fuck it, right?

Damn Sadie Adler with her hickory colored eyes and sweet southern drawl, with those nimble hands and steady thighs and proportions that could make a grown woman cry—

Pushing two fingers between your folds tests you more than anything in the moment, with filthy sounds threatening to break loose.

Why oh why couldn't you two just have gotten separate rooms like you wanted? What possessed her to make you share a room with her all the time?

A pad of your finger swiped up to your clit, circling ever so slowly and with feather light touches.

What would she think if she caught me? Would she punish me? Or make me worship her to no end?

Either way, you were fucked in the head for thinking any of it.

That cunt of yours throbbed to no end, worsening by the second you begun touching yourself again. Light circles turned to adding more pressure and steadying your breath with each pass of your fingers.

Your body ached for her touch, picturing the image of her above you with those hands of hers outreached for you. It was erotic enough to make you whimper in the silent dark of the hotel room.

"Fuck..." you muttered under your breath.

Wet sounds began to fill the room once your fingers pushed inside your entrance.

Now you were really moving slow, pressing both digits inside just to curl them at the perfect spot that sent your thighs tightening again.

Her sweet saccharine southern drawl was the closest thing to euphoria you'd imagined. Putting the words in your mind to her voice- you were exploding on the inside from imagining it.

To sit at the mountain peak of her thighs and give her everything you had... to have her call out your name out of any others in the world. It was enough to make you—

Oh, Sadie...

Too focused on keeping her image clear in your head, you’d missed the additional shuffling next to you. Eyes squeezed so tight, your blood pumping in your ears was all you could hear.

Any time she filled your mind, the images were always of her splayed out any way your brain could fathom...

One of her completely naked on a couch, another where she's towering over your body, thrusting her hips against yours; one more of her face shoved between your thighs while your fingers ran through her blonde strands, her tongue slowly inching through--

"Havin' trouble over there?"

A raspy voice called out through the dark, belonging to none other than the woman you were fantasizing about to no end.

In a fraction of a second, you were frozen in place... as if you would be any less caught than you were in that moment. Your hand shot out from between your legs faster than light on impulse.

As if doing cartwheels, your stomach dropped over and over again, while you were in the midst of surveying what to do.

Take it on the chin? Face her? Tell her everything you'd been thinking about? Absolutely all of it? None of it?

Before you could even get a chance to realize how fucked you were, she'd switched on her lantern light and sat up on the bed.

"If you needed some stress relief, all you had to do was ask'." Her low drawl rings out in the warm light, blonde hair covering her back as you peek over at her.

Sitting up nervously, you turned to face her, eyes overwhelmed with regret and uncertainty. Guilt had overridden you on another level, not knowing how she'd react to— wait, did she just say...?

"When they told me I could change our room, I decided against it... to see what would happen. To see if my suspicions were right all along."

"You did this...? Why--" you started, meeting her brown eyes for the first time all night.

"Cause I... could tell how you felt. For a while now. Just... didn't know how I felt. Took me some time to. But now I do." she drawled, a look of understanding meeting yours.

"And now?"

Surprisingly, the heat level in your cheeks settled some when she scooched closer to you on the mattress.

"Just... let me try somethin'."

Not only does one of her hands land on top of yours, but cups your cheek with the other and began to lean in to you.

Every atom in your body screamed out for her, similar to the way a firework sparked a bit before its shot into the sky.

Once her lips finally pressed to yours, every moment you shared together flashed through your head. Almost like a vision aligning, where you could see every day she kept you around wasn't just for convenience. Each time she had your back in life, through fights and drunken nights, was because she cared only for you.

Instantly you forgot how to breathe, only wanting to savor the burn of her pillow-esque lips against yours for the rest of eternity.

But when she pulled away, the breath you were holding became overwhelming and caused you to gasp for air.

"Sadie... I-"

"No, I know. I know, honey. But it's the middle of the night, we can't afford to lose any more sleep talkin' about this. We already ain't had enough of that." she chuckled, intertwining her fingers with yours.

"Kiss me again, please..."

Of course she would indulged you over and over, spending minutes frozen in time and trapped in the loving embrace her lips were giving yours. Somehow it was even more perfect than in your dreams.

Wordlessly, she laid you down on the bed, your hair scattering across the pillow while you continued to share the most perfect sounds she'd ever heard. Heartbeat quickening, sighs and small moans of pleasure escaping the both of you until she pulls away for a moment.

"Y'were thinkin' about me, weren't you?" One of her fingers swiped at the excess saliva on her lip from your overeager state.

Reminded of how exactly you'd gotten yourself in this situation, you nodded in confirmation and felt your cheeks pink up.

"You're the only person I would, Sade."

One of the corners of her mouth points upwards, painting a smirk on her face.

"Now what are we gon' do about that, hm?"

"Whatever you want."

Your response tumbles out a split second after her question hits the air, the apples of her cheeks brightening with a bit of a blush.

Instantly, her lips are on yours again as she's pushing you down onto the pillow's soft cover. Sadie's loose strands of hair tickle the sides of your face slightly, but the contact isn't unwelcome.

With her in an image you'd been daydreaming of for god knows how long, you thought this moment might actually be the paradise in her you were searching for.

Another gasp leaves you as her lips separate from yours to leave a trail down your jawline to your neck. Her hands resting on the mattress at your sides were gripping the comforter.

"Can I... touch you here?" Her fingers ghost over your waist, the lightest touches hovering over your skin.

"Yes... god, yes. Please touch me. All over, Sade."

Your voice is barely a whisper, plainly begging for her to run those hands down your body until she was satisfied.

Only after you'd given her the go ahead does she connect her hand to your waist, slipping her fingers under your sleep shirt ever so slightly. That overbearing heat still lingered, only burning hotter with her hands on you.

You can feel her mouth sucking a mark into your collarbone, swallowing your whimpers before she releases with a popping sound.

"Now then, let's make sure you sleep t'night. I ain't doin' this all night with your damn tossin' and turnin'."

You scoffed, because how could you be so careless? Sadie was one to know when gunfire was about to break out-- of course she knew you weren't really sleeping.

Her hands delicately lift your shirt up, fingertips painting goosebumps along your skin. When your chest came into view, you caught her licking her lips before bending down to place a kiss between the valley of your breasts.

"You're prettier than a flower in bloom. Know that?" Her lips ghost up your chest and collarbones with feather light kisses.

"Stop sweet talkin' me..." you replied breathlessly.

Without warning, she takes one of your hardened nipples into her mouth, circling her tongue around it before nipping ever so lightly.

"Shit-- don't tease me... it's been long enough," you whined, pulling a chuckle from her.

"Alright, alright." Her other hand grasped your other breast, playing with your nipple between two of her fingers.

You inhaled sharply when her other hand slipped right past the band of your bottoms and down between your legs, slapping your palm over your mouth in surprise.

"Shh, shh... gotta be quiet for me, m'kay?"

Nodding in reply, she licked her lips and pulled down your bottoms.

"Ah, there she is... my sweet girl." Her drawl had your head spinning, not even realizing her hand was traveling further down your body to push your legs open for her.

"Sadie..." you whispered, perplexed by the entire situation. You pinched your arm to make sure this wasn't a dream while you sensed her palms cupping the soft plush of your thighs.

Sadie's fingers stroke over your heat, unbeknownst to her how badly it burned and pleaded for her touch. As if she could read your mind, two of her fingers opened you up for her, vulnerability washing over you in that moment.

"Y'don't even know how whipped you got me, honey. I'd have walked into hell itself if you were the one askin'..."

God... you were lovesick.

You whimper behind your palm, practically vibrating with how much you were riled up beforehand.

Once her fingers sliver through how soaked you were, the pad of her middle finger traces circles on your most sensitive part. Sadie's eyes catch your flustered state as she continues the slow movements, moving down to your entrance while collecting your slick.

It's cruel how she barely touches your entrance before removing her fingers to taste you for herself. Your hazy eyes catch her licking your arousal off her digits before reaching down to touch you again.

"Sweetest thing I ever did taste, baby."

Please... you whisper, gripping the bed sheets tighter than you can imagine. Sadie only chuckles, before two of her fingers prod at her entrance, pushing in slowly at first. When she realizes you welcome her in with no resistance, she bites her lip and smirks.

Though your overwhelming arousal allowed for her fingers to slip in easily, it felt as if it was your first time. Thin and nimble, they were even more fulfilling than your own. It made a world of a difference not having to pleasure yourself for the first time in ages.

Men tried their best, but you knew Sadie Adler's skills would outperform all of their past attempts.

As if a reflex, your walls clench around her fingers, covering them in your arousal again, and she smiles. Her dirty blonde strands tickle your thighs as she presses a kiss to one of them, feeling you throb while pushing them back inside.

Her unused hand parts your folds for her and her thumb gently rubs your little bundle of nerves, taking pride and joy in being the one to do so.

She adores the way your eyebrows scrunch together while you attempt to remain quiet, the way your breasts sit prettily on your chest and the way your body reacts when she angles her fingers just right.

"Y're so... lucky I'm too tired to scream your name right now..." you pant, taking each tantalizing drag of her fingers with pride. Her fingers curl inside you upon hearing your words, watching you swallow another sound she feels envious to not hear in the moment.

"Sounds like heaven. Maybe when we got a little place of our own someday." Sadie leans down to press a kiss onto your heat, catching more of your slick on her lips and humming with content.

"Shut up... oh-!" You bite your hand to combat the filthy sound you want to emit, just so she can hear how intoxicated by her you've become.

"There ya go, takin' me so well..." the movements of her fingers set a steady pace inside you, observing you breathe heavily above her.

Her tongue against your heat was the closest thing to euphoria you could imagine, saturated in her lust and devotion like a god. In a split second, she hums against you and you can feel the wave of pleasure begin to build like no other type of adrenaline.

"I'm close, Sade... don't stop..." you spoke breathlessly, your entire being feeling connected to hers in that moment. Your toes curled, fingers grasped the cotton sheets until your knuckles turned white.

"Let go for me, sweetheart. Just let it all out, there ya go..." she beckoned, pressing her tongue to your clit as her fingers continued to pump inside you.

The quiet of the room was now filled with your heavy breathing, as though the entire world paused its turning for a moment, high coursing through your body.

Some of the slightest moans you'd been withholding for the sake of people in the hotel slipped past your lips like music to Sadie's ears.

As your high washed over you, she could feel you clenching rhythmically around her fingers and chuckled to herself before pulling away and crawling back up your body.

Her lips trailed kisses up your stomach and neck while your breathing steadied, the contact with your skin warm from your overwhelming orgasm.

"You're so pretty..." she breathed, "when you come for me."

Sadie kissed your cheek and dragged her hands up your body, goosebumps in your afterglow spreading like wildfire. Your hands loosened their grip on the bed sheets and wrapped around Sadie's neck loosely, welcoming each kiss she placed upon your face.

"Feel better now?" she mumbled against your ear, cupping the side of your face with her palm.

"Mhm... thank you, Sade. Feel s'much better now, love you... so much."

The lack of sleep had you delusional, barely registering anything you admitted to her now that you'd finally gotten the one thing you wanted.

"Love you too, honey. More'n you know."

Sadie lay beside you, her arms wrapped around your body to pull you in close while the both of you finally let your mutual tiredness drift you off to sleep.

[reaveries]

▬  a warm place for numb fingers (18+)

summary: after a conversation with a friend, tension arises between the reader and arthur. action is ultimately forced into her hands... or fingers, more like.

pairings: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader

warnings: mature content (18+)// explicit descriptions of fingering, cunnilingus, and some good ol' fucking

word count: 5.7k (estimated 23-minute reading time)

a/n: this goes out to all the cold and horny girls out there. i see you and i salute you. enjoy the fic

masterlist archive of our own

The chill was an inescapable thing and it followed her closely wherever she went. It burned her face red whenever she emerged from the mining town cabins. When she’d been forced to ride against it in fierce storms, it possessed her hair to lash violently across her cheeks in a blinding fury. And once those storms passed, it continued to insatiably lap at any skin left exposed to its gnawing teeth. Numbness in her fingertips became commonplace, leaving her defenseless as her trigger finger trembled beneath thin leather gloves. Like a starved coyote, the chill searched for any scrap of flesh it could find and devoured it to the bone. It wasn’t forgiving, as nature often isn’t.

She draws her coat closer to her body now, but the little winds continue to hungrily nip at her cheeks and dust them pink. What once ravaged her has become meek since they’ve descended the peaks of the Grizzlies. But it’s still there, and will continue to be until spring thaws the world. 

“Can’t believe I’m lookin’ at one of the most wanted outlaws this side of the Dakota.”

She looks up from her feet and sees Karen smiling, holding a cigarette between her fingers. She brings it to her lips and draws out the smoke.

“God, if the Pinkertons knew how big of a baby you really are, maybe they’d have tried their luck in Colter,” she says with a cheeky grin.

“That’s the only way those fuckers could’ve taken me down,” the outlaw says, laughing bitterly into her scarf. “I’ve never done well in the cold. Every day that I wake up and can’t feel my toes, I’m closer to packing up and fleeing to New Austin. Thinking of building myself a house made of cacti.”

She walks through the frost-laden grass to where her friend stands, overlooking the Dakota river.

“You’re fulla shit,” Karen says, rolling her eyes. “The day you leave this bunch will be the day God, himself, shoots you off your horse. Got too much love in your little heart for the lot of us.”

The woman chuckles dryly, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Got too much love for you, Karen,” she says in a sickeningly sweet tone and leans in, tilting her head dramatically to the side as if to give her a sloppy kiss.

“Get the hell away from me!” Karen screeches and fumbles to push her away. 

The outlaw stumbles backward lazily with her head thrown back in laughter.

“You play around too much, you know that?” Karen says, shaking her head, but the forceful tug on the right side of her lips gives her away. 

She smiles down her nose at the blonde woman, “Yeah, that’s what I keep hearin’.”

Once they both settle down, Karen extends the cigarette to her, offering whatever she can manage as it quickly dies out. She takes it between her forefinger and thumb and lets the smoke warm her from the inside.

“You know what I overheard some of the workin’ girls sayin’ when I was in town?” Karen speaks up as the smoke escapes the woman’s throat. 

She hums in question. Words out of the mouth of a working girl can hardly ever be taken for truth, but damn if they weren’t entertaining.

“Apparently, the number of clients they get skyrockets in the winter months. Somethin’ about men subconsciously wantin’ to be warmed up so they seek out activities that make ‘em break a sweat.”

She nods, “I guess that makes enough sense.”

Karen shakes her head, “That’s not all. The girls were also sayin’ that as it gets colder, the men are more and more riled up. Almost like it’s something with the moon, but instead of turnin’ into the dogman, they just wanna bury themselves in a woman real bad. But all I’m hearin’ while these girls are sayin’ this is that we got ourselves a bunch of fools too dumb to think clearly down in that little town.”

She stomps the life out of the cigarette with the toe of her boot, her spurs jingling as she drives it into the dirt. 

“Ain’t no way that’s true,” she says with a sardonic smile. “That last part, sure, but the moon’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

“Well, somethin’s gotta explain it,” Karen says and crosses her arms defensively across her chest. “I can tell ya, once it gets colder the men start lookin’ at ya different. I never noticed the link ‘till now but it kinda makes sense.”

She has to fight the laugh rising in her chest as she tries to seriously process the idea that men are becoming more aroused due to a giant orb in the sky. It takes everything in her not to but Karen sees right through her.

“It ain’t that ridiculous, you know. You can’t tell me you ain’t never noticed Arthur actin’ different.” 

The amusement rapidly drains from her face and is replaced by a look of bewilderment. 

“What are you talkin’ about Arthur for? Arthur and I are just friends, we ain’t like that,” she sputters out. 

“Oh, sorry,” Karen says, putting her hands up, “I forgot you was still on that.”

Her flustered reaction surprises even herself, causing a creeping warmth to crawl its way to her cheeks. A biting retort fumbles dumbly in her mouth.

“I’m not on anything. Don’t know what got in your head but it ain’t never been like that between Arthur and me.”

“It ain’t just in my head, honey. Everyone here knows it. You think folk ain’t seein’ the way you two touch up on each other the way you do? How neither of you goes nowhere without the other? Get real. It’s plain as day to everyone but yourself.”

She tosses a quick glance over her shoulder, hoping no one is near enough to hear their conversation. Instead, she sees that the camp has slowly come to life while she’d been distracted by Karen. Folk have begun their morning chores, migrating from washboards to clothing lines or splitting logs of wood in two. Her eyes flit across their faces until they land on the one she’s searching for. He’s far enough away, speaking with Pearson by the food supplies wagon. The cook waves his hands around animatedly but he’s turned away from her so she can’t tell what they’re speaking about. Arthur looks past the man and meets her eyes. He smiles and nods at her, to which she returns with a forced thin smile of her own. 

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Karen,” she mutters, and without turning to say goodbye, walks away.

And yet, Karen’s words burrow themselves deep within her mind and linger in the spaces between each normal thought as the day continues. Surely she'd been exaggerating and not everyone in camp suspects her and Arthur to be intimate with each other. Karen just thinks she knows more than she does sometimes. It was very much like her to be overly confident about certain things, proclaiming them as fact even past the point she knows she’s wrong. Then again, that also wasn't the first time someone had mistaken their closeness for something more amorous in nature. Dutch, having watched her throw an arm around Arthur and share from his bottle, assumed the pair had made themselves official. This prompted some proud fatherly spiel wherein he clapped Arthur on the back and congratulated him. It was vague enough that neither of them knew what he was referring to until later. Once they both realized, it gave them a good doubled-over, tears-from-the-eyes sort of laugh. But Arthur quickly cleared it up with the man, assuring him that there was nothing of that sort going on. Apparently, Dutch remained unconvinced.

As she sharpens her knife, an interesting thought intrudes past the others. For a moment, she wonders if Arthur might be an exception to this phenomenon the working girls were talking about. He never spoke of women the way that most men did. So, if he’d ever been interested in that sort of way, she wasn’t privy to it in the slightest. But, he’s still a man and he isn’t immune to the desires of men. Could it be possible that Arthur wishes for a woman to warm his bed at night? Or perhaps, on the coldest nights, a woman to warm himself inside?

Her blade slips against the whetstone and nearly slices her hand open as depraved imagery flies behind her eyes. She curses loudly and the knife drops to the dirt with a muffled thud.

A horse gallops and skids next to the hitching post beside her and the rider quickly flies off the mount, hitting the earth with heavy feet. She looks up from her hand and it’s him. There’s a pristine buck carcass flung over the back of his mare from a hunting excursion he must be returning from. 

“You alright?” He asks in a raised voice, meeting her with a walk that holds no patience. He looks down at her hands, likely expecting to see them covered in blood. His shoulders drop in relief when he can’t find any.

“I’m fine,” she says, standing up quickly and brushing dust off her pants. She forcefully clears her head of the intrusive thoughts, worried he might be able to see them if he looks too close.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, woman. Don’t know what I’d do if you went and chopped off your trigger finger,” he says, running a stressed hand through his hair.

“You’d have to find a new riding partner, that’s for sure,” she quips unenthusiastically.

A breath of laughter leaves his lips to tell her she’s being ridiculous.

“Naw… There ain’t no replacin’ you. Ain’t a single person here has what it takes to put up with half the shit you and I do. We’d just have to teach ya to shoot with four fingers.”

His tone is lighthearted but there’s a hint of sincerity to his words that makes her cock her head in intrigue. He notices the change in her expression and quickly backpedals.

“Ah, don’t let that get to your head, now! I can barely tolerate ya most days. There’s just… no denyin’ you’re one of the best shots here,” he says, avoiding her eyes.

She smiles smugly and pats his chest.

“Tell me something I don’t know, cowboy.”

“Like I said, I can barely tolerate ya,” he says, swatting her hand off him. “Anyways, you mind takin’ that buck to Pearson? I need to have a word with Dutch about tomorrow.”

“Sure thing,” she says and slips past him to retrieve the fresh game. 

She hoists the buck over her shoulder and nearly gasps from the unexpected weight. The animal is nowhere near light and it’s a wonder he managed to cleanly take down the thing. He looks over his shoulder at the sound of her boot scuffling in the dirt as she steadies herself. 

She stumbles over to Pearson’s wagon and throws the carcass down on the ground. The cook is nowhere to be found so she figures she’ll save him the trouble and put her sharpened blade to good use. The knife cuts cleanly through the skin like warm butter, separating the hide from tender pink insides. As she’s making the final incisions, she looks up from the gruesome sight and sees Arthur talking to Dutch outside his tent. He seems relaxed enough, his hands resting on the buckle of his gun belt while he talks. It’s something he does often, just like someone might stuff their hands in their pockets for the sake of keeping them occupied. An endearing little action. And yet, for some reason, the common and utterly insignificant act of him doing this makes her forget herself. 

Maybe it’s the suggestion of him holding a different object hidden beneath the confines of denim, right below his loose grip. Because the longer she looks, a vision of him taking himself into a fisted hand begins to overshadow her mind. He’s lying in his cot, and while everyone else huddles together for warmth in their makeshift beds, he’s fucking his hand in the darkness of his tent. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is parted slightly, but no noise escapes his lips to save himself the mortification of someone walking past and overhearing. He quickens the pace of his pumping hand and breathes out a quiet, ragged moan as he coats his stomach with ropes of sticky seed. His chest heaves, then slows to normal before he wipes the evidence away with a worn shirt.

Arthur looks at her with a confused look on his face. He waves a hand slowly in mock greeting to rouse her from her dazed state. Dutch, mid-sentence, turns to look over his shoulder, but she averts her eyes before they can meet his. 

“Holy shit,” she whispers. She frantically finishes skinning the deer with her chin to her chest to hide the furious blush tormenting her cheeks. 

Once she’s finished, she practically sprints back to her tent before Arthur can ask her what her deal is. She closes the flaps hastily and goes to sit on the edge of her bed to collect herself. 

It’s not like she’s never fantasized about a person before, and she’s taken people to her bed more times than she can remember. This flustered feeling isn’t rooted in some virgin-like innocence, and yet she might as well be a pastor’s daughter with the way she’s blushing over it.

It’s because it’s him. He’s her partner. Her friend. Someone who’s grown to understand her better than she understands herself. She’s been the same person for him ever since they crossed paths in Montana all those months ago. Many feelings, albeit platonic, have come and gone since that fateful encounter, but lust? Lusting after a friend may be the most foreign feeling she’s stumbled upon in all her years of living. 

A griminess so thick and so palpable enshrouds her, weighing heavily, filthily, on her skin. And there’s only one solution that comes to mind.

She straddles the firmness between her thighs as it bounces rhythmically beneath her. A moan unintentionally escapes her lips in response to the merciless feeling down below. Her blouse sticks to damp skin and plasters itself lewdly against the curves of her stomach and chest as her hips rock back and forth. Another moan. This one more pained than the last.

Her thighs have always burned something fierce whenever she’d mount her horse directly after a bath. Soft, herbal-scented skin would grate against thick cotton of riding trousers, eliciting the pained gritting of teeth. But this time, the minor uncomfortable sensation is preferable, simple, compared to the complexities of her consuming thoughts from earlier. A hot bath was her saving grace as it turned out. It cleared her head and made her feel like her normal self again. Whatever thoughts she’d been having of her partner had been washed away and left behind at the bottom of the steel tub like some tainted baptism.

She rides through the trees that fringe the perimeter of camp and calls out to Javier, who stands guarding the entrance. He gives her a short wave, and nothing else. The two of them haven’t talked much, despite having ridden together for over a year now. Most of the men in camp tend to keep to themselves, she’s noticed. It’s a shame the talkative Irish man went and got himself killed in Blackwater. He knew how to have a good time. He always claimed the two of them were kindred spirits, but she heavily denied it each time since it read like an insult. 

She swings herself off the saddle and, like a moth to a lantern, migrates toward the fire to warm herself. The sun has sunk beneath the horizon and with it any amount of heat it provided, leaving her a shivering mess. Dinner bubbles inside the stew pot, prompting her to grab a portion before taking a seat on one of the logs.

The fire is reduced to glowing embers that do little to warm her bones. She nudges the logs with her boot but they just shift and plume ash. Sighing, she tugs closed the lapels of her coat and brings a spoonful of venison stew to her lips. The steaming broth slides down her throat and settles in her belly, making a furnace of her stomach. It’s a nice feeling, one that quiets her mind.

Suddenly, the log shifts as someone sits beside her. 

“Where’d you disappear off to?” He asks. “I couldn’t find ya anywhere.”

Arthur settles to sit hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, a bowl of stew in his hands. He’s wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt and a light jacket, but not much else to protect him from the cold. In fact, when she looks around, no one else seems to mind the chill as much as she does. Maybe Karen was right in calling her a baby.

“Nowhere special. I just had to go into town for a bit,” she says, taking another sip of the stew. 

He nods his head, “Had to go into town and get yerself a bath, huh?”

She turns sharply to look at him, her brows drawn together in confusion.

“I could smell the lavender oil the minute ya hitched yer horse,” he explains. “What’s that about? Are ya plannin’ on finally actin’ like a lady or somethin’?”

She shoves his shoulder with her free hand.

“Shut up Arthur. You act more like a lady than I do,” she accuses. “Also, it might do ya good to take a bath for once.”

That last part she says a little lower than the first. Sometimes when they’d be out on extended errands they’d bathe in the river together. But no matter how much he scrubbed his skin, the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat would linger in the closed tent when she lay beside him in her bedroll at night. She always put up with it though because it likely meant she didn’t smell much better.

“The hell’s that s’posed to mean?” He asks, looking visibly taken aback.

“It means you smell like—”

“Naw, not that. Whatchu mean I act like a lady?”

“Oh. It means you’re goin’ all soft, big guy. Take it as a compliment,” she says, trying to suppress a smile.

“Great. First Dutch, now you. I ain’t goin’ soft, girl. And I sure as hell ain’t turnin’ into a woman,” he says, looking away from her and shaking his head. “As if you even knew what it meant to be one. Look at yerself!” He adds with an indignant wave of his hand that gestures from the top of her head to her feet.

She doesn’t need to look. Her coat is crafted from bear and bison pelts, made to fit a man larger than herself because the trapper lacked the expertise to tailor one for a woman. It keeps her warm enough, which is all that should matter. Wearing clothes that flatter her figure ranks relatively low on her list of priorities when every day is a fight to not freeze to death. On top of that, folk have always been mighty eager to remind her of her femininity whenever she dared step outside the docile role of her fairer sex. Which, in her line of work, was often.

“I’ll have you know I consider myself an expert on the matter… ma’am.”

She starts to snicker but when she looks over at him his jaw is set and he’s giving her a side-eye that makes the noise die in her throat.

“Keep callin’ me a lady and see where it gets ya, woman. Y’ain’t gonna be laughin’ when I’m forced to prove myself to ya.”

If there was ever any heat being produced in her body, it's all gone and rushed to her face just now. She stares at him, unblinking.

“What?” 

“Mm, s’what I thought,” he says, bringing a spoon of potatoes and broth to his lips. “Now, if you’re done foolin’ around, are you comin’ with us tomorrow or not? Dutch said you might but I know you’ve got a lot on your plate as is.”

He said he’d prove himself to her. Prove that he’s a man. There’s hardly any innocent way to interpret that.

“Tomorrow?” She asks. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

He looks at her all funny-like, slightly annoyed even.

“Did you drink the bathwater or somethin’? The O’Driscoll told us they was all holed up in some cabin not far from here. Mentioned Colm is with’em. I only told ya about it a handful of times.”

She hears him but isn’t really listening. The phrase repeats on a loop in her head. She wants to ask him what he meant by it but the moment’s passed and she knows there’s no real answer. If asked, he’d just say he was teasing her and there’s nothing more to it. 

He calls her name, bringing her out of her stupor. She opens her mouth to say something but the wind picks up. A bone-rattling shiver possesses her, making her shrink inside herself. He stares at her, unphased by the chill but with concern etched into his handsome features.

“Sorry, Arthur. I- I don’t know where my head’s at,” she says through clenched teeth.

“S’Alright,” he says, looking her over. “I forget how sensitive you are to the cold.”

He sets his bowl on the ground and brings his hands to cup around his mouth, heating them with hot breath. He then takes her hands into his and clamps around them, transferring warmth to numb fingers.

“Jesus, you’re freezin’,” he says.

He brings her hands close to his mouth and repeats the same action, trying to warm them back to life with his breath. He presses into her palms, massaging heat from the pads of his fingers into hers.

Had he done this simple gesture for her yesterday, she likely would’ve just felt grateful to feel her fingers again. But today isn’t like yesterday. Yesterday, she wasn’t acutely aware of the ever-present moisture nearly dripping down her thighs or the dull, aching pain at her core as it practically begs to be filled by a man. Yesterday, she didn’t envision that man to be Arthur. She didn’t envision herself blissed out and bouncing on his cock, being guided by his hands gripping her ass and forcing her all the way down on him every time. She also didn’t visualize their sweating naked bodies pressed against one another as he hoists her legs around his waist and fucks her relentlessly against the side of his wagon. Yesterday was, without a doubt, much easier than today. Today she’d thought of all these things and more.

She watches attentively how he holds her slender fingers in the thickness of his own. Those hands have snuffed out the lives of many, brutally at that. She’d seen them wrapped around the necks of men, crushing their windpipes and severing their spines when he’d been provoked on the wrong sort of day. Lots of blood on those hands. But there’s just as much on hers and in this moment, those blooded hands are so tender towards her. 

If these same hands could kill without remorse, yet be so gentle when the time came for it, then by God, what else were they capable of?

She slips her hands out of his faster than she intended to.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she whispers, looking away.

“Sure. Maybe that’ll help ya to start actin’ normal again. Get the blood flowin’ to yer brain and such.”

If only he knew it was doing the opposite. Blood is flowing elsewhere and she’s the furthest from normal she’s been in a long while.

She stands up, leaving the bowl of stew unfinished on the ground.

“Here’s hoping,” she says, her hands clasped together to preserve his heat. 

Her boots crunch ice-bitten dirt loudly beneath their heels as she makes her way through the quiet camp and to her tent. She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the flaps close shut behind her. 

“What… What is wrong with you?” she asks no one. Her tent is empty, and even though she wants to be alone, this is no comfort.

Her palms dig into the concave of her eye sockets, rubbing them furiously to wake herself up. She groans and shrugs off her coat, letting it collapse onto the floor. Her boots are kicked off her feet and her shirt is made quick work of before it’s thrown violently across the room. Her pants meet the same fate, being unbuttoned and kicked off, then kicked again so they lie atop the other garments. She collides with her mattress in a huff and lies there to stare at the ceiling of her tent, chest rising and falling rapidly.

She’s not going to be laughing when he’s forced to prove himself to her. 

Why is that phrase repeating over and over in her head? More importantly, why is she closing her eyes and slipping her hand beneath the waistband of her combinations?

She pauses. It’s wrong to do this. So wrong. To touch herself with visions of him in her head is sick. But she needs it so badly, so desperately she needs this to be taken care of. The throbbing at her core ultimately wins over her conscience, and forcefully pushes guilt to the side.

Her fingers slide between the delicate folds down below, the slick moisture coating her digits easily. She imagines it’s his hand. Large and warm, playing with her and teasing out moans by dancing around her clit. He asks her if it feels good, but only incoherent noises leave her lips. 

He chuckles and the breath of his laughter hits her center as he dips his head between her thighs. Lips replace fingers, sucking and leaving open-mouthed kisses heavy with tongue, ravishing her like a starved man. Her thighs clench around him and her calves tremble against his bare back. She whispers praises to him when she can find the words. 

Please keep going. You’re doing so good. So good.

Both of her hands tangle themselves in his hair. She can’t help but pull on the strands the minute he slides his thumb inside her all the way to the knuckle. Her back arches off the cot at the sudden sensation but he pulls her back down, locking her in with a hand wrapped around her thigh. She can feel him smile against her, momentarily letting up the relentless forces of his mouth. He’s loving watching her squirm beneath him, because of him. 

But the combined sensation of his thumb fucking her and the concentrated movements of his tongue at her clit nearly drive her to the edge. She squirms and brings her knees up around him, causing him to pull away and leave her empty.

Ya have to keep still, darlin’.

He coaxes her legs back open, spreading them apart with firm hands. But before he can return, she whispers desperate words that fall sweetly on his ears. He changes direction and begins to kiss his way north, traces of her still on his lips as they press wetly to her stomach, then her breasts, and then her neck. While he trails up her jaw, she tugs down his union suit from where it gathers at his hips. He assists her clumsily by shaking it off his legs and kicking it to the floor, where it now lies atop her own discarded clothing.

Before he takes her, he hovers on rested elbows and searches her face for any sign of reluctance. Only half of his features she can see clearly as warm oranges and yellows flicker across it from the lantern at her bedside. The fringe of his hair tickles her forehead, teasing her into closing the distance between them. With a hand on the back of his neck, she brings him down to her level and connects their lips. Their mouths move roughly against one another, their noses squishing and bending against the pressure of their touch. 

He’s warm, so warm. His mouth is hot against her tongue and the points on her body where the two of them meet are ablaze with a fire that spreads down, and down, until it rests in a sweltering mess at the apex of her thighs. She needs him, were the words she’d whispered. And she needs him now. She reaches down between their two bodies to where his cock grazes against her legs and with a sure hand, takes hold of it and guides it to her entrance. She can’t see it but it feels thick in her grasp; her hold not permitting thumb and forefinger to meet. 

The head slips gently inside and opens her up to him with a slow, shallow movement of his hips. He removes his lips from hers and rests his forehead against her own, looking down and indulgently watching himself disappear inside of her inch by inch. It fills her deliciously, stretching her open until he eventually bottoms out and their pelvises lie flush with one another. She lets out a sharp exhale at the contact, knowing he’s sheathed fully inside of her. Before he moves again, she brings her legs around his waist and crosses her ankles so his movements are limited to being shallow and forceful. 

The cot squeaks beneath them as he pulls out and thrusts back in, slow at first. He quickly picks up the pace, pistoling his hips to give short thrusts that fill her to the hilt each time with a near-bruising force. One hand wraps around the meat of her thigh and another hand starts rubbing furious circles at her clit. She throws her head back with a wide-opened gasp at the explosive euphoric sensation of being filled by him and the simultaneous attention given to the sensitive nub. He goes even faster when he sees how close she is, and within seconds she unravels beneath him. 

She notices through her clouded gaze his brows screwing together and lips parting as her soft muscles throb around the swell of his cock. It’s too much for him. He hurriedly pulls out and releases himself on her belly, coating it with spurts of his seed. He looks at her breathlessly through hooded eyes.

The two of them lie panting, him still stationed between her legs with a heaving chest and weary gaze. He leans down and places a chaste kiss on the inside of her thigh before slumping beside her and laying there in his nakedness.

She cums hard against diligent fingers. Hot and tingly ecstacy spreads from her core throughout her limbs, fluttering her eyes to the back of her skull and leaving her a panting mess. Once that passes and the drowsiness that always follows a dumbing climax sets in, she realizes she’d conjured a strange ending to her fantasy. It was one of genuine intimacy, not driven by the carnal desires of her body. 

Thankfully, sleep takes over before she can begin trying to process whatever that means. She drifts off as remnants of pleasure buzz beneath her skin and warm her beneath ticking sheets.

Morning comes quickly, and the accompanying chill of a new day forces her off the cot in search of heavier clothing. She pulls fleece-lined chaps over jeans and buttons them at the waist before throwing on the bear coat she’s worn every day since Colter. As she slips her arms into the clothing, she thinks back on last night. There’s no reason to make a big deal of it. Surely men get off with much worse ideas in their heads about the people they know. She hopes all of that is behind her now that it’s been forced out of her system.

But this is not the case. 

This hope is massacred in vain shortly after being conceived. For the day is ablaze with yearning, shame, and raging inferno. 

Accompanying Arthur to the hideout was soon realized as a mistake. Every small, inconsequential thing he did served to stoke the fire blistering her loins. Every word whispered atop the secluded hillock, every incidental brushing of skin, and every intentional one too. It all fanned incessantly at consuming flames.

She rides back to camp alone with heavy pockets and a heavier conscience. And as she approaches the grounds, she sees her friend, the blonde woman, standing guard outside. Without thought, she throws her reins and swings herself off the horse, hitting the earth hard and swift. A blustering storm brews inside her, fighting against fire and losing. She approaches Karen, treading heavily over branch and stone, a wild look in her eyes.

“Karen!” She calls out.

The woman turns to face her, her rifle lowering just as quickly as it’s raised.

“Oh, it’s just you. You here to tell me I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about again? If so, you can keep on walkin’, bigshot.” 

She sighs and runs a frustrated hand through her wind-tangled hair.

“No! No, I- I didn’t mean it,” she says, with an unmistakable sound of desperation in her voice. “Karen, you were right.”

Karen’s tensed shoulders sink beneath her coat and her features soften. She doesn’t seem to understand, but she’s no longer angry. It’s difficult to be when her friend stands before her, uncharacteristically vulnerable and fumbling with words.

Whatever forces are at work here, be it the chill, the moon, or an unknown third thing, it can be certain she is out of her depth, adrift in deep ice waters. And he is calling to her like a siren’s song but she knows it is an illusion she has conjured up and there is no solace allowed to be found there. He cannot take her like she needs so deeply to be taken by him. It would ruin them, for certain. Because they are not a wholesome people, and despite that, their bond has been forged by goodness. Something like that is uncommon for folk like themselves. It should be held closely, protected from whatever may destroy it, even if it is from herself. It’s for that reason she withdraws her hand, rides alone, averts wandering eyes, and tries her utmost best to quench the flames.

And yet, it has been only a day. 

“You were right.”

[atlasalexanderwrites]

IMAGINE...being there with Arthur when he goes to Thomas Downes for his payment and interfering before things can go too far (preventing Arthur from catching TB)

WORD COUNT: 953

WARNING: none that I can think about, Arthur may be OOC some.

OTHER: reader is gender neutral; no gender specifics given to the reader so your choice!

A/N: the brain rot is real with RDR2 and with Arthur Morgan; I've been feeling icky for the last few days and the others in my house are all coming down with stuff so I needed a comfort character aka Mr. Morgan himself.

A/N2: I've been wanting to write an alternative to the scene where Arthur gets sick where...well...he DOESNT get sick. Originally, I attempted writing him as more low honor Arthur and then instead got this instead lol

A/N3: ENJOY!

“Arthur stop.”

“Arthur this has gone on long enough.”

“ARTHUR DAMMIT!”

Your weren't overly, physically strong by any means, but your partner wasn't in his right mind and was swinging blindly at the poor, frail man he had pinned to the ground. Arthur wasn't thinking clear enough that you were able to knock him to the ground and off of the man who immediately rolled to the side and started coughing, blood splattering all over the ground.

You held a hand to Arthur's chest, praying like hell he had the sense not to start swinging on you as well. “Mr. Downes, I am so sorry about this. I…it seems the heat has gotten to my partner. Is there somewhere that we can speak, calmly and peacefully?” The man had been upset the entire time you and Arthur had been there. Whatever reasons he had for borrowing from Strauss, you knew that you and Arthur didn't have even half of the story. And while you ran with the Van Der Linde gang, the last thing you enjoyed doing was swindling poor people who clearly were unable to repay the loan.

“Arthur, go clean your hands off. Now. And stay with the horses.” You demanded, openly glaring at him and silently warning him against arguing with you.

He grumbled and spat at the ground, but knew you well enough not to push his luck.

You waited for him to stomp off before turning back to the Downes family. 

They were watching you with hesitation and distrust, which you couldn't blame them at all for, but you could also see something hidden just beneath the surface. Something akin to hope.

You sat with them for over an hour, listening to their troubles and how they had ended up this way. They truly were just misfortunate souls who had landed on bad times that seemed to only get worse.

Mr. Downes was sick. Really sick.

It had affected his ability to work as he once had. Taking aloan from Strauss had felt like the only thing to do at the time. Even if the man knew it was a bad idea.

“Get well, please. You won't hear from myself or my associates again.” You promised, biting back the raw anger building in your stomach for Leopold Strauss. What the hell had that man been thinking loaning to these people?

He's a fraud. Just like the rest of us in the Van Der Linde gang. Liars, cheats, and no-goods.

How could you have expected anything but this?

“Feeling better?” You asked Arthur, coldly, as you met back up with him at the horses.

“Oh don't start with me. What the hell was that back there? I nearly had the payment.”

“You nearly guaranteed your own death, Morgan, don't get an attitude with me. That man is sick, his family is struggling, have some…some compassion. This isnt you, Arthur. You're not a thoughtless, careless asshole who beats up the helpless.”

“Oh what the hell do you know about me?”

You rolled your eyes and pulled yourself up into your horse's saddle, “I know you’re better than this. I know you're not meant to be the next Dutch. And I know that all of this eats away at you at night; whether you want to admit it or not.”

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes, “Yeah well, you think you’re so smart, dontcha?”

“Smarter than you’re acting,” you grit your teeth and pulled at your horse’s reins to turn away from him, “Get your head out of your ass, Arthur, and stop trying to act so damn tough. The others might like you like this, but I don’t. And I can think of a few others who don’t either.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur was sitting atop his own horse now and rode up alongside you. He was still upset, but his tone was lower and more gruff than anything else, “I was handling things just fine back there.”

“Sure, Arthur.”

“I didn’t need you to step in.”

“I know that, Cowboy.”

“Will you stop answerin’ me like that?” A sigh slipped from your lips as Arthur’s hand suddenly reached across the small distance between the horses and wrapped around your wrist, keeping you from taking off and trying to force you to pay attention to him. “You’re still too soft on people, ya hear? He knew what he was getting into when he accepted Strauss’ loan.”

Meeting his gaze, you nodded and responded with, “Yes, he did, but people make mistakes, Arthur, and it shouldn’t be met with a stiff fist to the face. He’s ill, Strauss took advantage of that. Thomas Downes and so many more are simply trying to get by. Just as we are. It doesn’t matter now. The debt is settled, I’ll handle things with Strauss.”

It was easy enough to see the look of thought behind Arthur’s blue eyes, and you could tell he was thinking over everything that had happened and all you had said. Finally, he nodded stiffly and let go of your hand. “Alright then, Partner. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Really?” You questioned, brow raised.

Arthur shrugged, “Don’t sound so surprised. Don’t I always do as you say?” His tone had returned to a more teasing nature, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in amusement.

“No, you don’t. If you did, we wouldn’t always end up in these situations.”

Humming, Arthur rubbed at his chin and asked, “Would you have me any other way?”

A laugh escaped your mouth before you could stop it and this time when you rolled your eyes it was out of fondness instead of irritation as before. “No, Arthur Morgan, I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

*

Hey! I hope you all enjoyed! If so please consider liking and reblogging! Thank you!

Please stay safe!

~ Atlex Writes

[eveomo]

bounties and blessings - arthur morgan x f!reader

chapter 1 (SFW, will probably be edited in the future)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ synopsis : after meeting a seemingly dangerous yet kind outlaw during a bounty, your world seems to get turned upside down after you can't seem to stop running into each other. could this be the beginning of something you've both been longing for?

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ warnings/tags : MINORS MAY INTERACT WITH SFW CHAPTERS (NSFW WILL BE TAGGED), depictions of violence, arguments, angst, eventual smut, unprotected piv sex, guns, gun violence, swearing, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, soft arthur, animal death, PTSD, mentions/depictions of abuse, attempted SA (very brief and for plot purposes only), NO PREGNANCY, NO BABIES, MC isnt a frail weak girl who constantly needs saving, often grammatically incorrect (probably)

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ contains : arthur morgan x f!reader, no use of y/n, reader changes the plot for the better

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ wc : 1.9k

posted to AO3 here

It was a blazing summer day, sweat collecting along the brim of your hat as you rode your palomino arabian into Valentine, slowly making your way to the sheriff's office. As you approach the front of the decrepit building, you swing your foot over the saddle and dismount, grabbing the reins to hitch your horse. 

You pulled your bandana up a touch higher and pulled your hat down to cover your eyes before entering the building. Approaching the board, you scan for any bounties that would truly be worth your while. Then, your eyes caught a poster. 

$75 for some idiot that decided to shoot a rancher's son and a lawman for one cow? Easy money. Was it the biggest bounty you’d ever done? Absolutely not, but it offered more money than anything else pinned to the board. You tore it down and folded it before shoving it into your pocket and nodding at the guard seated at the front of the office. Turning on your heel, you exited the building and mounted your horse. 

          “You ready for some fun girl?” Patting her golden coat, you clicked your tongue and tapped your heels to get her moving. As you rode, you reached back to grab your canteen, guzzling down at least half of it with your horse huffing underneath you. 

          “It’s hot ain’t it, Lenora?” You soothed, petting her mane as you kicked your heels once again to get her into a gallop, welcoming the breeze on your face as you rode. Turning off the path, you began to wind and turn throughout the forest, seeking the abandoned cabin the man you were after was hiding in. Your heart skipped a beat as you spotted it in the distance, excited to have some income once again after having to run from the law after a bar fight gone wrong in another town. Having finally arrived at your destination just north of the Dakota River, you dismount and leave Lenora in the brush, sighing as you pull your bandana over your face and retrieve the lasso attached to your black leather saddle. 

Taking effortlessly light steps, you approach the back end of the cabin before hearing two other voices just west of your location. You crouch behind a broken down wagon sitting in the field surrounding the home as you take a deep breath and tune into the words drifting towards you through the wind. 

          “John, if you’re messin’ with me after last time I’ll give you a real reason to run from camp.” One gruff voice huffs out, while another insists that he saw something duck behind a wagon. Your eyes narrow and you peek your head around the wheel, deciding the coast was clear before darting out and crouching down below a window next to the back entrance. Confident that you were going to secure this bounty before unwanted competition appeared, you darted up to peek into the window, seeing your target shine his gun. Quietly, you edge the door open before taking light steps towards the balding man. With an incredible speed, you grab your revolver from your holster and knock the man unconscious with the grip. 

Letting out a pleased hum, you put your gun back in its holster and grab the lasso from your side and begin to secure him tightly. Before you can truly process the creaking of floorboards, you whip out your gun and turn around, pulling back the safety and pointing the barrel at the intruder's head. Unsurprisingly, the sight of a barrel pointing in between your eyes greeted you. 

         “‘Scuse me Miss, I don’t mean to be a bother but I think you’ve got some’n that belongs to me and my friend out there.” The man speaks first, a deep gruff voice with a clear southern drawl. You sized him up quickly, he was tall and broad, a blue button up with a brown leather jacket, a clearly very old hat concealing his head of hair, and a black bandana covering the rest of his face. Obviously another bounty hunter or an outlaw. 

Scoffing, you reply, “Clearly, Mister, this dope here is comin’ back with me. I knocked him out, I tied him up.” you emphasized, pointing behind you. Taking a step closer, you point the end of your gun closer to his head. “I’ve killed men much bigger than you for much less than this.” You watch his eyes narrow as he sizes you up, making you shudder. Admittedly, you were nervous. Somehow you had forgotten that there were others nearby, focusing on being quiet and quick rather than paying attention to your surroundings, and in front of you was a very large, clearly much stronger than you, man. 

          “Look, darlin’. You hand ‘em over, and the three of us can split it. Whatddya say?” One of his eyes squints while the other remains the same, revealing his hidden smirk. 

          “If you think you’re gonna intimidate me into splitting a $15 bounty, you’ve got me mistaken, sir.” Before he can think to answer, his friend calls out. 

         “Arthur! What’s taking so damn long in there? Thought’chu said it’d be empty!” As he looks to the side, you take his momentary distraction as an opportunity to pull a throwing knife from your thigh and dart around him, wrapping your arm around his throat and pulling him to the ground, disarming him and knocking his hat off in the process. He grunted with surprise as you pressed the blade to his jugular and leaned down to whisper in his ear. 

          “Here’s what’s gonna happen, Arthur. Unless you want to bleed out right here, yer gonna get up, walk out, and tell yer little friend that my friend over here-“ you nod your head to the direction of the still unconscious man laying tied up on the floor “-wasn’t here and y’all need to search for some other bounty. Whaddya say?” You drawl, mocking him for his earlier offer. He chuckles lightly before removing his instinctive grip from your arms and raising his in front of him in defeat. 

          “Alright, girl. You got me, okay? We’ll be outta yer hair now.” He grunts as you remove your vice grip from his throat and sheath your knife back into its strap, allowing him to stand. He picked his hat back up and placed it on his head, and then retrieved his revolver from across the room. As he did so, you heaved the large, unconscious man over your shoulder with a grunt and gestured for the outlaw to leave first. 

         “Damn girl, you are one strong lady.” Arthur comments with a laugh, shaking his head as he walks out with his hands up in an attempt to make you trust him. You roll your eyes and watch as he takes a step to leave before stopping. You raise a brow and sigh frustratedly. This wasn’t your first time fighting over a bounty, but the result of this particular conflict left your hands clean and your mind confused. 

          “What are ya doin? Git!” Your free hand falls down to your side, hovering over your gun holster, shooting a heated look in the outlaws direction. 

He scoffed before answering, “Would you relax? Was gonna ask if you was all alone out here.” 

You laughed and shook your head.

“Why on earth would I tell you that?” You’re not stupid, you know he could’ve killed you if he had wanted to, but he didn't. It’s not that you aren’t strong, in fact you were very strong,  but when you had him on the ground it wasn't hard to tell how abnormally strong he was. It would’ve taken nothing to pull your arm away and either stab or shoot you, but he didn’t. Why?

          “I dunno, maybe you’re lonely out here. You’re clearly strong,” he chuckles when he says this, gesturing to the man on the floor behind you, “but it ain’t very safe for a lady out in these parts.” He shrugged, seemingly trying to figure out why he even asked in the first place. He didn’t seem the type to care all that much about the going ons in other people’s lives, in fact he seemed like he would otherwise be guarded and closed off. 

        “I ain’t no lady, sir. I’ve done a lot of very bad things to a lot of people. Good and bad.” You shook your head, and continued. “It ain’t very safe for anyone out in these parts. Everyone robbin’, killin’, shootin’, I ain’t the only one that has to look out for myself.” With a sigh, you place your gun back in your holster. ‘Is this guy leaving soon or what?’ you think to yourself. He seems to think about what you’re saying for a minute, pulling down his bandana to scratch at his stubble. And oh, oh god. He’s hot. So hot you swear the colour drained from your face and immediately came back as a bright red. Your breath hitches in your throat and you clear your throat.

         “Well, I s’pose that’s true. Bye now, ma’am.” He speaks, snapping you out of your brief trance. You watch as he leaves, nodding at you as the door shuts behind him. You wait about 2 minutes to see if ‘Arthur’ and his friend ‘John’ would re-enter the small cabin, guns drawn. However, they didn’t, and so you secure the unconscious man onto the back of your Arabian, and leave.

𐂂

Truthfully, Arthur didn’t want to hurt a woman, whether she was pointing a gun at him or not. He could tell that she was bluffing the moment he unholstered his gun and pointed it right back at her, too clear that she wouldn’t have shot him unless he tried to hurt her. This worried him, why isn’t her first instinct to kill an intruder, especially a male intruder? Besides this, the gang could use someone who was strong, capable, and actually stealthy. You would be perfect for late-night stagecoach robberies, silently slinking into barns while someone else distracted the homeowner. Even if this was true, he knew Mrs. Grimshaw would be quick to make you clean laundry and chop vegetables. 

“Arthur! Are you even listening to me?” John speaks, interrupting his thoughts. 

“No.” Arthur replies cheekily, looking at John under the brim of his hat. He wasn’t listening, how could he? He had just missed an incredible opportunity to bring someone useful to the camp, and he didn’t. 

“I was asking what happened with that bounty, asshole.” John scoffed, riding alongside Arthur on their way back to camp, $50 sitting in each of their pockets from a couple street robberies. 

Arthur sighed before speaking, “There was a girl, she got to him first.”

“And you just left? Let her take him?” Astounded, John shakes his head and picks up his pace. “What is happenin’ to you, Arthur Morgan? Lettin’ some girl take our bounty?” 

“What’d you want me to do John, shoot ‘er? Dutch told us to keep a low profile, not to go around killin’ young girls for a $75 bounty.” He scoffed, hearing voices appear in the distance and the rather unappetizing scent of Pearson's stew. Whatever John said next, he didn’t hear.   Arthur hitched his horse and strode over to the collection box, giving $30 and keeping $20 before retreating to his tent and bedroll for the night. He kicked off his boots and sat down, retrieving his journal from his messenger bag to write about his day. He pondered what to write about, but he already knew. 

He wanted to write about you. 

PLEEEEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS!!! i really struggle w accurately writing characters to how they are !!! if anything is corny/needs changes LET ME KNOW!! ok love u all hope u enjoyed!! chapter 2 should hopefully be out by next week<3

(also pls like + reblog ok thanks BAIIIII)

[finniestoncrane]

Anonymous for obvious reasons; can I request some nasty foul Micah non-con? Something about him just…taking what he wants from me. Maybe at gun point, definitely violent…Please don’t judge me >.<

Micah Bell x Fem!Reader, word count: 5.5k anon i would NEVER judge you for real ❤️ i do think something is wrong with me, or us, based on how into him i am like some of his voice lines are??? and all of his actions are questionable and irredeemable and yet here i am so thank you anon for allowing me to indulge this prompt is perfect for him he is so punishable by immediate death ❤️ request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: noncon, rape, coercion, dead dove seriously, threats, guns, rough vaginal sex, throat fucking/face fucking, fingering, breeding kink, slapping, choking, degradation, brief OH SO TINY insinuation that micah would fuck you dead if he had to

So far, Clemens Point seemed perfect. It'd only been three days since everyone had packed up and quickly retreated further South, but in those three days you'd found peace like you hadn't known for months, years maybe. It was nice, having a sense of community, being in the safety of close quarters, but finally getting some leg room was worth the minor sacrifice of not having to wake up looking at Swanson every single morning.

Yes, you were all running and hiding. Yes, that wasn't the plan. But this camp, for now at least, provided you with a chance to escape from what felt like your own relentless hunter.

At Horsehoe Overlook, you couldn't exhale without Micah being there to seemingly inhale your breath. There wasn't a way to wash and dress in the morning without his eyes leering at you, or any of the other girls. Not even the piercing, ill-wishing stare of Miss Grimshaw seemed to stave him off for any decent amount of time.

The outskirts of the camp provided safety, solitude. The trees dampened the sounds of the others, blocked you from their view. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shoreline deafened you to the talking, the shouting, the snoring, the laughing, the drunken singing. All of it was good, in moderation, but sometimes you needed the escape. Silence, alone. It was good, until it wasn't.

"There she is."

The voice was low, gravelly, something cruelly mischievous underneath the words. Unmistakeably Micah.

Before you could turn to face him, offering him a few choice words of your own, you heard another sound. A quick but familiar click as he lifted one of his revolvers to the side of your head. As you let out the breath you were holding, he began to chuckle.

"Oh, ho... not quite quick enough, were you."

He walked around you, gun still pressed to your skull, the cold metal unfortunately pleasant against your skin in the sweltering heat that persisted even into the dark of night.

"I ain't much of a hunter, but you're just about the perfect prey. Completely oblivious, head in the clouds. Daydreaming about what? Me?"

You scoffed, the sound still low as your disdain for him allowed your fear of him to override it. He was weak in morals, in constitution, in loyalty and goodness. But he was physically strong, and you knew better than to put him in a bad mood.

Micah circled around you, the gun now holstered once more. You weren't going to run, not yet, and he knew that.

"I see now why you like it out here so much. Quiet. Can barely hear the camp..."

You swallowed the lump in your throat as quietly as possibly, trying not to let him know that his strange monologuing was getting to you.

"... I guess that means that they can't hear us."

It was now or never. You were so certain he was bluffing, confident that he wouldn't actually hurt you. And while you were still new to the group, relatively, you had quickly learned how things worked in the Van Der Linde gang. Surely, the hierarchy, the unspoken and loudly spoken rules hadn't been forgotten by him.

But as you moved to take a step you felt a dull thud against your collar bone, a swelling, radiating pain that shot out through your nervous systems in ringing echoes. He'd smacked you with the butt of his gun, and while the realisation that he had struck your body was a surprise to you, Micah was calm, smiling, like he'd known it was going to come to that at some point or another. And as if the sudden physical violence hadn't been enough, he brought his body into yours and pinned you to the three, keeping you there by minimal physical force, mostly by threat.

"Uh, uh... think carefully, you ain't that stupid."

He pressed the revolver against your temple once more, watching as you winced as the barrel came into contact with your skin.

"What is the point in having all of you useless women around if it takes a gun to the head to get you to fuck me."

In a moment of bravery, sensing that this might be your chance to go out with a fight, you spat out your words.

"What makes you think that your gun is going to persuade me?"

Micah laughed, a deep, cruel chuckle that echoed in among the trees. He was deeply amused by your insolence, able to sense the shaking in your voice, the cowardice that failed to back up the words. He cut his laughter short with a grunt as he stepped into you, pressing your back against a tree, clicking the hammer of his gun and leaning into your face. You could smell the whisky on his breath, feel his hair against your cheek as he threatened you.

"Because if you don't, I will not hesitate to pull this trigger, you silly bitch."

Your eyes flitted towards the camp, wondering if it was worth it to scream or shout. How quickly could they get to you? And which of them would care enough to rush?

It was almost as if he was in your head, his filthy fingers scraping through your mind and reading your thoughts.

"Pointless. You mean nothing to them. You don't bring in money. You don't offer up your services. How many socks do you think - need - darning?"

He punctuated his words by dragging the tip of his tongue along the shell of your ear, letting his lips linger before he started again.

"I could say I saw you stalking around the trees, shot you before I realised who it was. Maybe I've done us all a favour? Shooting a sneaky little thief? Or a rat? Maybe I shot you for good reason? And who are they going to believe?"

There was no response you could think of that wouldn't make things worse. None that would make it better either. So you kept quiet, instead focusing your attention on him. Intense eye contact that told him, silently, that he wasn't quite intimidating you as much as he hoped he might. It didn't deter him, and he continued speaking, his breath lingering in the air in front of you, rancid and sweet, tobacco and whisky.

"What is it that you come out here to do anyway, huh? All on your own. Just lusty ideas and busy fingers, I bet."

The insinuation strucka chord within you. He can't have known, surely. And besides, it was hardly the most sinful act. At least you weren't doing it on your sleeping roll next to anyone else, not like you'd seen some of the men do.

"I've seen the way you look at the men in camp. Hot and bothered when they're shirtless. Desperate. Pathetic, really. And yet, you've turned me down so many times. Why is that? Really pisses me off, you know?"

His words were so pleading, as though he were desperate for answers that he already knew. But how happy would he have been to hear your truth? That he was repulsive, cruel, disgusting, vile. That you'd rather take Strauss than him. As you wondered whether it was worth the risk to put him down a little, you were interrupted by the sound of him grunting.

Micah's free hand was working at the belt of his pants, unbuckling it and loosening it enough to slide it through the loops in one single, fluid motion. He slung it over his shoulder and then, when his hand was free once again, he cupped at his crotch, a visible and until now unnoticed bulge at the front signalling what his intentions were.

"I'm only going to ask you once more politely. Are you gonna fuck me, or not?"

"In your dreams."

He smiled wide, chuckling with a snort before the grin faded, teeth gritted as he spat out his words.

"Well, I'm glad we cleared that up."

You watched him carefully as he moved closer to you, his body pressing against yours, keeping you locked in between him and the tree. You closed your eyes tightly shut as he leaned in to whisper into your ear, your whole body cringing, a grimace pulling at the corners of your mouth as his lips grazed over your skin.

"Let's just get this started then. And I'll remind you. Keep. Quiet. One little peep of anything other than a moan or some well-deserved praise on my part, and I'll hunt you down and make sure this little secret dies with you. Understand?"

Although you nodded, the second he seemed to bring his focus to his trousers to unfasten the belt, you decided you had to take the risk and shout for someone, anyone, to hear you.

"Please hel-"

The ill-advised scream for assistance was cut short quick enough that it could have been mistaking for the yelping of a coyote, for a squeal of a nearby bird. Micah's hand was over yours,

"You shut your mouth, whore! If anyone comes running to us, I'll ruin you. Not exactly like you're a willing participant now, won't make a difference to me if you're not breathing either."

His hands fell from his pants, now curled around your wrists as he held you far too tight, making sure his point was made. You nodded, this time in complete understanding and truth, turning your head away from him as he smiled so cruelly at the tears that welled up in your eyes.

"Crying won't help much. It just adds to the delight for me. Now, I'm on the verge of losing my appetite for you..."

He growled, the words hissing, stinging, as though they were meant to encourage you to give way to him, like this was a favour he was doing for you.

"... so I think we should get started. You wanna take the lead?"

Micah gestured to the tent at the front of his stained white pants, and you responded with confusion.

"You want me to...?"

"I'm not in the mood to do all the work here, woman... Just get on with it!"

Slowly, and not meant to be sensually, you pulled his pants down, freeing his cock and noting that he wasn't wearing any underwear. The scent of his sweat was overwhelming, even on the breeze. Certain you'd be forced to take it eventually, you studied him. He was thick, above average in terms of what you'd seen of most men, although he was fully erect so you imagined that helped to make it seem more threatening. Below his stomach there was a mound of thick, unruly, dark blonde hair which coverered his balls and reached just short of the round of his belly. You wondered if it would feel the same against your skin as the scratchy handle-bar moustache that covered most of his face did.

A quick glance up to him was met with an expectant expression as he waited for you to do what you both knew was coming. So you took a hold of his cock, curling your fingers around the shaft, letting your palm grip it as you began to pump your fist slowly up and down. The moment your hand started stroking, he tossed his head back in satisfaction and relief. You were doing exactly as you were told, and he was oddly grateful, though he had no intentions of thanking you. Instead he hissed out a nasty comment, hoping to remind you of your place despite his groans of pleasure.

"That's it... you're good for something after all, huh?"

Despite yourself, you offered him a grunt of dismissal, knowing that any indication of you being present in this was more than he deserved, but just what he was trying to get from you.

"I gotta say though, girly... your hands, they're awful soft. Ain't seen a single day of hard work have they?"

You remained silent, not wanting to give him anything. There was no right answer, no correct reply. If you could just focus on this, on letting him finish up, then you could go back to the camp and work on pretending this never happened. But Micah answered in your place, a thinlt veiled threat.

"Well, I'll make sure to work you to the bone, lady."

Focusing on the task literally at hand was your only saving grace, but it meant you had found yourself getting a little carried away. Your hand was firmer, wrapped around his cock tight as you noticed the stronger your grip, the more he bucked his hips. The happier he was, the less likely he was to kill you, you reasoned. And if you could just get him to finish, as quick as all the other men you'd dealt with, then he might not have the energy to fuck you or to make you put his disgusting cock in your mouth.

Your free hand worked it's way towards his balls, cupping them gently before holding them in the same grip as his cock, watching as Micah hissed and squirmed, almost losing his balance. You loosened up, afraid you might have gone too far, but he thrust his hips back towards you.

"You can't promise that and then take it away. You got nothing better to do than rile me up?"

There was a distinct satisfaction in causing him pain, even if it was a sting that only served to arouse him further. Digging your fingernails into the tender skin of his balls gave you pleasure, but the twitch of his cock, the throbbing veins against your hand, quickly wiped anything good from your mind. Micah's strained whines turned into a choked laugh as he spoke, knowing you didn't care to hear anything he had to say, good or bad, about the experience.

"Oh, I knew you were a dirty girl. It might have been hiding under the surface, but I bring it out of them. I always do."

He grabbed your chin, lifting your face, directing your gaze to his. It was a brief moment of raw intimacy that made your stomach churn, your blood seemingly squirming through your veins as he spoke to you, lips carefully forming the words as his eyes took you in. Subservient, at his feet, there to please him.

"I love to see a pretty little thing working hard."

You tried to keep your face neutral, desperate not to sneer in his face as he continued through his own smirk.

"Why don't you put those purty lips around it, see if I taste as good as I look, HA!"

That one sharp, arrogant laugh was followed by a ridiculous giggle which ended with a snort as he inhaled. He moved closer, taking his cock from your hand, wrapping his own palm around it as he shook it in front of your face. Sensing that now was not the time to argue, you opened your mouth, only slightly, as he pressed the head of his cock, slick with precum, against your lips.

"Don't test me, woman. Open your god damn mouth. Wider."

You were slow to move, letting your lips fall open hesitantly, unable to make the process any quicker as your body refused to agree. Your jaw swung open in shock though, as the back of Micah's hand cracked against your cheek.

"Now, lady! Hurry the fuck up."

It pained you to obey his instructions, but you did as you were told regardless. Letting your lower jaw open, you found it quickly filled with his cock as he gripped it at the base and pushed it in along your tongue. THe brutality of the motion, clumsy, without regard for either of you, meant your teeth scraped along the top of his length. Micah placed his thumb and forefinger on either side of your chin, tugging it down to open you up more with a hiss.

"Be careful with those teeth, lady."

The taste of him was one you wouldn't forget. You could already feel it settling against your tastebuds, seeping into them, thick and musky, the tang of his precum at the back of your throat as he let himself really enjoy the experience.

Bringing your hands up, you rested them on his protruding stomach, ignoring the pang in your heart as you realised the affectionate insinuation it brought in favour of the control it gave you. At least in this position, you could push against him, stop him from pressing his cock further down your throat. He was already choking you, the head tapping against the back of your tongue, making you gag as he laughed in delight. Your saliva dripped down your chin, spilling from the corners of your mouth as you coughed and spluttered.

Micah's lips curled into a smile, pushed out into a silent "oh" with a pout as you tried your best to encourage him to cum there, flat against your tongue, hitting the back of your throat. You'd hate it, the taste of him lingering, no option but to swallow quickly, but at least it would be over. It seemed he had other plans, though, as he had noticed that your mind was wandering from the task at hand.

Instead of punishing you, as he wanted to for this lack of enthusiasm, he grinned a wide, false smile and his voice dripping in a sickly sweet and very put on tone.

"Aw, you feeling left out? Well, don't you worry. Micah Bell knows how to share the wealth around."

With a loud pop, his cock was pulled from your lips. Strands of drool dripped to your chin and the ground, sticking to the grass and glistening in the moonlight. As he adjusted himself, his cock bounced, glinting similarly with your saliva.

You realised that this was going to be a longer ordeal than you anticipated, and you scrambled for any excuse to get him back in your mouth so you could finish the job, standing up from your knees and trying to face him straight on so he could see the desperation in your eyes. It was a ridiculous notion, that you could appeal to any morals within him, but it was worth a try.

"No, it's... it's fine. Please, let me focus on you. Was I not doing a good enough job? I can try harder? Please? Please just-"

He wasn't having it. Before you could move your head out of the way, his hands were reaching up towards you, holding his belt between them and pressing the leather into your mouth, your head banging roughly against the tree behind you, held in position as he buckled and tightened the belt against the bark on the other side.

"Hng... mmmm... icah... ease... on't, ease..."

The words were muffled, formed poorly as your lips strained to meet each other.

"Don't strain yourself, you'll like this. I promise."

He sank to his knees, an odd sight to see. But his dominance was unquestionable. There was no denying he was in control, and enjoying every second of what he viewed to be a little bit of servitude, a little bit of pleasure, but definitely a lot of cruelty as he held your undesired pleasure in his hands.

Micah's fingers pinched the hem of your skirt, teasing at it before he began to lift it little by little, exposing your calves, your thighs, and then, much to your dismay, your cunt.

"No drawers? Well... aren't you just full of surprises."

He breathed in deep with his chuckling, nostrils flared as he leaned closer to you.

"I can practically feel the heat coming off of you! Tempting... very tempting."

Your body twitched in response to the soft ghosting of his fingers against the tuft of pubic hair, his fingertips dropping to your warm lips, cupping his palm over your cunt between your legs. He held you there, gripping tight, before he slid one finger between your lips, bringing it round to the front, his hand curling back out from your thighs, that one pointed finger tapping over your clit as he retreated. With his hand in front of his face he sniggered again.

"You can't tell me you're having a bad time, not when my fingers are covered in evidence to the contrary, lady."

In a move that made you shiver involuntarily, whether that was in excitement or disgust you couldn't tell, he brought his slicked fingers away from your body, lifting them to his nose to inhale your scent. And then, serpentine in the way it moved, he pressed his tongue out and tasted you on him. The satisfactory groan he made settled in your chest as you waited for him to return to you. But instead of reaching for your swollen cunt, he gripped at your skirt, pulling at it, tugging it down your waist.

"Let's get this off you then, sweetheart, and we'll see just what you got underneath. Gotta get a good look at what we're workin' with here."

Now half-naked against the tree, you let your eyes dart towards the camp, unsure if you actually wanted people to come find you now. The fear of being seen, completely embarrassed, the risk of them misreading the situation made your blood run cold. And worse than even that, you realised that the revolting arousal coiling in your stomach was only growing. Each stroke of his rough fingers against your cunt was only making you hotter and more desperate for any kind of relief. Micah was teasing you, successfully. He was a bully, towards everyone at camp, anyone he deemed weaker than him, and more often than not, those that he knew were stronger than him too. There was no difference between the snide or sleazy remarks he hollered at people as they walked past him and the cruel way he was holding you in the palm of his hand. But past the irritation, there was something pleasurable in the tortuous way he had taken control.

Micah's fingers slipped in and out of you with ease, your arousal wet and welcoming as you felt yourself closing in on an orgasm. You knew he could sense it. Your muscles tensed, your breathing was laboured, and your throat had relaxed enough to let loose a small, continuous whine that brought another, devilish smile to his lips. And yet, he didn't stop. He was going to make you cum. He was going to be responsible for your climax. And you were surprised that he would do that, let alone bother to get this far. He had always struck you as a selfish man in every regard, not least of all in dishing out any semblance of joy to others. And especially not in relation to any women. But here he was, calloused fingers pumping in and out of you while his thumb tapped against that seldom regarded bud that made you whimper and tremble.

"You're getting there, huh? I told you before so many times, I ain't as bad as you and all the others think I am."

He paused, looking to see if there was any change in your eyes, in the way you viewed him. You hoped he wouldn't see that glimmer of recognition of his more positive attributes.

"You regret spurning my advances now, lady? Wish you hadn't been missing out all this time? Well, we can always remedy that. You and me... we got a lot of lost time to make up for."

His sentence closed with that same chuckle, ending in what was becoming his signature snort. A sound you'd regarded in public as grotesque but which in private you had to admit added a certain amount of innocent, almost falliable charm to him.

As you considered the sweet sound, innocent in its way, your back arched away from the tree. Your nec strained, mouth still bound by the belt, trying to keep your balance and losing the strength of your muscles as they tensed into a complete, dull, numbness.

"You can bite down on that belt if you want. I'll wear your teeth marks like a sign of my achievement."

With that crude sentiment you felt your body tremble into release, surges of pleasure chasing after your nerve endings, reminding you of the way that the spark of the plunger let the flames rush towwards dynamite. And there it was, your own explosion. Micah's arm was around your back, holding you as he kept his fingers pumping in and out long after your muffled groans had petered out. He let you rock yourself on him, soothing your body as you came down from the high, hushing you, stroking your hair and kissing your neck almost tenderly as he lowered you back down against the tree.

"Sh, sh, sh. There, there, that's a good girl."

You were murmuring against the leather, not even sure of what you were trying to say, when he reached for the belt buckle.

"I did something for you, now you're going to behave for me, yeah?"

You nodded and he unbuckled you from the tree, keeping you pinned there with his body against you. You weren't going to run though. You were close to the end. It would have been a fool's move to try and escape when you'd already given up so much, and were this close to the freedom you had known just a short time before. And besides that, he was correct. He'd done something for you. And you were undeniably grateful, as much as you loathed to consider that fact.

"Not long now, girl. We're almost done. But you gotta let me get mine now, that's just polite."

Without stopping to think, you nodded, agreeing with him a little more enthusiastically than you wanted to. Anything to have this over with, that's what you could tell yourself, and anyone else who found out. The sooner he commenced with that was coming, the sooner you could go back to camp and scrub yourself clean in the river. If you were quick enough, you might not have to let the fact that you were enjoying yourself settle in. You could forget it ever happened, never have to fear returning to this moment in your nightmares, or more likely, your more pleasant dreams.

"Now, did you know that it's been quite a while since old Micah Bell has seen any action?"

It did, actually. For all that he was away from camp, you imagine that he might be in brothels or saloons, paying for what he wanted or taking it by force as he was now.

"We're just so busy these days, on the run from the law. Can't find the time to woo a girl proper. And none of you in camp are interested. You all think you're too good or me."

It was as if he had angered himself just by thinking about it, irritated enough by your previous rejections that he grabbed your arm, fingers pinching your skin, and turning you around forcefully. Then, his palms were on your shoulders, pushing you to your knees once more, the worn toe of his boot between your shoulder blades as he kicked you onto all fours.

"In fact I think the last time... yeah, it was Jenny! You never met her, but boy, she was a dirty little thing. Not quite as filthy as you are though. You're much worse. Which believe me, is far better. You feel better, even. Taste better too."

With very little grace he began to pull his pants down, shuffling unceremoniously until they were at his ankles. His legs, now exposed, were a concerning sight. Sparse, light blonde hair covered his limbs and did a poor job at concealing the extensive bruising on his skin. In what you imagined must have been a painful move, given the scrapes that currently marred his knees, he sank down to the ground, lowering himelf to your level. He knelt on one leg at one side of you, the other side trapped by his foot which was planted firmly on the ground. And then he pulled at your hips, bringing you closer to him. The heat of his cock, the sticky texture of his precum, settled aganst your rear as he shifted between your cheeks, trying to work himself to the correct angle.

"It's a shame what happened to her, you know. She could've been carrying Micah Bell the fourth for all I know. And then she was snuffed out."

There was almost a sense of regret, of genuine sorrow, in his tone. But he quickly snuffed it out with a continuation of the crude remarks you knew so well.

"No problem, I can try again with you. Let's see if we can't carry on this great lineage after all. You'd make fine breeding stock."

He made a playful grab for your hips, palms sliding underneath you as his fingers gripped at your stomach before he pulled them away from your body to his own. He spat onto his palm and rubbed it along his length, gripping his cock at the base and positioning it against your ready, swollen lips. And then he pushed himself inside of you with a deep and pleading grunt.

"Stallion like me? Who wouldn't pay for me to stud. You're lucky you're getting it for free."

Micah began rutting into you, his cock throbbing against your walls, stretching it as he pressed deeper into you. Your walls clenched, body tense as he grabbed desperately at your waist. Each grunt seemed higher in pitch, weaker towards the end as his voice trailed off into a whine. You could feel him trembling, his knees shaking almost immediately, which meant he was close to finishing. The ordeal was almost over, and yet you noticed yourself clenching tighter, muscles contracting around him, trying to keep him there within you for just a few more seconds. You were taking pride in the soft praise he was muttering, words about how warm you were, how inviting you seemed, wet and waiting, a fool for rejecting him, clever enough to take him up on the offer next time.

"You're all so prissy... hng... so scared of me... But it's really not that bad is it? Heh... You can tell them all ...ah... if you want... tell them... tell them Micah Bell did you good."

He tossed his head back, a feeble whimper caught in his throat as he bucked into you hard, a sudden warmth filling you. He stayed there, twitching inside of your cunt, his cock keeping his cum inside of you until he eventually pulled out and watched as the creamy residue dripped out of you and onto the grass. His hand reached out, and for a moment you thought he might be offering it to you, a gentlemanly aid to get you off of your knees, but instead he gripped your skirt and wiped his hands on it. Then, he pulled at the fabric, rubbing it over the flushed head of his cock, cleaning himself before he started pulling his pants back up.

When you had scrambled back up and onto your feet, you were quickly pulled into a kiss, one that felt neither romantic nor necessary. It was almost as though he thought it was a courtesy, the right way to end what had just happened. You could smell yourself on his lips, and as his moustache brushed against you, the kiss deepning into something far more crude and animalistic than a pleasant goodbye, you could make out the dark smell of whisky and cigarettes, and something far more acrid lingering below even that.

Luckily, he pulled back before you began to choke for air, or gagged on his tongue which had begun to slide itself down your throat. And as you stared at him in disbelief, still not sure of how to process everything that had just happened to you, he put out his hand again, this time in a genuine gesture.

"Will you accompany me back to camp, miss?"

The shift in his tone was so strange. It sounded like there was genuine feeling, hope, behind the words. You looked at his palm, then up to his eyes, confusion settling on your brow before a grimace curled over your lips. Jilted once again, Micah spat at your feet.

"Fuck you then, lady. I don't need everyone asking questions about you and me, anyway. There's plenty of other women who could... I got better things to be doing than playing house with you."

As he walked back towards the glow of the campfires you watched him carefully, not daring to move until you were certain you could make it back safely to your mat with the other girls. And your blood ran cold as he stopped and turned on his heel, a sneer pressed into his cheeks as he spoke.

"I wouldn't go blabbing about this. If you start showing, I might make an honest woman of you. Until then..."

He pressed a finger to his lips, silencing you, before walking off with another giggle, the snort echoing between the trees as you watched his disappear at the treeline.

[laylasredemption]

I know Micah Bell is the bad guy, but hear me out, I have a few headcannons for dating him

warnings: might be toxic y'all gotta excuse me cus i've just got out of a toxic relationship myself that's how i deal with it; also smut (i really gotta write a whole smut based on these headcannons) pls guys stay away from toxic men irl read at your own risk, might be a lil messed up

The first time Micah lay his eyes on you, he knew he had to have you, and he knew how to get what he wanted. You were much younger than him, probably somewhere in your early to mid 20s, and he knew how to talk you into thinking he could be the big, scary guard dog, protect you from the evil of this cruel world.

Maybe you even had the tendency to fall for the bad men, and he quickly found that out. Let's be real, he could read you like an open book, so it didn't take long for him to realize how naive and impressionable you are. It was so easy to manipulate your emotions however he wanted to, and you thought he's the only one who truly understands you.

Other gang members would notice that, of course, and they would try to make you realize how wrong this is. But Micah would make sure you don't chat with them too long. He'd barge into the conversation, say something to the other person about not bothering his girl, and drag you away.

He wouldn't physically punish you, or that's what I want to believe, but his words would cut deep into your heart. Almost as if his words were bullets and you were his favourite target (nessa barrett referance), he'd especially try to shatter your self esteem, calling you stupid for believing even for a moment what others say.

The emotional rollercoaster, god, Micah could be so sweet to you one moment if there was something he wanted to gain from you, if he wanted you to believe in his good side. You'd often ditch your morals for him, and he'd reward you with affection, maybe a kiss if you're being really good.

Then his mood could change in a moment. Like walking on eggshells, you make one wrong move, and in the best case he's giving you the silent treatment. In other, less pleasant, cases he would again call you stupid, dumb, anything to tear your self esteem down.

GASLIGHTING!! I totally see him saying stuff like "You must be crazy if you think I [insert something he definitely did]."

He'd never make the relationship official, but at the same time he'd say he'd kill any man who tried to take you from him.

Lying, lying, lying. He'd lie to you so much you wouldn't know what to believe anymore. This and false promises to get on your good side again.

Now the NSFW part

POWER PLAY he'd love to be in charge in bedroom as much as outside of it, having you submit to him is what gets him off, he'd love pushing your boundaries, testing how far he can go with you. He has some dark fantasies and he'd try to get you to try them out.

He's never gentle. We all know he's a lil sick in the head, so he'd always be rough in bed. The louder you scream the better.

His fav position would be doggy, partially because he could push your head into the bed, the ground, or whatever there was underneath you, and partially because he could just grab your hips, digging his nails into your skin, and slam all the way in and out of you, the head of his cock bruising your cervix.

You'd always be sooo sore on the next day, not just inside from all the pounding, but also outside from the bites and scratches he had left on your body. And your ass would be definitely bruised because y'all can't tell me this man ain't into spanking the hell out of you.

During sex he'd love to tell you that you belong to him. He'd keep making you say it, asking you who you belong to. Especially if he'd seen you talking to any male gang members that day. Oh, and of course, he'd say something like "Bet he could never fuck you like this."

As much as he doesn't want to commit to you, he'd love to see the marks he left on your body, indicating you belong to him.

He would make you cum, just because he wants you to think no one else can bring such pleasure to you. But there would be absolutely no aftercare. He's cold and distant. He got what he wanted, that's all that matters for him.

I feel like he would definitely use sex as something to distract you if he makes a mistake. And if you make a mistake? He either fucks your brains out or he turns you on just to not let you even get undressed nor touch yourself.

Honestly, he wouldn't mind people overhearing. Hell, he'd be even into getting caught. At least that would show others that you belong to him and no one else can touch you.

I feel like he'd be into gunplay, using his guns on you during sex, holding a gun to your head while he's fucking into you or when you're sucking him off. You'd have no idea about it, but he wouldn't take the bullets out beforehand. He didn't plan to pull the trigger, but if the gun was to fire on its own, the danger only added to his arousal. He's a sick man, what can I say?

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

Like Real People Do - Part 1

Masterlist Word count: 1.9 k Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Summary: Arthur Morgan doesn't quite feel like a person sometimes. Most days he's just an outlaw, a killer, a thief, a bad excuse for a good time. He's been doing this so long; he isn't even sure if he ever wanted to do anything else in life. That is until a barmaid asks him to walk her home and suddenly he gets a slice of normalcy.

Author's note: I can't for the life of me figure out why it won't let me post my whole stories on here. If anyone knows why, please let me know what I need to do.

'What can I get ya, mister?' Arthur grumbles in response before looking up at the barmaid. She looks too clean, too kind, to be here. She smiles and he hears angels singing. Cheeks rosy red, eyes like gemstones, she's pure. But she has the scars to prove she's been her a while. He notices the callouses on her hands, the scars on her arms, and the big scar running vertically through the left side of her lips to her jaw.  'Don't matter. Anything to take the edge off,' he tells her, his words raspy like crumpled up paper. She smiles a little brighter and puts a glass in front of him that she fills with bourbon.  'That should help,' she states and slides the glass over to him. He nods a thanks to her and tries to peel his eyes away to look over the bar. It's quite empty this time of day, then again, morning ain't really the time to be drinking. When he can't find anything to keep him entertained in the saloon, he looks back over to the barmaid, who is cleaning glasses in front of him with a rag that is cleaner than he has ever seen one in this particular saloon. She glances over at him. 'What brings you this early in the morn’?'  'Rough night.'  'I can imagine,' she says with a chuckle.  'Hey sweet cheeks! Can we get another bottle?' Arthur's head snaps towards the two men in the corner who so rudely interrupted their little talk, if you can even call it that. They look beyond drunk, beyond caring. But, the barmaid does as asked and brings them a bottle. 'Yeah, that's what I'm talking about,' the grimey man says when she puts the bottle down. He stands up and pulls the barmaid into his chest, groping what he can for the split second he has her before Arthur pulls him off. Like it's nothing, he pushes the man back into his chair.  'Listen here friend, I do not care about you. I do not care that you are here, I have no quarrel with you. But disrespect the lady and you have got a fight on your hands. Friend. Behave, or I'll make sure that that is your last drink.'  'Are you threatenin’ me mister?'  'No, simply making a promise.' Arthur puts his hand on the small of the barmaid's back to lead her back to the bar. She walks back behind it with a bit of shock still lingering on his face and he returns to his drink.  'Thank you mister.'  'No problem.' 

Continued on AO3

[zhimaqiu]

“This God damned wind”

Word count: 900-1000

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57341785

Paring: You & Javier Escuella, no established feelings - could be read however your heart desires

Reader info: Gender neutral reader, 2nd person, past tense

Summary: Reverse comfort, but with a dosage of restraint.

You notice Javier passing time at the edge of the camp and he doesn't seem entirely okay to you.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was that song again. The sad song one could only heard late at night if a certain someone couldn't sleep.

"Angel de amor, tu pasion no la comprendo..."

You raised your head from a book you tried to read at the camp table when Javier's quiet voice reached your ears.

He was sitting alone, at the edge of the camp in Horseshoe Overlook, leaning on a trunk that was usually occupied by John. But scar-face was asleep, so Javier could enjoy the solitude; or maybe he simply felt like singing, wanting to distance himself enough so he doesn't wake the others. Whatever it was, that night Javier's voice... broke a couple of times. It wasn't a challenging or a new song for him – didn't make sense that Javier's angelic voice could falter.

Keeping the book in your hands, you made your way to him, not caring much about making noise. Bill, Sean and Reverend were dead asleep, either snoring or buried under covers. The cold of Heartland's nights wasn't as bad as the one in the mountains, but Miss Grimshaw kept reminding everyone this still ain't a tropical island. You had a thick coat on you arms, Javier however lacked anything on his.

"You alright, Javier?" You stopping next to him when he finished the lyrics.

"I'll be fine. No need to worry," he answered without looking at you.

His fingers still worked on the guitar's strings elongating the melody until he finally letting it die when you knelt next to him.

"You shouldn't sit on the ground." A pat on the grass let you know how chill and wet it was. "Might catch a cold from that and we don't have the greatest doctor in the camp."

"Are you sure Miss Grimshaw's spirit hasn't possessed you? Who knows, maybe it travels between us when she's asleep."

You laughed at his joke and patted his arm. "Come on, let's get back to the camp fire. No one will mind if you sing there."

"I ain't exactly concerned with that." He looked at you, his eyes reflecting the moonlight and fire. "It's the only time Marston doesn't occupy my favorite spot."

"You can always tell him to get. He doesn't own the place," you grumbled, looking back at his tent. It was time to get the rest of the tents to look like that. Wind could get into Javier's way too easily. It barely protected him from rain.

"Yea..." His voice was more raspy when he drifted away for a moment, straining his answer. "But I want to let him enjoy himself a bit more after that mountain business."

"Do that too much and he will be even more spoiled than he already is."

"Can't get much worse."

You both laughed, Javier leaning back and looking up the stars as he calmed down. The leaves, shaking on the wind, covered the most of the bear constellations, but the view to the west was free as the west itself. No wonder so many members of the gang subconsciously looked in that direction when enjoying the view. What a coincidence.

"You... might be right about that cold." Javier shivered a little standing up and offering you a hand to stand up. "The campfire doesn't sound so bad after all. Maldito viento..."

"I think Charles made some... cherry juice. Not sure what that exactly is, but he got some cinnamon in it. Expressive stuff. Real good and sweet when you warm it. Sounds good?"

"For sure," he responded with a smile.

Once you were back at the fire, he leaned on his guitar as he watched you take out the jug with the juice and warmed it on the open fire. His gaze hazy as he began drifting away from the warmth and the delicious scent. Sweet aroma of cherries mixed with faint spiciness of cinnamon melting his previous worries away.

You poured the drink from the metal cup you warmed it up in into a glass and passed it to him, warning him that you weren’t sure how hot it is. He thanked with a nod and smelled it, a cat-like smile making his face relax. It only widened further when he tasted it.

“You know, amigo," you began trying your best in his language, "you deserve some good, warm rest." You reaches for a blanket and threw it over his shoulders. “You did great on that last job.”

In fact, he simply looked sick and didn’t act nor smelled like typical drunk Javier. You didn’t have a good excuse to check his temperature, so you figured the best way is to just prevent it the best you could, without making him think you worry that much.

He swayed from side to side, melting away. Fever must have taking him over when he leaned on your shoulder, his forehead brushing against your neck. You sighed and patted his shoulder, feeling how hot it was.

“Come on, time for bed,” you encouraged him and pulled him towards his tent.

No complain left his mouth when he lied down setting the glass down. You tugged him in and took of his hat and loosened his jet black hair. Javier yawned and sniffed again reaching for your arm.

“Thanks,” he murmured and smiled when you put your hand on his, squeezing reassuringly.

“As Dutch would say," you made fun on his voice, "We. Need you strong.”

You barely heard his little chuckle before he quickly fell asleep and felt his hand slip away. He didn't need much. Just a friend to get him there without pushing it.

[noxspluto]

in another world, Arthur would be at peace with the love of his life, drawing her until the sun sets and brushing his horse without any worry at all.

[devnmon]

dating dutch van der linde hcs

a/n: i am on such a dutch kick these days. my writing inspo has come back and somehow i'm even more down bad for dutch van der linde these days so... here you go!!!! enjoy xx

sfw and nsfw below the cut <3

SFW

Contrary to popular belief that Dutch is all rough around the edges, I firmly believe he'd have a soft spot for his partner. Sure, he shows his kindness to folks who need it, but for you he has a special place in his heart.

He melts when you smile, when you laugh, when you look his way or walk past his tent. His dark eyes can't help but lock onto you like magnets. He's entranced by you- by everything you do.

Dutch learns what you like very quickly; your favorite book, meal, color, favorite spots in the local towns... like the back of his hand. He's very observant.

Though he speaks well and often, there's nothing to him like sitting and letting you rant about anything you'd like. Your voice is a river of honey and he'd gladly dive head first just to enjoy the time spent with you.

Like I said, Dutch pays attention; it's no wonder when he returns from the city with a new outfit for you, specially made with the highest quality fabrics and production he could find. He knows what flatters your figure but also keeps in mind what you like to wear.

So when you walk into camp wearing it, just for him, he's speechless. Hand on his chest, out of breath speechless.

Dutch lives for your compliments and flirting. Absolutely lives for it. From you, oh it's absolute heaven. He feels like a god being fed bread and wine while sat on a throne. There's nothing like it to him. Nothing compares to your praises.

You'd allow him to recite his favorite passages from Evelyn Miller whenever he was feeling up to it; you loved hearing him talk about absolutely anything as long as he was speaking to you. And he makes philosophy seem so much more intriguing with that gruff voice of his. If I had to give it a scent/taste, dark chocolate or whiskey would be most accurate.

Dutch is the typical gentleman: making sure you're safely escorted around if he cannot accompany you, and when he does, it's with a hand on the small of your back or while your hands are interlocked. He must be maintaining contact with you whenever possible... it's his guilty pleasure.

The more time you spend with him, the more your routines intertwine and line up perfectly, making the days seem ages longer than they are. From waking up and sharing warm coffee to winding down and resting together, he makes sure to share quality time with you.

Dutch has a habit of cradling your head when you're hugging or lying in his arms. It's his protective instincts kicking in whenever you're around him.

When you're tired after getting back from a long trip, he'll carry you bridal style to his tent, undressing you while you sit upright, half asleep. He does so with multiple kisses on your cheeks and forehead, delicately helping you wind down with his soft touches.

Kissing Dutch is a joy in itself because he knows exactly what he's doing with his tongue, nevermind when his hands come into play. He's such a lovesick fool whispering "I could kiss you forever..." in your ear like that wouldn't just make you want to test that theory.

You love running little errands for Dutch or with him, stocking up on extra bullets and hair pomade so he can look his best. Making sure his shirts are always spotless and ironed. You also take pride in being the one polishing his gold chains adorned on his favorite vest (and think they compliment his waist and proportions very well).

I can also imagine him letting you run your hands through his hair while you lay together, something that relaxes him after however long and hard a day he might have had.

Sometimes when you're kissing and talking, he'll chuckle into the kiss and that'll just draw you into him even more, arms wrapped around his neck with his around your waist.

Dutch doesn't know how you pull the brightest and biggest of smiles from him, but he's damn sure he doesn't want to stop. Not even when his cheeks hurt. He holds you very dear to him.

There are days where you just want to listen to his voice, so you ask him to read you his favorite passages from the American Inferno or another philosophy book he keeps around. "Forgive me if I fall asleep, your voice is just so calming." and he wouldn't take offense to it, he'd only maintain his voice at a certain volume so you could rest peacefully.

NSFW

Dutch van der Linde is a man who draws everythingggg out. Sometimes he likes to make it worse by whispering in your ear while he touches you. (Or taunting you throughout the day with not so subtle touches)

He loves it when you disobey him because it just gives him the excuse to be rough with you. He'll make you suck him off, pushing you down on his cock before fucking you roughly.

Honorable mention: making you kiss his rings before using that very hand to deal you a spanking punishment. The cold metal makes it hurt a little more but if you've been disobedient, he won't hold back.

Dutch is a slut for pet names; in fact he will only use your first name when you've made him mad, otherwise it's "darling, miss, dearest, my love" etc.

On the other hand, you call him sir out of respect, not knowing how it absolutely wrecks him. You have to be careful lest he get all worked up and have to drag you away from your chores. Sometimes he does, whispering to you "Do you know what that does to me?" "It's out of respect sir I-" "Hush. You shouldn't address me as anything but. I just... god, you make me crazy."

Absolutely takes advantage of the clear power dynamic the two of you have, him being the leader of a very powerful gang definitely gives him that ego boost.

Loves to give and give and give. He would spend hours between your legs making you come multiple times on his tongue, just because he loves how you taste.

He's not into somno per say... but if you're exhausted and he has pent up energy, he'll take out his frustrations on you. That is, as long as you were feeling up for it.

When you sit on his lap it's only a matter of time before he gets touchy and his hands start roaming your body, exploring which spots are more sensitive than usual and taking note of your favorites.

Imagine him letting his rings get cold and fingering you so that the metal is extra stimulating on your skin. He especially loves letting them run over your nipples to watch them harden.

His morning voice is gruff and gravelly but that wouldn't stop you from dragging your hand down his broad, hair ridden chest to get him off early in the mornings. Say he had an issue he had to deal with that he put off from the night before, and he's dreading getting up and to his duties, but first you give him just a piece of heaven before he gets up to start his day.

If one day he comes back with a crick in his neck or some kind of back pain, you're the one to suggest you massage him. At first it's harmless touches that bring him such relief, but then you get carried away, dragging your hands up and down his sides as if to rile him up purposely. It's not long after you're whispering for him to relax while you take care of him, sucking him off or just simply worshiping his body with your mouth.

Loves to praise you as easy as breathing. Things like "always so ready for me, my sweetest," and "there you go darlin', taking me so well".

One night he comes back to his tent with you dressed in only his vest, your cleavage on display for him while he spots the amount of arousal between your legs. He buries himself inside you, letting you know how alluring you look for him.

You can't walk away from being in bed with Dutch without any new marks. The minute you jump his bones his mouth is all over you, placing mark after mark on your neck and down your chest. You try and convince him to not leave marks where the gang can see them, but he doesn't care. He has the power and he'll do as he wishes.

His favorite punishment for you is having you over his lap and a. either spanking you until you can't sit correctly for a week, or b. making you come over and over until you plead for him to stop. It's only then he finds whatever lotion or oil he has and massages the skin he's just bruised. Dutch may take pleasure in seeing you cry for him, but he'll be damned if he doesn't clean you up and wipe your tears before lying his head down to rest.

Aftercare consists of him still being a little cocky if he's gotten you to come multiple times, but you also see the sweet side of him while helping you clean up and making sure he didn't push you too far. Though he loves the power, he has enough self control to know when you need a little comforting touch or a bath afterwards. He'll gladly carry you there himself and help relax you for the night.

[starlight-starwrites]

a real bed

arthur morgan x female reader

summary: You’re tired. Arthur’s been gone. When he leaves you to spend another night alone, he works to make it up to you and show you exactly what you deserve. wc: 3.4k warnings: TB-doesn’t-exist au, some light/non-graphic smut note: HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY @margowritesthings​​! I loved the princess treatment prompt, I hope this is full of the fluff (and smut) you were looking for! thank you to @rdrevents​​​​​ for hosting the valentine gift exchange!

“Carrots are done,” you slide the last of the vegetables into the pot and wipe your hands on your apron.

Pearson grunts, and you accept it as the most you’ll get for a thank you. “Stew is going to be light on the meat again. Where is that man of yours?”

“He’s not…my man.” You don’t look at him when you say it, heat flaring in your face at the words. You know who he refers to, but you and Arthur still felt new. It was no secret, you admit, and after years of pining it was nice to have your affections returned. But as you fill a pail of water for the girls’ washing up, craning your neck to look over the short bridge to Shady Belle, you can see Arthur’s horse is still missing. “I don’t know where he is.”

He’d left yesterday evening after a short visit and even shorter dinner. Things were rough for the gang, but you felt it was always the roughest for Arthur. He surprised you leaving so soon after returning, and when you asked if he wouldn’t stay for the night he only smiled and said you could have the bed to yourself like you would enjoy it. You kept your mouth shut. Kissed him goodbye. Watched him ride away and disappear into the trees.

Pearson calls your attention back. “He hasn’t been hunting much.”

“Arthur’s been hunting as often as he can. He always brings back something,” you snap. You rub at your raw hands, the filled pail pushing the metal handle into your skin.

“Brings back more than most,” Pearson backtracks as soon as he hears your tone. You understand his frustration - hungry people don’t treat the camp cook too kindly - but you won’t let him blame Arthur.

You take a second pail and dip it in the water barrel to fill that one too. “If you need meat, send out Bill. He’s been sitting on his ass all day.” You stare at the man currently sitting at the table sharpening a knife.

“Bill can’t hunt for shit.”

“I can hear you,” Bill looks up with a scowl that might have made you afraid once.

“Then maybe he should practice.” The look you shoot him fixes him to his seat as you storm from both of the men, pail in each hand.

You’re tired of hearing excuses for people. Tired of feeling like only a few are doing the work for everyone. Tired of how the humid heat of Lemoyne dampens your dress with sweat. Tired of wearing boots that have long outworn their use. And tired of hearing Miss Grimshaw’s grating voice from all the way across camp.

The girls seem to catch on your sour mood and don’t say a word as you drop the buckets of water and silently take the wet clothes to the line. You pin up shirts and sheets along side Mary Beth thinking about another lonely night and how you would kill for a chance to sleep in a real bed, tucked in Arthur’s arms.

It’s a nice daydream that carries you through the chore so that by the time you return to the front of the house and see Arthur hitching his horse to the post, your first reaction is elated relief. He spots you first, pace picking up as he approaches. He doesn’t make it before he’s waylaid by Pearson.

“Mr. Morgan! Good to see you. Camp provisions have been looking a little light recently, think you can restock?”

You want to throw something at him.

Arthur barely grunts before he’s ruffling through his satchel. “It ain’t much right now, but…” he pulls out a few cuts of meat. You think maybe rabbit. “Here. See if you can’t do something with this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan! I’ll try and get this in the stew for tonight.”

You stand at Arthur’s side, once again impressed that no matter what, he always has something. You lift a hand to touch his arm when he speaks again.

“See that you do. I’ve got somewhere to be, so you’ll have fewer mouths to feed.”

Pearson’s already off to prepare the rest of dinner, but Arthur’s words strike your heart.

“What? You’re leaving again?”

He watches your hand draw back, your face fall. He nods. “We’re going out into Saint Denis tonight.”

You swallow, look at the ground. Of course. Work never ends. “Who’s goin’ with you?” At least you hope it’s someone you trust. Someone like Hosea, or Charles, or—

“You,” he says, like it was obvious. “We’re going out to the city.”

It’s the second shock of the night. “What? Arthur, I don’t really think I’m up for a job right now. It’s been a long day, and you’ve only just got back—”

His laugh is low, and his hands hold you by your upper arms. “It’s not for a job.” His hands move up and down your arms, comforting and pulling you closer.

“Got an errand to run and then…dinner. I got us a room.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. The dream from earlier suddenly feels possible. You grasp his forearms as he holds you. “A room? With a real bed?” He nods, eyes still smiling down at you. He looks as tired as you feel, and you take hold of his lapels. “Yeah, princess. With a real bed.” His hands slide over your back in an embrace. It eases something in you, the stress of camp, of surviving, of watching him leave. You don’t think about how your feet hurt or how rough your hands are. You think of this, being in Arthur’s arms, that reassuring feeling that no matter how bad things are, he still takes care of you.

You don’t have to think about it, you were ready to go as soon as he said the word ‘room’. You’re glued to his side as he walks you back to his horse, and you let him lift you up to the saddle. A trip to town for a night off sounds like heaven, but there is one thing you’re curious about as Arthur mounts up behind you.

“What exactly is the errand?”

.

You don’t know what you were expecting. Perhaps shopping for supplies, an exchange where Arthur sold some goods. Things that you had seen before. The building looks like a green house, the front filled with gorgeous ferns and flowers. Your eyes are drawn to the ceiling fan above as Arthur ushers you in, the fading sunlight filtering in through the glass casting shadows on figures and hats and frames lining the walls. An ecstatic and slightly accented voice pulls you from your observations.

“Ah, Tacitus! I am so glad to see you. And you, my dear, you must be Mrs. Kilgore, it is an absolute delight to finally meet you!” he takes a breath to lift and kiss your hand. The man barely gives you a moment to open your mouth, already talking a mile a minute. Though Arthur had told you his name is Algernon Wasp and to expect your alias, the eccentric seems so excited he all but forgot to introduce himself.

There is a dress, and it’s a wonder you’re here, and the corset gave him such trouble to make, but he is absolutely thrilled with how it turned out, and how do you like it, but oh, you can’t really say that it’s beautiful if you haven’t tried it on, and he really needs a model to know for certain it’s finished, and yes, yes it has to be you…

In any case, being stuffed into a strange man’s corset by Arthur in the back of green house is not exactly the sort of errand you had expected.

Algernon admits that the dress was not made entirely by him, but he really is the true artist behind it. The corset itself is cream, embroidered with flowers and embellishments in a deep navy blue to match the heavy skirts. He talks from the other side of the curtain while you direct Arthur on how to properly lace the corset. Both of your voices are low, movements slow. His hands linger where they can, and too often you find yourself leaning back into him. You can feel the warmth of his palm despite the layers fabric, and when he finally ties the ends, you hold his hands where they rest on your hips.

You don’t know why you’re here, wearing this dress that is worth more money than you’ve ever owned at once, but if Arthur wanted you here for the silly friend of his who rambled about duchesses, baronesses, and contessas then you would be here, looking like you could fit right in with them.

“How goes it? Please tell me you haven’t torn anything, Tacitus.” Algernon’s voice breaks you from the moment, and Arthur’s hands slide away. You pull back the curtain, taking in the dress once again. “Oh a muse indeed! You are perfect, would you look at that. What do you think?”

“Well, I…it’s gorgeous.” You can hardly take your eyes off it. The bodice has the finest stitching you’ve ever seen, the skirt like silk beneath your fingers. “But what does this have to do with me?”

“Why, it’s yours!”

You shoot a quick glance behind you to catch Arthur’s eye, thinking that perhaps when he had said the man was cracked he wasn’t exaggerating. But Arthur never meets your eye, his own gaze fixed on the clinch of the corset around your waist.

“I’m…not sure I can afford this…”

“Nonsense! Your husband has already covered it. In fact this is my payment for the favors he’s done me. I have never worked without a model before, but when I saw you, I just couldn’t say no!”

“I don’t believe we’ve met before,” you say in confusion.

This time Arthur does meet your eye, and you can see he’s bashful.

“Of course not, my dear! I mean the pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“No, no. You’re right. Pictures hardly do them justice. The drawings, illustrations of pure emotion. I’ve never thought of sketch work to be so…moving. But these! Your husband is quite the artist!”

“Oh, I know,” and you think of what sketches he has of you in that journal of his that he would show this man. In hopes that he would make something for you. Something so fine you fear you may never have an opportunity to wear it again. Algernon is back to rambling about art, but you only hold Arthur’s stare in the mirror.

“Oh, but I know how busy you both must be! Please, don’t let me keep you again. I am no longer sorry to see the garment go when I see just how exquisite you look. Enjoy your evening! As always, it was a pleasure!”

And you find yourselves back outside, slightly stunned on the doorstep.

“Well. I believe I promised you dinner.” Arthur offers you his arm, and you easily lace your own through his.

“I believe you promised me more than dinner. Though I have to say I did not expect the new dress,” you quip. You tug on him a bit as you walk your way to the saloon where Arthur reserved your room and speak sincerely. “Thank you, darling. You didn’t…have to go to such trouble for me.”

“I know trouble. Trust me, this ain’t it.” He drops the teasing for a moment to look at you, and answer just as sincerely. “You look beautiful.” You feel warm, and not from the Saint Denis weather. “Besides, you’re not the only one who’s going to play dress-up.”

You let out a sound of delight. “You still have the suit Josiah picked out?”

“Oh, sure,” Arthur sounds none too pleased, “I still have it.”

“Arthur Morgan,” you sigh, “you really know how to treat a lady.”

.

On your way in to return to your room, you barely had a moment to look around and appreciate the finer details. Now, you lean into Arthur’s side as he speaks to the bartender and take in the establishment. The Bastille Saloon is still a saloon, but the patrons are dressed as finely as you are now, the furniture made of quality. You don’t see broken glass on the floor or scuffs made from idle knives and rowdy brawls. The tables have tablecloths. The piano is a grand one. The couple next to you are speaking French.

“And whatever the lady wants.”

You blink in attention, and turn to face the gentleman behind the bar. He’s wearing a tie. “Oh…I’ll just have whatever you’re having,” you say to Arthur.

You like the way his lips curve into a smile; it’s a crooked thing, and you may have once thought it teasing, but now you notice he’s fond by the crinkle of his eyes, he’s pleased by the way he leans toward you. Your arms hold tighter to the crook of his elbow, shocked at how just a hot bath and fancy clothing can change both your demeanors entirely.

Tonight you really were a distinguished lady, on the arm of the man you love. You never doubted Arthur to be a gentleman, but you still giggle when he pulls out the chair for you. He takes the seat next you, not across, and you scooch closer.

“Are you sure there isn’t some job?” you lean in to ask with a smile. You wouldn’t mind it if there was, so taken up with the dress, with the restaurant, with Arthur.

“No, darlin’, there’s no job.” He takes your subtle accusation in stride, leaning in and setting a gentle hand on your knee. “Why? You want there to be one?”

“No. Just don’t get why you’re doing this, is all.” You don’t want to sound ungrateful. Or suspicious. Your hand covers his under the table, aware of the impropriety, but too happy to care.

His eyes soften and fingers curl around yours. “Because you deserve it. Because you…deserve better.” The words are unspoken, but you know what he’s saying. He believes you deserve better than living with outlaws, than a campsite that moves every few weeks, than an old rickety cot and Pearson’s stew. He believes you deserve better than him.

You shake your head slowly, not looking away from his eyes. “You know what I want.” It’s a whisper, a spoken promise that you feel the same. No, you don’t want to live in a camp of outlaws for the rest of your life. But you’re sticking with him until the both of you can get out. Find what you want. A real bed. A home. A life.

Arthur looks like he’s about to respond when two plates are set down before you, and you gasp. He ordered prime rib with healthy helping of some of the best looking potatoes you’ve ever seen. You don’t think a meal has ever smelled so good in your life.

“Christ alive.”

Arthur laughs at your shocked reaction.

“What? I don’t think I’ve seen a steak this big.”

“You help prepare food with Pearson all the time,” his voice is a drawl, amused and pleased you’re impressed, and he doesn’t hesitate to start cutting into his meal.

“Not like this.” You know you’re staring, but you don’t even know where to start. “Arthur…if you just wanted to get me in bed, you know you don’t have to do all this.” Your words are crass, but you try to keep it to a hush. His treatment of you this afternoon has got you thinking of one thing, and quite frankly, you are very much looking forward to getting him back upstairs.

The way he chokes on his first bite is worth it. “Now I ain’t uhh…You know, well, um.” He gives up to plead with you. “Princess.”

You laugh at his stammering, put your hand on his knee. “Don’t you start. Because you did promise me dinner, and I intend on absolutely polishing off everything, and I expect you to do the same. And then, and only then, am I going to drag you upstairs and make very good use of that bed. No matter how many princesses, sweethearts, or darlings you use.”

And maybe the two of you are sitting too close that you keep bumping elbows, and no matter how finely you dress you still don’t quite fit in with the upper class, but you’ve never shared a finer meal someone.

And you’ve never seen Arthur eat so fast.

.

When Arthur took you to the room upon arrival in Saint Denis, the first thing you did was flop to the bed. It was large and well made with thick blankets and would fit two people comfortably.

Now that you finished dinner and are retiring for the night, you don’t even make it there. Your back is pressed to the closed door, Arthur’s mouth covering yours before pressing hot kisses down your neck, across your chest, and over the tops of your breasts pushed up by the corset. You tug mercilessly at the suit jacket he wears, only feeling slightly bad before he lets it drop to the floor.

You can feel the grip of his large hands through the material of the dress - one holding tight to the thigh you hiked to his side, the other roaming over your body before finding its place to cradle your head. Directing your mouth to his then away so he can place more kisses under your jaw. With every certain touch, with every meaningful place of his lips, your heart swells. He whispers every name he’s given you between each kiss, and you find yourself sighing out his, unable to say the words to ask for what you really want.

He has treated you so well all day, and you knew, you knew you would end up here at the end of it, in his arms and in his heart. You were ready to do whatever he wanted. Instead he takes hold of you and gives you everything you want without you having to say a word.

His hands find their way under your skirt, fingertips trailing sparks over your new stockings and to where the corset ends. Every single thing today has been a gift from him, and this here too is another. You can’t keep up, but you’ll let him take, you’ll let him give, you’ll let him have it all.

His bare chest is hot under you palms, your own breasts pulled from the confines of the corset just as you make it to the bed. It’s where you wanted to be all day, and it lives up to every hopeful wish. Arthur handles you, moves you were he wants, and even still it feels like he serves you.

His kisses are like the warm glow of a fire—you chase the feeling, chase his lips, and he gives into every whine from you. You reward him with your moans. He travels the map of your body and disappears under your skirts. His hands and mouth never part from you, and you scramble to take hold of yourself, take hold of him, take hold of the sheets beneath you.

Neither of you say it often, but you both know. Tonight, I love you is said with every touch of his skin to yours. I love you with every kiss. I love you as he wraps you around him. I love you as your hands come to cradle his head.

You pant heavily, still partially confined in your clothing, and as soon as Arthur’s lips return to yours, the frantic grabbing for one another’s affection subsides. He’s steady and reassuring, both of you content to sink into each other until you can’t be any closer. Your kisses turn slow and sultry. His shoulders shudder in your embrace, his hips solid between your legs.

It’s you and him and this bed and the way he calls you mine. It’s rare these moments you get with him, and you soak it up, relish in the way he lets himself love you. In return, you let yourself dream of the future in which you and Arthur share a life, a home, and a real bed.