#arthur morgan dom

[cantchoosejust1]

Cardinal Sins - A Different Route

[I’ve decided to actually bite the bullet and write my own smut, Iord knows I’ve driven @gimmethosedaddymilkers mad from all my horny prompts LMAOO - this is a continuation of “Cardinal Sins and Other Desires” except the reader gets to dom Arthur (at first) hehehehehe - while I know the reader is wearing a nun outfit, I will be making them gender neutral, I didn’t use Y/N or any pronouns - sorry if the body description feels awkward, it’s been a while since I’ve written and I only know the perspective of AFAB!reader, so bear with me! I’m not good at adding tags or warnings either, feel free to let me know what I missed - have fun!!]

taglist stolen from the original post lmao:  @mrsarthurmorgan7 @kieropal @photo1030 @pcotarelo @6kaja9

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: sex, priest kink, bondage by rosary, edging-ish, descriptions of demons, this shit is freak nasty in my opinion so just be cautious

This fic is 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

You roll your eyes but your hand finds its way to his thighs, patting along the robe in an attempt to find said matches

Of course he has matches on him, he can’t go more than an hour or two without a smoke. 

“Mhmm…careful, you’re gonna hit somethin’ else while you’re down there.” 

“Why the hell are you so horny right now, I’m not even wearing anything revealing-”

“Maybe I’ve been possessed, need some holy water…” 

“Arthur please, can we find the money?” 

“I’m sure we can, but I’m sure I’d be a lot more focused after…”

“Alright, thats it-” you growled. Twisting the rosary in your hand, you harshly place it around Arthur’s wrists and grip them together, startling him. With quick steps and momentum, you push his body backwards until his back hits a wall. Arthur grunts upon impact, a random object clattering to the ground.

As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you try to focus on Arthur’s face and mutter, “Keep it in your pants Father, or I’ll have to discipline you later.” 

You huff in frustration, the heat blowing across Arthur’s face. Wanting to play along with his silly game, you brought your lips to the exposed skin of his neck. Where you going to admit this was a secret fantasy of yours too? Hell no. Wetting your tongue, you lick beneath his jaw and finish off by flicking his ear lobe once. You laughed inwardly at the idea of Arthur’s so called “demon” having been transferred to your body. The hairs of his sideburns tickled your cheek as you placed your lips tentatively close to his ear.

“Then again, maybe I should exorcise that demon out of you before it corrupts your poor soul. Would you like that, Father Morgan?”

Your vision was able to focus in the darkness, giving you the chance to semi-clearly see Arthur’s face. His eyes wide open, his lips quivering and taking quick shaky breaths, his body shivers harshly as he peers into your lust filled glare. After a few seconds, you press his hands onto his chest near his heart, which is beating wildly. He whimpers as the rosary starts to cut into his skin, but he ignores it as he’s only able to focus on the feeling of your knee pushed between his legs.

As he’s distracted and unable - or rather not daring - to move, your free hand wanders down, exploring his body.

Arthur knew better to not act this way, especially in a church. But in this moment he didn’t give a damn, not with the way your hand quickly brushed against his hip and thigh “searching” for his matches. And he knew this was exciting you too with the way you purposely brush against his clothed heat, eliciting a high pitched sigh from his throat.

You glanced up, your eyes hooded, pupils dilating, watching Arthur slowly unravel. He looks at you with hazy eyes, taking deep breaths. Squeezing his right thigh once, you slowly drag the back of your fingers upwards, deliberately placing more pressure on his erection. Arthur couldn’t stop the moan from escaping his lips, his voice reverberating against the walls.

The basement door opens. “Hello?”

In a second, you shot up and placed your hand over Arthur’s mouth, trying not to slap him by accident. You hold your body against his and look into his eyes to communicate a silent warning.

“If anybody is down there, the church is closed!” the voice yells, taking a second to listen for any noises. The person hummed in confusion, “Must’ve been my imagination then.”

The door slams shut and footsteps recede, but you wait a few more seconds to be absolutely sure the person has left. Huffing, you back away from Arthur to give yourselves some breathing room, the stress of almost getting caught making your heart thrum with worry and excitement.

Arthur takes his time to control his panting, goosebumps fluttering across his body at the chill from losing your heat. His head perks up at the sound of you shaking his matches. You smirk, “Found them.”

The mission didn’t take long after that steamy ordeal. The object that conveniently fell on the floor was a lantern, which you gladly used Arthur’s matches to light. As he gained his composure back, Arthur removed the rosary from his wrists - seeing in the dim light some welts forming on his delicate skin - untangling it and placing it in his pocket.

Wasting no more time, you were both able to locate the money and figured out a plan of escape that didn’t involve going back up the stairs, assuming the person locked it behind them. By then, it had gone dark, the sun hidden away to allow the moon to shine its lovely light and the stars to shimmer against the dark sky. The sounds of your running footsteps hitting the stone road were covered by the noise of a nearby rowdy bar and its even rowdier patrons. You and Arthur were able to reach your horses without worry, bags of money hidden beneath clothes and stuffed quickly into empty saddle bags; whatever money didn’t fit was placed into a separate bag that you carried on hand, making sure to check for any rips or tears as not to risk losing any money and potentially upsetting Dutch.

Arthur took the lead on the way back to camp, avoiding any main roads, trying to get out as fast as possible. When he figured y’all were a few decent miles away did he spur his horse forward, startling you into an unexpected race. You began laughing at the thrill of it all, Arthur joining in with a big belly laugh. As you began nearing camp, Arthur slowed down his horse to a trot, allowing the chance to catch a quick breath.

“I can’t believe we managed to do that,” he said, his smile reaching his ears, hair whipped from the wind, twisting every which way (like he even cared).

You snorted, “I told you, confidence is important when it comes to missions like these.” You gave a mad huff and smacked his left thigh, making Arthur yelp in pain and surprise. “We could’ve been done sooner if you didn’t get riled up! My skin ain’t showing and yet you’re over here acting like a bitch in heat.”

“Oh come on, darlin’, could you really blame me?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, I’ll admit it was bad timing. I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing your right hand to place a delicate kiss on your knuckles. “I’m sorry… that you look so fine in that get up-”

You yanked your hand away, yelling, “Arthur Morgan!!”

He laughed once more, urging his horse to pick up more speed as he neared the path heading into camp. He could hear the crackle of the fire and smell the burning wood, the sound of a bottle being opened spurred him to go a tad bit faster. Nearing the stables, Arthur swiftly greeted Charles and jumped off his horse to head over to the crate holding said bottles. Grabbing one by the neck, he made his way over to an empty table and popped the bottle open. He found himself feeling so thirsty, but the idea of water didn’t appeal to him; rather the sensation of his nostrils burning, tasting the bitter alcohol coat his tongue as it ran down his throat. 

Before meeting you, alcohol was a comforting friend to Arthur, one he could always lean on for any kind of situation, bad or good. Eventually, having now formed a strong bond with you, he began to drink more socially. Except for the times he goes back to his old friend to help him forget, like he’s doing now. He ignored the sounds of everyone around him, letting himself focus on the golden liquid, trying to push the mission’s events to the back of his mind. But the feeling of your hands on his body haven’t left, making him hungry, just not for food.

 As he went to take another gulp, Dutch patted him on the back and stole the bottle from Arthur’s hand.

“Easy there, son, don’t go celebrating just yet.” Arthur almost grabbed the bottle back, but Dutch took it farther from reach, waiting for a response, to know if his wondrous plan had blessed him with riches.

Arthur growled, abruptly standing to go around Dutch, back toward the stables. His shaking hands struggled to grab the bags filled with money, his annoyance puffing out in smoke through his nostrils. You came up next to him and helped to remove the bag, giving Arthur the chance to turn back around and forcefully slam the money on the table. Dutch stared in awe as some bills spilled out, a few coins rolling out before settling on the table. He almost started yelling in excitement before he saw your form coming toward him with the other bags of money, letting out a grunt as they slipped off your shoulder and landed on the table with a thud.

“This better be enough to last us a while ‘cause I don’t feel like dressing up again, Dutch,” you said. Placing your hands on your lower back, you pushed your spine forward until you heard a crack, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“This- hehe..” - he grabbed a couple wads of cash - “is more than enough. Thank you, both of you! HAHA, can you believe it, Hosea?!” 

Dutch ran off to find said man, leaving you to take a seat beside Arthur, who has long since finished his liquor and just stared at the money, absentmindedly.

“Hey,” you whispered. Arthur glanced up. 

“You’re not still thinking about earlier, are you?” Cocking an eyebrow, you failed at suppressing a smile from forming, the corner of your lip curling at the thought of seeing Arthur look upon you as if you were his god, so defenseless beneath your touch.

Arthur felt his cheeks begin to burn, he clenched his teeth and turned his head away from you to stare at the ground. He made no effort in trying to respond, the feelings from earlier starting to creep into his nerves, his cock twitching at the memory of feeling your hand pressed against it. You watched his shoulders shudder and took that as a ‘yes.’ You stood from the table, placing your middle finger on Arthur’s right shoulder and dragged your nail slowly to the left, watching as his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck straightened out.

Leaning down to Arthur’s left ear, continuing to whisper, “My offer still stands, Father Morgan. I’d love nothing more than to fuck that demon out of your poor, aching body.”

You lick the shell of his ear, scratching his shoulder before removing yourself and walking off to your tent, once again leaving Arthur cold. And horny.

Arthur knew better than to keep drinking, if he was going to experience this pleasure with you, he wanted to do it (relatively) sober. He’s already drunk with lust, maybe even love, but that’s a topic he’d rather discuss with his head and not the raging boner crowding his already tight pants.

Luckily, everybody in camp was too focused on the win, already thanking and congratulating Arthur on the glorious bounty. They all celebrated by drinking and dancing around the formed bonfire, their throats sore with the amount of alcohol being consumed and their loud singing. Javier wasted no time in strumming his already tuned guitar and led them all into a song about love and riches, making sure to wink at Arthur specifically as he sang the verse about love.

Knowing Javier saw their interaction, Arthur looked away in embarrassment, dreading the idea of hearing Javier’s constant teasing. About how Arthur is wrapped around your finger, a tough cowboy now whipped by someone who outwardly looked weaker than him. But that’s what Arthur loved about you; behind your seemingly quiet demeanor was a smart, quick witted, stubborn yet loyal person Arthur was proud to call "his." He knew you both loved each other equally, yet he couldn’t bring himself to the idea of being this vulnerable with you!

…But like hell was he gonna lose this chance. He regrets a lot of things in his life, and this interaction will not be one of them. Having waited long enough to where everyone was too drunk to notice him, he slipped away from the table and made quick strides toward your tent, sending a wink back to Javier on his way over. He was lucky your tent was farthest from the bonfire because he knew this was going to get loud and messy.

Standing a few feet away from your tent, Arthur reached into his pocket and dug around to pull out your rosary. He clenched it around his right hand, stepping once… twice… inching closer to the flap of your sacred space.

“Have you come to confess your sins?” you said.

Arthur sucked in a breath, his heart accelerated when hearing your sultry voice. The idea of touching your skin sent the blood rushing from one head to another, the flaming passion igniting in his body gave him the final push to go through your tent.

Ohhh…. Shit.

There you were, sitting on your knees upon your bed, stripped free of the nun costume. The soft blue glow of the moon peeking in through the cracks of your tent being the only thing covering your bare skin. With one more shaky step forward, Arthur fell upon his knees, a priest before his god. He grasped the rosary even tighter, the cross pressing deep into his palm. Without clear direction on your part, Arthur wrapped his wrists between the beads. Clasping his hands together so tightly they turned white, he offered them to you.

“Please… forgive me, for I have sinned,” he panted, voice dropping an octave on the last word. Licking his lips and swallowing, he said, “It has been a few weeks since my last... confession.”

Placing your hands on your knees, you opened your legs a bit and leaned an inch further, watching as Arthur’s eyes bounced from your sex to your perked nipples before landing on your pouty lips. He swore the shadow behind your head was painted with the biggest devil horns imaginable.

“I know of your sins, Father Morgan,” you said. He inhaled quickly at the sound of his name, staring at you wide eyed. “And no amount of prayer will absolve you.”

Arthur hung his head low, choking back the apology he was going to say for his earlier actions in the church basement.

“However-”

“Yes?!” he said briskly. The whiplash he got from lifting his head too fast was painful, but he chose to ignore it, opting to focus on your wicked smile. 

You let out a giggle, “While, I am a firm believer that actions speak more volume than words ever could--”

You lift yourself off your legs and plant both feet on the floor, sitting comfortably on the cot. Arthur stared as you spread your thighs apart to show yourself fully before him, your sex leaking with arousal. You place your dominant hand in front of you, slightly blocking the view to show him your index finger beckoning him. Without question, Arthur moved swiftly but clumsily to you, abruptly stopping when you placed your palm on his sweaty forehead.

The sigh he let out as you pet the top of his head changed to a groan as you suddenly grasp the hairs atop his crown. You push his head back to make him look at you, saying, “You get one chance to repent. Make it count, Father, or your soul will suffer until your next confession. Do I make myself clear?”

He nods diligently, his voice a whisper among his heavy breathing. “Yes!… Yes, yes, I promise.”

With his final consent, you push his head forward, moaning as he makes first contact with your sex. His mouth was wet, saliva collecting on his tongue as he licked from bottom to top, making sure to focus his movements on the spots he knows you’re most sensitive.

“Oooohh~ ffuuck, yes Arthur!” you gasp. “Good boy, good- AH!” One lick upon a special spot made you push his face closer.

He repeatedly ran his tongue over the same spot, studying your facial expressions painted in ecstasy. The way your eyes were tightly closed as you focused on the pleasure he gave you, your mouth gaping open, the air making it dry.

“SHHIIIT-- just like that! Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!!” you chanted, head swung back, using the arm behind you as an anchor to prevent yourself from falling backwards. 

By now, you threw your legs over Arthur’s shoulders, digging your heels on his back, feeling your toes curl and uncurl every other second. A wave of pleasure bloomed from your sex and spread across every nerve in your body, signaling the arrival of your climax. You let go of Arthur’s hair to plant it behind you for more balance, trusting him to finish his prayer. He knew you were getting closer too, hearing the way you took bigger breaths in anticipation, your nails scratching the covers. Keeping the same pace, he continued to drink your arousal like a man thirsty for water. His erection throbbed at the sounds of him devouring you; slurping, sucking, lapping and moaning like a madman.

“Ar-- thur, ’m gonna… cum” you wheezed. You tried to swallow but your mouth was painfully dry. “I’m-- ahh… really close. Please, please don’t stop!”

As the pleasure was starting to become painful, your first instinct was to close your legs, even if Arthur was still between them. Feeling your thighs closing in on Arthur’s face caused him to moan, the vibrations being the final strike in making you cum.

All at once, your body was hit with the force of a powerful orgasm. Goosebumps extend up from one arm and across your chest, making your nipples even harder, then down the other arm; starting at the base of your neck gliding to the bottom of your spine and up your tightening abdomen, and finally, coursing through your legs, making your toes unfurl. You felt your head fog up with a misty cloud of joy and desire. Your sex pulsed, your arousal like a flowing waterfall, cascading water into Arthur’s awaiting lips, him swallowing everything with utmost desperation and gratitude. Softly removing himself from you with a small pop to prevent any overstimulation. He started licking up anything that fell from his mouth, then left a few delicate kisses onto your left inner thigh, his little ‘thank you’.

Regaining your composure, you peered down at Arthur, him resting his weary head on your thigh and gazing up at you with a hint of a smile. You put your dominant hand back onto his head, petting and fixing any misplaced hairs back onto his scalp.

“Very good, Arthur.” You caressed his cheekbone with your thumb, using your other fingers to scratch against the side of his head. “For your dedication, I will reward you. But.. you’ll have to earn it.” 

Pinching his chin, you force his head up. “I’m going to bring you to the peak of ecstasy three times,” - you hold up the same number of fingers - “But, you’re not allowed to release until I tell you.”

He became distressed: eyes darting between yours, eyebrows creasing, his smile turning into a frown. As much as it pained him to wait longer, if it meant he can unload inside you, he’ll be patient. Just this once.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes I do,” he answers.

You hum in approval. “Lay your ass on this bed, Big Boy.”

If there really was a god, Arthur thanked it for blessing him with your presence in his life. He was able to last until the third round, almost losing his composure on the second. His head was spinning in a heavy fog of desire, whining with every exhale, merely seconds away from tapping out. His body was beginning to tire out because of the way he tensed his muscles trying to stop himself from cumming too soon, his shoulders and biceps burning as he held his tied hands over his face.

“Look at you, my love,” you say, running your hands over his pecs, teasing his nipple between your fingertips. He let out another whine as he bit his lower lip, wondering how much longer he must endure this.

What a sight he was to behold: his arms flexing above his head, elbows pressed together to hide his expressions from your sinful stare; his face, neck, ears, and collarbone blushing a vibrant shade of red; his lips swollen from the rough way you kissed him when he got too loud; his chest rising with every inhale, his stomach pushing out with every exhale; his cock - wet with your spit and his precum - stood at your command, much to your surprise, figuring at this point he’d have gone soft, but grateful he hasn’t; his legs were extended, feet firmly planted on the cot, quivering beside your hips, his knees bumping slightly against your waist. 

Starting at his ankles, you caressed your palms up the back of his calves, then slowly brought them down his thighs. He tensed upon feeling your fingers brush against his V-lines.

“You’re almost done, I promise.” Squishing the flesh of his hips, you raise your dominant hand a good distance away before delivering a harsh slap to Arthur’s ass. Both of you moan in sync, his speaks of pain, yours speaks of adoration. 

“Oh, how I love to worship you like this!” Bringing your head lower, you kiss the inside of his right knee. “You are my favorite thing to walk among this Earth,” you say, proceeding to move your lips further down his leg.

Giving one final kiss to his heavy balls and another to his perineum, his body jolting with each one.

“Tell you what. Since you’ve been good thus far,” he parts his elbows to look at you clearly, “I’ll let you cum inside me now, okay?”

Arthur sighs in relief. “OH! Oh…th- thank you, oh my god--”

“Don’t thank me jus' yet, Pretty Boy.” Leaning forward, you grab the rosary and untie his wrists, bunching it together and haphazardly throw it over your shoulder to where you think your nun costume went, wishing to preserve it for future use.

He laid there in shock, not knowing what to do now that you released him. Moving his arms down from the uncomfortable position, he rolled his shoulders to relieve the ache before settling his arms at his sides. You smack the side of his right thigh, gaining his attention.

“How ‘bout it cowboy? You want me to ride you… or do you wanna take the reigns and fuck the demon out of me?” You grip his shaking knees, holding them in place to stare at his leaking cock, then bring your eyes back up to look at him.

“Tell me your desires, Father Morgan.”

Dumbfounded, he asked, “I… I get to decide?”

How cute, I left him speechless. You exhaled a laugh, caressing the top of his thighs, “Yes, my love. Ravish me with your cock, I need it. Fuck me Father Morgan, I beg of you!”

Collecting his bearings and gaining newfound energy, Arthur pounced. He startled you with how quick he shot up, his strong arms opened wide to show his impressive wingspan. In an instant, he caged you in his grasp, lips embracing in a fiery kiss. When you gasped for air, he stuck his tongue inside, wishing to push his love further into your mouth. The sounds of both your moans, cries and whimpers created a symphony, the song of worship.

He brought a hand to the back of your head, protecting it as he shifted your bodies, and you instinctively enveloped his torso between your legs. Wrapping his other arm around your waist, he lifted you with ease to place your back against the cot as cautiously as he could, kissing the middle of your collarbone before lifting himself off you. He felt like the luckiest man on this planet, an angel in the flesh! His precious angel, his soul, his world.

There you rested, arms thrown beside you, showing Arthur you were surrendering yourself to him.

Arthur kept staring at you beneath him, his hands on either side of your head, taking his time to adore every single beautiful feature on your face. 

The way your lashes curtained over your eyes, the curve of your delicate nose, your luscious lips so warm and inviting, your cheeks painted with your years of life - freckles, dimples, beauty marks, oh my!

He felt your legs move along his ribs, briefly taking him out of his thoughts, seeing the way you cocked an eyebrow at him in confusion - the demon was growing impatient. And so was he. Hooking his elbows beneath your knees, he forcefully pushed your legs to your chest leaving your feet dangling in the air near his shoulders; the perfect position for him to see your warm, wet, inviting hole. Oh, he was going to ruin you.

He lifted his right hand to his mouth, sticking his ring and middle finger inside to coat them with as much spit as he could. Satisfied with the amount, he took them out and abruptly pressed them to your entrance. With a bit of resistance from the insertion, you moaned as he was able to insert his fingers with ease the rest of the way in.

“So needy,” he groaned.

“Only for you, Big Boy,” you said.

He moaned as you squeezed his fingers, “Don’t go saying that, darlin’.”

“Well why not? It’s true. You drive me wild, Father Morgan.”

“No more of that! I only wanna hear you scream my name by the end of this. I ain’t no saint, and you sure as hell ain’t one too,” he answered briskly, curling his fingers on your soft walls. You cried at the sudden wave of pleasure, driving your heels into his shoulders.

“OOH~ I will, I will, I swear! Jus'… please, Arthur, just fuck me!” you begged, heat starting to flood your face.

Swiftly removing his fingers, he prodded your entrance with his tip, running it up and down, slowly teasing you. He wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine, however, his plan backfired when he pressed too far in and the head of his cock breached inside. The feel of finally getting what he wanted made him almost collapse on top of you. He shivered and gripped the sheets tightly.

Collecting himself, he closed his eyes and continued to push himself deeper, lubricated by his own spit - he was gonna lose his mind! 

When he was fully sheathed inside, you squeezed his cock once, feeling his veins prod against your walls, trying to memorize everything. He whined at the sensation, tears beginning to form beneath his closed eyelids. If there was one moment he would want to relive for the rest of his life, it would be between first meeting you and this very instant.

Arthur opened his eyes, a few tears escaped to land on your cheeks, one hitting your top lip. Maintaining eye contact with him, you stick your tongue out and licked it up, the salty flavor tickling your taste buds.

“Mmmm…” you moaned.

He snapped. He slotted his right hand against your throat, using his left to grasp the meat of your thigh. Pulling out before slamming his cock back in, his balls slapping your ass lewdly.

You whined at the harsh movement, relishing in the look on Arthur’s face as he unleashed his own demon. He held a stern gaze and an angry scowl, while you held a mischievous glint and a devious smile. Two horny hellspawns, locked in a duel to see who gets to make the other cum first.

As his hips set about a hard but steady pace, Arthur moved his fingers along the side of your neck to find your pulse. He soon made contact with it, feeling the fast beat of your heart on his fingertips, he squeezed his hand with enough force to cut your airflow. Loving the way your eyes bulged for a second, feeling you swallow hard against his palm. He enjoyed letting you control him from time to time, but he’ll never get over the feeling of your body writhing from the pleasure he gives you.

He removed his hand from your neck, moving it down to one of your nipples, pinching it and rolling it for what felt like forever to you before focusing his attention on the other one.

While he was preoccupied with you perky nipples and the filthy sounds coming out of your mouth, you dropped your sight to where your bodies connected. Hypnotized by the way he fit inside you, so perfectly connected. There was no way you would be able to walk tomorrow. With nowhere else to grab, you bring your hands to the flesh between your thighs and ass, squishing it for some sense of stability.

Arthur refocused on your face, having his view be blocked by your arms. With no other choice, he hooked the free hand beneath your other knee, keeping you in place.

“Look at me,” he growled. His voice reverberated against your ears, your sex pulsed in arousal at hearing his demanding tone.

“Fucking LOOK at me, darlin’, you know I don’t like to repeat myself.” You do as you’re told, gasping for air as you sense your climax slowly approaching.

“You close, ain’tcha? Mmm, I can feel it,” he said.

Nodding, you say, “Please, Arthur! C- cum with me…! I want us to cum together!”

“Nngh!” he grunts. “You keep… squeezing me like that, I’m gonna-- FUCK! I’ll cum soon.”

“Yes, yes! Give it to me, I wanna be dripping with your semen!!” Your moans grew higher in pitch, the muscles in your thighs tightening at the feel of your orgasm rapidly approaching.

Both of you were gasping, hearts beating as one, the smell of sex permeating the air in a dense fog of filthy love.

Wanting to savor this special moment, Arthur took his hands in yours, making sure to interlock fingers before setting them on either side of your head. He pushed his body forward, your legs pressed against his chest in a painful way, ignored by the amount of pleasure building.

The pace Arthur set combined with the forced mating press allowed you to experience his cock in the most delicious way. Free to feel every vein and ridge; his cock leaking so much precum he was able to effortlessly slip in and out without issue; overall an impressive girth, giving you a satisfying stretch.

All the love you had for him was projected into your eyes, Arthur easily recognized it because he looked at you that way every single day, even in his dreams.

“I love you,” he whispered, inches away from your face.

Happy tears began to form in your eyes, a shy smile forming. “I love you more.” 

As soon as he reached down to share a kiss, your orgasms exploded simultaneously, moans harmonizing with the loud squelch between your bodies. 

Arthur removed his lips from yours, tongues connected by a line of spit. Taking his hands from yours, he lifted himself up and brought your legs to rest at his hips. He watched you get comfortable before collapsing from exhaustion, making you grunt at the force of his body weight. He kissed along your left shoulder and settled his cheek against it, proceeding to lace one hand back to yours and snaking the other arm below your body, imprisoning you with his massive frame. You sighed with content, head still reeling and feeling your eyelids become heavy.

“Arthur?”

“Mmm?”

“Can you get off me?”

He lightly shook his head ‘no.’

The moonlight invaded your vision as it peered into your tent, painting the side of Arthur’s tired face, sculpting his chiseled back with cool lights and dark shadows. You watched his torso rise and fall with each deep breath, the noises of the night mixing with his huffs, the little critters chirping in the wind.

You laughed, out of breath. “Arthur?”

“...mmm?”

“I love you,” you whisper against his temple, placing a soft kiss on his heated skin, the taste of his sweat invading your lips.

“...’ove you… mo’...” he sighed. With the sound of your heart beating in his ear, the rhythm of your breathing matching his, Arthur succumbed to sleep.

Nothing but silence is heard for the next three minutes, until Arthur's soft snores fill the air. Lost in thought, you began to brush his hair with your right hand, the soft locks flowing between each finger. You tried your best to pepper as many kisses to his face as you could, but you weren't able to reach much, only his temple and forehead.

A thought crossed your mind, and you glanced at the chest placed at the foot of your bed. Inside, there was a pistol you owned long before you joined the gang, gifted to you by your great aunt before she passed away. You were the closest thing she considered a child - since either she was unable to carry or simply chose not to have any, you didn’t know - so she told you to give the pistol to the person you intended to marry, in place of a ring. At that time, you thought it silly since you believed in the magic of a ring, that soon changed when you met Arthur.

Having now been in the gang for a few years, you knew most of his past as he gave you little information at his own time. The days dragged on and you soon found yourself falling in love with the cowboy, going on missions together more often, inside jokes and food shared between each other. Until one mission separated the two of you, pulling Arthur to find a random target or whatever, you weren't given much information, which made worrying for his return even worse. A week prior to his return, Arthur had sent you a three-page letter reminiscing of your friendship, how worn out he was, and a shared moment you both had where you almost kissed at the river, having been interrupted by Uncle and his problems. At the very end he proclaimed his love for you, rereading it over and over again with tears in your eyes, the same letter tucked in the holster of the gun. The moment you spotted his figure in the distance walking beside his horse, you took off running and met him halfway, colliding with him in a hug stronger than a python. Thankfully he was unharmed - apart from you knocking the wind out of him - so you had no issues smooching his whole face, pulling apart for a second to tell him that you loved him too, and finishing with a passionate kiss to his lips, finally becoming a couple.

With each passing day since then, you wondered if there will ever be a chance to ask him! Ask him to be your spouse, your lover for the rest of your lives. As long as it was by his side, you didn't care where you'll end up. Closing your eyes, you dreamt of this new life, praying he'll say yes, hoping you'll be able to live a calm life far from the one you were living.

Unbeknownst to you, Arthur smiled against your skin, thinking about the ring he has tucked away in his own chest, dreaming of the same future.

[bitin-and-barkin]

STRONG OLDER MEN. I want to see a man, so rough and tough in the streets actually be a big sweetheart and SO nervous in bed. All flustered and whiney, rutting against your thigh like a one dollar whore. I need to see them overstimulated and crying from pleasure while you suck them off or eat them out. I want to see them be so scared about hurting you while they fuck you oh so gently, SO horny, but so afraid of hurting you. I wanna see one cry and whimper into your neck while they ride you soo well like a good boy <3 you let them cum as much as they want because they're being soo good for you (and they NEED that privilege cause they are soo sensitive and will cum so much) and they eat ALL of your praise up

[animasolaoriginal]

I n f a t u a t e d ♦️ONE

CHAPTER ONE TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾️TEN ELEVEN◾️TWELVE◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN

A chance encounter under the strobe light. Hips swaying to the thumping bass. Dark eyes following her every move. Gazes meeting through the crowd. She came to him. He took her away. Changing her life forever, guiding her into submission.

ruthless nightclub owner ��� innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Noncon/dubcon elements. Roofies. Abduction. Dom/sub dynamic. (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 3.9k

A/N: Please remember: This is fiction! As much as I enjoy writing fucked-up characters, this is not real. I do not condone this behavior! Men, be nicer to women! Girls, always check your drinks! Be mindful of strangers, no matter how nice they seem and how hot they look. And be careful what you wish for! So, technically this is a modern AU of my original story Innocence Lost, picks up on some themes, but it's basically just a fucked-up man abducting a girl (it's not stated in the beginning, but she's over 18!) and having fun with her (and then things may escalate a little!). Be mindful of the tags! This may be my darkest piece yet. (Dead dove, do not eat, as they say, right?) Also pretty self-indulgent, but there is some plot between all the filthy smut that is to come, I swear. > There are no names, no physical descriptions other than a size and age difference, so you can imagine any character here! <

ONE 🟥 TWO

Innocent.

She's been innocent, the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Laughing with her friends, oblivious to her own beauty, blind to the leering stares of every single male around her. And he's been one of them, staring, watching her, looking her up and down as she moved her fragile little body to the beat of the thumping bass, motions contorted and jerky in the strobe light, hair swinging, hips shaking, lips curling into happy smiles.

So innocent.

Probably just a mask, an act. Or maybe she's really been as pure as she looked back then, he'll never know. Because as soon as he's laid his eyes on her, she's been corrupted, tainted by his dark desires. He wanted to corrupt her, ruin her, and he always got what he wanted. He lured her in, kept watching her until she noticed his stares, the darkness in his gaze, the hunger within him. And she came to him, drawn to his mystique, his persistence.

Curious little thing, clueless to the monsters around her.

He smiles at her, rakes his eyes over her body, over that outfit she chose to impress without realizing what might happen, whose attention she might attract. The tight top, squishing those small breasts (pert little nipples standing proud under the shifting breeze of the AC), showing off the flat of her stomach, the flutter of her belly after she's danced her heart out, chest heaving, sweat on her brow, beads rolling down her pale, untouched skin. Slim naked arms holding the drink between her fingers, the soft rattle of cheap jewelry on her wrists, around her neck.

Girly, cute, pure.

And that skirt, mid-thigh, tame when she's standing still, scandalous when she's moving, the fabric flowing around her legs, bending down (bending over), accidentally showing off those cute little panties beneath. Giggling when she realizes her mistake, small hands trying to cover up, but people already saw, and she's aware. She's been aware he saw everything of her. Eager eyes, big and fucking innocent, following his every move.

He takes the drink from her, stares down at her, no longer smiling, and she looks up, chin tilted, so tiny in front of him, innocent, expectant, excited. Putting the glass down, he grabs her wrist, frail cheap jewelry bending under his grip. For a small moment she's hesitant, notices the strength in his fingers, the determination behind the gesture. But she still follows him as he pulls her away from the bar, into the shadows.

How do you break an innocent girl? Show her what's what? What may happen if she steps into the lion's den wearing that skimpy top and maybe-scandalous skirt? So naive. Swinging her hips to the blasting music, bouncing those tiny tits, laughing like nothing else matters, enjoying herself. A little light in the moving darkness. A light he wants to savor before he'll let her burn out.

If she'd be any other girl, he'd have her pinned to the wall, skirt flipped up, panties ripped down, his belt open in seconds before he'd sink his cock into her tight little cunt, to ravage her, ruin her, use her like she's supposed to be used. But she's too pure to be railed against a wall, in the dimly-lit club, for everyone to see.

He still pushes her against the wall, inhaling that little gasp she issues when she hits it, looking up at him, lips parted, eyes wide, gaze blurry, pupils already dilated, the thrill of the encounter and adrenaline of the night (and possibly some drinks she was mysteriously gifted) pumping through her body. Grabbing her face with his big hands, he holds her firmly when he leans closer, takes his time, gives her time to push him away (what a rare treat, girl), but she just stands there, looking at him, a little glint in her eyes, her lips curving up ever so slightly.

She wants this.

And he gives it to her. His lips meet hers, one hand holds her cheek, thumb guiding her chin, while the other hand slips into her hair, fisting it, a tight grip to hold her as he kisses her, a soft beginning, quickly turning rougher, more hungry, desperate. And she kisses him back in the same way, mirrors his motions perfectly. Such a quick learner. Their tongues slide against each other before he pushes deeper, tastes the inside of her mouth, that sweet taste, of some sugary drink and her, so much of her, and it's intoxicating.

So sweet. Innocence oozing from every pore.

He cages her in, pushes her against the wall, feet on either side of hers, knees around her legs, and she's that tiny thing in front of him, standing there, kissing him back, but her body seems frozen, hands at her sides, immobile. Petrified? A doe-eyed thing caught in the headlights? Not for long. His hand moves down to her waist, fingers digging into soft skin, warm and smooth, slipping up under the hem of her shirt, teasing at the little mound beneath.

No bra. Too innocent (and small) to need one.

Her hand comes up then, closing around his wrist, but she's not pulling him away, she's pushing his hand higher until his rough palm closes around her breast. Tiny tits, usually not his preference, but it's cute, that little squishy flesh under his big hand, warm and soft, and the longer he kneads it, the harder her nipple pokes into his palm.

And then she moans into his mouth. His eyelids flutter, and he stares at her, lips hovering over hers, heavy breaths mingling, head spinning, the tension in his stomach making it so hard to keep his composure, to stick to his decision to spare her his usual treatment. He gropes her small tit once more before he pulls his hand back, sliding it down her side, watching her closely.

He grabs her ass cheek harder than intended and leans in to capture her mouth when she yelps quietly in response, swallowing her noises, the thump of the music vibrating through his tense body. In his mind he's already ripped her clothes off, run his hands all over her smooth, untouched skin, fingers pinching her nipples, teasing between her legs, slipping deeper, into her tight innocent warmth –

A grunt escapes him. She's gripping the front of his shirt, her small hands clinging to him while she kisses him back, eagerly, completely lost in the unexpected encounter. Eyes closed, humming against him, body inching closer, searching for his warmth. The hand on her ass pulls her against him, a little thud that makes her mewl into his mouth, before it slips lower, cups her rear, pushes her up, fingers brushing against that little damp piece of fabric, and it's enough to make him hoist her up onto his hip.

Her hands claw at the collar of his shirt while her legs wrap around him almost automatically, conditioned, programmed to submit. A deep-rooted thing she isn't aware of yet. Her pelvis presses into his hipbone as he balances her, back pressed to the wall, both of his hands now on her plump cheeks, holding, groping. He can feel her warmth, that hint of wetness, arousal she's probably confused by.

“I'm gonna take you with me,” he rasps into her neck as he leans in to shower her soft skin with hungry kisses, lips closing around her fluttering pulse, sucking the blood to the surface with a determination that surprises himself.

“What?” she breathes against his cheek, a sweet little sound in his ears, so pure, a soft hum in the atmosphere.

“Don't worry about it,” he mumbles, licking over the bruise he's created on her neck. She shivers in his hold, chest moving against him. He leans back, licking his lips, meeting her curious gaze. “You need another drink,” he says with a smirk. It's not a question.

He sets her down again, grabbing her hand, leaning over to brush his lips over her temple until she looks up at him. Then his other hand is on her chin, holding her as he crashes his mouth against hers for another searing kiss. A little whimper escapes her. She's confused, he can tell, overwhelmed by whatever is happening.

Pulling her towards the bar, he nods to the barkeeper, a gesture often used. She's leaning against him, caged between his hard body and the counter, looking up at him with those big eyes. He smiles down at her, caressing her soft cheek with the back of his finger. He's got her, he knows. She doesn't even care about her friends anymore (and they seem to have forgotten about her too, he can see them dancing on the other side of the room). All she does is look at him, mesmerized.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the bartender sliding the drinks over the counter top. He takes the prepared drink (something sugary with a special ingredient) and hands it to her, then takes the little vodka shot for himself, eyes fixed on her as he clinks the glasses together. She smiles shyly and takes a cautious sip, while he downs the shot in one go, feeling the liquid burning down his throat. The music thumps around them, the air thick and heavy with alcohol and sweat, and a tension that's just between them.

The innocent girl, sipping her drink, staring up at the man, who watches her with a predatory smirk. His hand is heavy on her hip, warm and comforting, holding her in place, thumb rubbing over her fluttering stomach. She finishes the sugary concoction and wipes her mouth, glass empty on the bar. He leans down and brushes his lips against her ear.

“Come with me,” he whispers, and she shivers, her hand finding the front of his shirt again. He steps back, his hands running along her arms until they close around her slim wrists. The bass sits low in his guts, and he can't help but move his body slightly to the music as he leads her backwards. She laughs softly, a little sway to her hips as she follows him. But they leave the dance floor and walk back into the shadows.

He watches her closely, she blinks more, eyelids heavy, lips parted, that cute little tongue out to lick them, once, twice, again, almost obsessively. He takes her to the back, past the office, the music becoming that thick beat in the distance, a deep thrum in the air, through the walls, muffled as if the world was made of cotton. He leans her against the wall, a body too easy to move by now, his hands on her shoulders as he leans down to rub his nose against hers.

“Be a good girl and stay right here,” he tells her, waiting for her to understand.

She nods slowly, licking her lips again, and he presses his mouth to hers, capturing that sweet little tongue, sucks on it, kisses her deeply, tastes the sugar and her and more. Dangerous move, but he can't help himself. He leans back, moves his lips down her jaw, along her neck, swipes his tongue in a broad stroke over that soft skin. She mewls in response, and he grins against her before leaning back.

“I'll be right back,” he says, his eyes boring into hers, making sure she does what he tells her. She nods again, biting her swollen lip.

He hasn't planned to take her, but he'll adapt, as always. It's a risky move, but he somehow knows it's going to be fine. He has an eye for these things, knows what to do if situations (opportunities) like this present themselves. Just a few calls, some more ominous nods to his employees, no problem, just a few minutes of his time to sort things out. Somewhat. He doesn't even know why he's taking her away, it just feels right. The temptation is too strong to ignore.

He shouldn't have left her.

When he returns, they are there, crowding her, two guys, frat boys probably, drunk out of their minds, slurring and stumbling, but determined to take what is now his. He's on them in no time, hand ripping them away from the frightened but still confused girl, frozen in place as hands gripped and groped her, slipping under her clothes, going places that are reserved to him.

His fist lands hard against a jaw, one of them tumbling to the floor with a howl, the other, too drunk to react, just stares at him, and he doesn't wait for him to realize what is happening. There's blood on his knuckles when the second guy goes down as well, two crumpled guys on the floor, holding their bloody faces. He grabs the girl with his left hand, carefully pulling her against him. She's swaying, legs trembling, arms wrapping around his waist helplessly.

One of the boys stirs, and he steps on his hand and kicks him back, another howl swallowed by the distant thump of the music. He takes a few steps, raps his fist against the door. A bouncer opens it, and he tilts his head towards the mess behind him. “Take care of this,” he orders, and the burly man nods, slipping into the club while he maneuvers the girl out of it.

The night is cold, semi-fresh air, but the noises are no longer muffled. The city breathes around them as he guides her to his car, parked in the back. She clings to him, barely able to function on her own anymore, eyes heavy, lips parted. He leans her against the trunk, hands holding her soft face, looks her over. She looks at him from under her lashes, too out of it to realize anything anymore. He gives her a soft kiss to her warm cheek, a little giggle escapes her.

She falls into the passenger seat, a frail little body unable to move on its own. He leans over to buckle her in, feeling her deep breaths on his chin. A short side glance shows him she has her eyes closed, chest rising and falling, head lolled to the side. His hand is on her cheek as he kisses her gently, savoring the warmth, already imagining what he could use her for. But he has to be patient.

When he rounds the car to get behind the wheel, his morals flare up, a rare occurrence, but the sight of her slumped into the seat, helpless and fucking innocent, makes him wonder how it's come to this. He's seen her dancing, in that tight top and short skirt, a laughing little light in the darkness around her. Pure. Ready to be soiled. He inhales the cold night air and slips into the driver seat, shaking his head to get rid of those damn doubts, flexing his bloodied knuckles on the steering wheel as he turns his head towards her small form.

In the end she is just another body to be used, like she should be.

They arrive at his place, and it's a blur for him to get her into the elevator, a little breathing bundle in his arms, so light and heavy at the same time. Temptation. He puts her down on the bed, watches her, how she curls up into a ball of limbs and hair, breathing softly, skirt bunched up around her hips, that sweet round butt on display, cute panties he wants to rip off her immediately. But he refrains, sighs, turns away to wash the blood off his hands.

Unbuttoning his shirt as he returns, his eyes are on her, taking in every detail. He keeps his pants on, keeps his hard erection in place for now, no matter how difficult it is to hold back. The urge to just take her is strong, push those panties aside and impale her on his thick cock. It'd be so easy. She wouldn't even feel anything, wouldn't remember a single thing. And there's the problem. He doesn't want to fuck a lifeless body, no matter how cute she looks.

He wants to see the fear in her eyes, the pain when he penetrates her, stretches her, deflowers her, possibly. Maybe even the lust growing in her pupils, that dilated look of pure bliss. Who knows, she might be into this. She followed him so willingly, she came to him, after all, approached the monster that kept staring at her. She made the first step. He just watched.

She stirs on the bed, soft little noises tumbling past her lips. He leans over her, rolls her onto her back, turns her head to the side so she won't choke on her own spit. There are other things he wants her to choke on. Later. It's almost caring how he brushes her hair out of her face, caresses her cheek, flushed and warm from sleep. Thumb finding the contours of her lips, soft and wet, pushing between them, into her mouth, searching for that sweet little tongue.

He pulls back with a deep sigh. Watching her for another moment, he decides to undress her after all. At least the skirt has to go, so he moves his hands under her body and fumbles for the zipper, then pulls it off her slim legs, nudges her shoes and socks off in the same move. He even removes her cheap jewelry, the soft clanging sounds of the thin metal filling the quiet room. She stirs slightly, smacks her lips, but doesn't wake. Not that she could, not yet. He folds the skirt and puts it on the nightstand, the sneakers he leaves under the bed, socks tucked into them, then turns his attention back to her sleeping form.

So fucking innocent in her tight top and those cute panties. A soft pink with little white bows on it. Childish almost, a girl caught in that awkward phase between adulthood and innocence, right on the verge. He doesn't know how old she is, but he trusts his bouncers to only let in girls of age. They're experts in finding fake IDs, good judges of character also. To be honest, though, it wouldn't change anything anyway. She is here now, on his bed, ready to be used, soiled, ravaged. He can't fucking wait.

But he has to, so he leans back and inhales deeply, ignoring the strain in his pants. His hands are itching to touch her, feel that warm smooth skin, pure and untouched. Almost. He can see the bruise on her neck that he worked into her. His mark. The beginning of many more, he's sure. He leans in, braced on one arm, one knee denting the mattress, his other hand tracing her jaw until he feels the little thump of her heartbeat in her jugular. His fingers curl around her neck, thumb pressed to her throat, as he stares down at her.

His mind floods with images of soft lips strained around his cock as he forces it down her throat, the tears in her eyes, the desperate grip of her fingers, trying to push him away as she struggles to breathe, spit and cum on her face, dripping down her chin, down between her tiny tits, chest heaving, throat bulging, a small body shuddering under the assault. He leans back with a groan, his stomach tensing in anticipation.

His hand trails down her side, teases those soft mounds under the top, scrapes over the hem of her panties, down her inner thigh, a little nudge and her legs open, a body to move how he wants to, so pliant. He's tempted to throw his plans overboard, the urge growing to just take her and relieve the throbbing need in his pants. His fingers are shaking as he brushes them between her legs, over the soft, slightly damp fabric of her underwear.

He can't help himself any longer, he slips a finger under the hem, feels her warm skin and the slick gathering between her soft folds. Biting his lip, he traces her slit, from the little hidden nub down to her entrance, and he can already tell she's never been touched here before, tight and pure. Maybe she's had her own little fingers in there, but she'll soon find out that it won't compare to anything he's planning to do to her.

A grunt escapes him when he pushes the tip of his finger into her hole, a little squelching sound accompanied by a little whimper. He looks up, but she's still gone, head turned to the side, drool gathering in the corner of her parted lips. He watches her as he dips his finger deeper, feels the tight grip of her cute little cunt, so warm and squishy, barely able to accommodate one of his digits. This will take some work if he wants to keep her.

He's used virgins before, broke them, ravaged them until their blood mixed with his cum, their pained screams like music in his ears, but this girl... she's too innocent to be treated like that. It's a strange feeling he's never had before. It's warm and somewhat comforting, as smooth as her tight little pussy. He pumps his finger slowly in and out, noticing the wetness gathering around it. Her mind may be clouded, but her body reacts nonetheless.

Why not start her training while she's unconscious? Might make it easier for her once she comes to. He settles next to her, pushing her panties aside more to allow his thumb to find her clit. Pumping his finger, he rubs it gently, draws tight circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves, feels it pulsing under his touch. His cock twitches against the fabric of his pants, and he grits his teeth to ignore it.

Her body shudders, little uncontrollable twitches in her thighs, her stomach fluttering, her soft breaths slightly faster as he keeps working his finger into her tight warmth. His eyes on her face, relaxed in sleep, but there's still a little twitch to her eyebrows, a little furrow, a quiet whimper falling from those plump lips. He fingers her faster, thumb pushing harder on her nub, those sweet squelching sounds making his head spin.

A tiny moan erupts from her throat, a quiet “Ah...” humming in the atmosphere, and he feels her tensing up, her walls gripping his finger, but he works it in and out still, knuckles-deep, thumb assaulting her clit. He wants to lean in and taste her so bad, but somehow he holds himself back, another trait he's new to. Instead he watches her small body convulsing under his touch, hips jerking against his hand, cunt clamping down on his digit, and when he pulls it out, her wetness seeps out of the tiny hole, trailing down to the other, dripping onto the sheets.

He inhales deeply, takes in that sweet scent of her orgasm, and wipes his hand on her inner thigh, spreading her release on her warm skin, before he leans back and brings his finger to his lips, unable to fight the urge to taste her after all. He prefers to have his face between soft thighs, drinking directly from that intoxicating fountain, but for now it'll do. His tongue laps around his fingertip, and he closes his eyes, taking her in, that sweet, sweet taste.

Before he leaves her be, he adjusts her panties and throws the blanket over her sleeping form. Then it's a short trip to the bathroom, shower turned on, clothes discarded on the floor, and he's barely in there when his right hand closes around his angrily throbbing cock.

Fuck. This girl will be a challenge. An exercise in restraint.

🟥 TWO

End notes: So, I guess the slow burn of Innocence Lost got to me, big time. I have no idea from what dark and ugly depths I pulled this story, but it is here, at least the first 10 chapters of it, the first season if you will. (And there will be more!) I'll upload a new chapter every Monday!

I hope the tags didn't put you off too much, but if you are reading this, maybe you pulled through, and I thank you for it! Thank you for joining me on this wild ride! I appreciate you very much!

By the way, this all came to be, somehow, because I've been listening to a lot of Electric Callboy recently (strangely enough, iykyk) and their video to Hate/Love kinda brought this all down. Or at least started it all. Sometimes inspiration strucks in the weirdest forms.

Thanks again for reading! Next chapter on Monday!

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

CHAPTER / / / ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE◾

SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE ◾️TEN

ELEVEN◾️TWELVE ◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN

[cryvelv3t]

Hi friend, could I request Arthur Morgan with praise + overstim? Smth soft, I'd like to take good care of him :)

Oh hell yeah

Warnings: Vanilla, Overstimulation, Praise, Semi-public (you're in his tent and believe me they aren't helpful)

"Kiss me please." Arthur whispered to you as he closed the tent flap "You sure darling? You don't want to go find a spot?" "No, I want you now. Please darlin'" He walked to you and cupped your face "I love you." You whispered as you slotted your lips together. The kisses were slow and passionate unlike the moments where you two search for a clearing away from the camp. You missed him, his lips, his soft skin, his beard, everything. "Please darlin'." he whispered against your lips "Please what?" "Don't make me say it." You smiled as you pulled away "But hon, I don't know what to do if you're not specific." "Fuck, please touch me. Please love." "of course, my love." Your kisses travelled lower, making their way across his jawline and neck. Arthur's hands found a spot on the back of your neck "Don't stop, please don't stop." Your hand slowly trailed down his body, slipping your hand under his pants you could feel his cock rise to full hardness. "So hard from a couple kisses, so desperate for me." He whimpered quietly at the teasing.

You dipped your head down, your hands lifting his shirt above his belly button and the other pulled his pants down. You kissed from his belly button down to his happy trail "So beautiful, my pretty boy." You whispered relishing in his small groans. You landed an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of his cock; you began sloppily kissing down his cock till you reached the base. You stuck your tongue out and gave one long lick along his dick from base to tip. "Fuck~" He groaned out, his back arching slightly. "Please, please." Arthur's hands found purchase on the back of your head. You slowly bobbed your head up and down his length, his cock felt heavy on your tongue. The weight was comforting almost like a warm hug. You loved Arthur, and you loved his body. You got lost in thought before a loud moan brought you back to your senses. "I'm gonna cum, so good." Soon enough his warm spend filled your throat, you groaned softly at the feeling. You pulled off with a slight cough "You did so good, god you're so perfect." You praised as you leaned back down to kiss him. "You're so handsome." He whispered against your lips. You could feel his body stretching to grab his pack. He handed the oil to you "You want to do it, or should I?" "Give it to me." you stuck your hand out towards him. "Thanks love." He laid back down giving you full control.

Your finger slowly circled his hole loving the way he whimpered. "Come on, don't make me beg. Just do it!" You laughed slightly before doing as he asked. You're finger slowly pumped in and out of his ass, slowly you added another. He looks so beautiful writhing under you, "God you're so beautiful. I love you so much, such a good boy." You smiled down at him as you added a fourth finger "Doing so good." You pulled out grabbing the oil again to lube up your cock and poured a small amount on his hole. Slowly you entered him, his hands pulled you down to him. Arthur slotted your lips together in a needy, passionate kiss. He let out a wince and a few groans as you bottomed out. You moved perfectly in sync, two lovers in a perfect in a perfect harmony. "Doing so good for me." You repeated the praise from earlier, Arthur groaned in response. His hole gripped you like a vice "Start movin'." You pulled away from the kiss while pulling his bottom lip with your teeth. Your hips rocked slowly and gently; Arthur's moans were soft. "So handsome, my beautiful boy." You praised in his ear, the rocking of your hips becoming harsher. His moans grew louder and louder "Shit, hon." You groaned. Your hand moved to his cock, you stroked him quickly bringing him closer to his release. He was already a little overstimulated from you sucking him off. "Fuck~" You groaned. You reached your release deep inside him, his spend ending up all over himself. You kept pumping to prolong both of your orgasms, Arthurs moans out in a mix of pain and pleasure, "t's to much, too much." His back arched. "Okay baby, okay.". God you love him.

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: Toy

A/N: Another snippet of a smut scene, *a little more than a drabble, but oh well, it kept evolving. Again, you can imagine any character here! This time, we have some oral sex, deepthroating, masturbation, edging and a little dom/sub dynamic.

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! // WORDS: 689 // AO3

He's given her a toy to practice with.

It's big, looks like his cock, can be suctioned to surfaces. It's intimidating.

She's kneeling in front of it, imagines she's sitting between his legs, arms folded behind her back. Eyes closed, tongue extended, exploring the stiff ridges, round edges, hard, cold material. Not the same.

It's better when it's covered in her saliva, warmer, but it's not him, doesn't twitch and throb, there are no groans and grunts, no hand gripping her hair, guiding her head, forcing it deeper.

It's all her. She sucks on it, hollows her cheeks, slurping it into her mouth, tongue flicking around it. Eyes closed, imagining him, remembering his scent, his taste, his dominating presence.

She pushes her head down on it. It's so rigid, too hard, unyielding. She forces on, tongue flat against it, lips strained, back of her throat. Her body jerks when she gags around it, coughs, splutters, keeps going. Eyes watering, can't breathe, imagines his big hands on her head, pushing down.

It's in her throat, she's dizzy, there's so much spit, no precum, only her. No air. She holds it, hears his voice in her memory. “Good girl.” Back and forth, head bobbing, tip on her tongue, tip in her throat, up and down, in and out.

There's no release, no thick creamy cum filling her mouth, dripping down her throat, filling her belly. Just spit and tears. She practices until she almost faints, fighting the gag reflex, getting better, wanting to make him proud.

She's drenched once she's done, sweat, spit, tears, arousal. When she forces herself to stop, she falls over, hands between her trembling thighs. Fingers not enough. The toy is off the wall and slips into her with ease. She's shaking, can barely hold it, wants him to hold it, push it in and out, mercilessly, ignoring her whines. Forcing her to the edge.

“Not yet, baby girl.”

His voice is in her head, so close, so warm. She fights the pleasure trying to devour her, pulls it out, pants, pushes it back in, always close. She's whimpering, crying and sobbing, pleading with her eyes squeezed shut.

“You may come.”

Relief. Release. Exploding pleasure, body convulsing, hips off the ground, thighs pressed together, shaking, gasping, coming so hard she's seeing stars. The toy is forced back in.

“Again.” She obeys, keeps going, pushing further. All for him, through tears and hand cramps and body spasms. Mouth wide open, gasping for air, for reprieve.

Her head is being lifted, supported by strong hands, his scent fills her nostrils, something warm on her face, bent back, neck tilted, upside down. Warm and heavy and soft. Him.

“Keep going.” Fingers cramping around the toy, imitating his cock, and the real thing slips into her gaping mouth, straight into her throat. She doesn't gag, doesn't open her eyes, feels her throat bulging, feels full on both ends. Content, satisfied. Sucks around him as he moves his hips against her face, in and out, tip on her tongue, tip squished in her tight throat.

“Gag.” She does, body convulsing, cunt clenching, spit and precum in her mouth. She's so dizzy. “Good girl.”

The reward comes with a groan, a grunt, a jerk of his hips, tightening balls slapping against her nose. Release. The toy is forced out, muscles tense, fluttering, her hands and thighs wet, a muffled, helpless moan from her stuffed throat. She can taste him as he fills her mouth, rewards her for her effort. Warm, sticky, thick, slipping down her aching throat, gulp, gulp, gulp.

The pressure is gone, he remains, his taste on her tongue, heavy in her belly. His hand on her sweaty face, caressing, wiping away the remnants of her devotion, a thumb pressing against her quivering lip.

“Such a good girl,” he says, and she smiles softly, tiredly, eyelids too heavy to open. “Now turn around. We gotta practice on the other hole today.”

A deep shiver, instant tension, anticipation. She scrambles to her feet, turns, positions herself, presents, ready for more practice. For him.

“Yes, sir.”

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A Steamy Shower

Car Inspection

Sleepy

Tension Relief

[sir-walton-goggins]

Clean Shaven

Just a lil ficlet in appreciation of clean shaven Arthur. (736 words)

Tw suggestive! Just a whole lot of teasing eheh

Pic by me /// Thank you @raevennsge for the inspiration!<3

"Let me do that for you." Arthur paused and turned to you, shaving blade in mid-air. It was early in the morning, most of the camp was still asleep, and your husband was sitting in front of his portable mirror on his cot. Before he could even reply, you straddled him, placing yourself right on his lap, and gently took the blade from his hand. "Wh-hat..." he stuttered, gaze averted and traveling down to your chest, his cheeks and the tips of his ears glowing red. He shifted his weight to accommodate yours, suddenly very aware of the stiffening bulge in his pants. His breath escaped him in a short exhale when you promptly grabbed his jaw to hold it into place, a stern command exiting your pretty lips. "Don't move." Like under a magic spell, Arthur's muscles froze into place, not even daring to breathe too hard, heart racing in his chest and a tingling sensation spreading all over his lower abdomen. He would never admit it, but he was just so starstruck when you took control of him. However, it was written all over his face: eyes widening in a defenseless stupor, mouth slightly open, whole face as red as a bell pepper. He looked as vulnerable as a puppy. A small quiver shook his lower lip when you hovered your mouth just below his earlobe, on the portion of skin not covered by the shaving cream. A shiny mark of saliva glistened in the timid light of the rising sun. The skin on his neck felt tingly. "Be a good boy for me now." You ordered, softening the grip on his jaw and running the blade smoothly on his cream covered cheek. Arthur looked at you with his peripheral vision, the malicious grin pasted on your face making his stomach churn. God, you were so hot. He tried lifting a hand to put it on your thigh, but you quickly smacked it away, giving him a dirty look. "I said, stay still." "Yes ma'am" he whispered, a coy smile on his lips. You were often so sweet, but he enjoyed seeing this part of you emerge from time to time. It awakened something in him he didn't quite understand. All he knew was his pants now felt a bit tighter than before. "What did I do to deserve the deluxe service?" He joked, desperately trying to distract himself from the painful swelling you caused. The blood rushing over felt like thousands of pins and needles prickling at him from the inside. You didn't reply. Instead, you planted your eyes in his, softening your gaze a bit as if to silently say "You're my man. Of course you get special treatment". You continued shaving him, strip by strip, being exceptionally delicate yet firm. Arthur's skin was becoming smoother where the blade had taken away thick hair and dead skin, and you took pleasure in running your free hand on the freshly shaven parts, even leaving a soft kiss on them, making Arthur shudder in delight at the gentle contact on his still raw epidermis. His little grunts and moans as you held him in place made your own lower belly hot. You exhaled, trying to keep your cool. He gingerly tried to put his hands on your waist and this time, guard down, you let him. "There," you finally announced, shaving the last of Arthur's face. You smiled. "All done." You admired his clear features. Every single pore, wrinkle, scar, mole and sunspot that was now exposed made him even more Arthur. And you loved seeing every inch of him. You reached out to caress his clean shaven cheeks once more, but Arthur grabbed your hands and held them into place in one swift motion. "I'll finish up later," he rumbled, his voice suddenly so deep it made your heart skip a beat and every hair on your neck stand on end. He leaned forward, putting his lips on yours, his grip on your waist tightening as he opened his mouth slightly to taste you better. You instinctively obeyed, parting your lips enough to let him in. "Now, let me give you the deluxe treatment..." he purred in your ear, making your breath shaky and your core flutter in anticipation. Your squeezed your thighs around his waist and dove right back on his mouth, tasting every inch of the soft skin you shaved yourself.

[emmcfrxst]

you’d think that being an outlaw and having been with other women before would lessen the impact a peek of your bare skin has on arthur, but it really doesn’t. as soon as you bare yourself to him— even if it’s just a flash of a soft, bare leg, a peek between the valley of your breasts or the dip of a shoulder— arthur starts fumbling immediately, ears turning red and mouth going dry. he’ll chastise himself, embarrassed by his lack of restraint because he’s a grown man for god’s sake, he’s not a hormonal teenager anymore; but if you do it on purpose—and you always let him know when you do with a sly, wicked little smile he wishes to kiss off of your lips— he immediately feels his heart beating faster, ears ringing as he focuses on the part of you that’s exposed to his hungry eyes, cock straining against the coarse material of his riding pants— he’ll indulge you in this little cat and mouse game for a bit more, already thinking about the way your warm, wet cunt is going to feel around his cock when he finally takes you after you break the last of his (surprisingly) solid patience

[applepiesupreme]

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 38

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/153076498

Savigne sat, drawing designs on the table, thinking that there were surely peaks and valleys to life. And the valleys of her life were long and deep. In front of her, the newspaper of last week and an empty glass of water with laudanum - courtesy of Ms. Grimshaw. First time, about a week ago when the older woman had shown up with it by her ramshackle wagon, she had known there were bad news in tow because Sadie had informed Ms. Grimshaw that the laudanum was to be used sparingly now. So Savigne drank the water without further ado and after that, stared at the newspaper that was placed in front of her.

Sister DuBois had been wrong after all, because the shoes kept dropping.

Saint Denis had been shaken by the bank heist and the newspapers had talked of little else since. Even speculation about Ecco’s demise had been pushed to the fifth page. Pinkertons had immediately revealed the identity of the Van der Linde gang. A few days later big news broke: a ship had rolled into the Saint Denis harbor and the captain had contacted the authorities. His vessel had passed another that had departed the city few days prior and this ship had alerted them via lights and Morse code that the Van der Linde gang was on board and had bribed their passage to Cuba. Pinkertons, frustrated that their search in Shady Belle had come up empty, then had focused their efforts on contacting the authorities in Cuba. There was no extradition between the two countries but when the authorities heard of the bounty amounts, they said they would gladly pick the outlaws up at port to deliver them back to the US.

That seemed to be the end of it - the gang was stuck on a ship, seemingly unaware that the captain had double crossed them and heading straight to Cuba to be arrested. Alas, things went sideways again because after a prolonged radio silence, the news printed in last week’s paper sitting in front of her was that the cargo ship had sunk before its arrival, still a good distance away from Cuba and the gang had perished. 

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Ms. Grimshaw had rapped her knuckles on the table as she dropped the paper. 

That had been last week. She thought it was last week, anyway. Because since then she had had a few more glasses of bitter water and had stared at the same paper day in day out.

Arthur dead. Dead forever. She couldn’t even remember the last thing she had said to him. Probably something sharp and hurtful. Maybe it had been something rudimentary like “turn off the lantern” or “your boots are muddy”. Her mind was a maze and all the doors led to weird places. Here, reality and fantasy were indistinguishable. Had they really gone treasure hunting or was that a fantasy she had cooked up? Had they spent the night on that island she had rowed to or had they returned? Had they strolled through cabins as prospective buyers or was that just her daydreams? Memories branched off into alternative paths and forked into other trails and sometimes it was hard to tell what had actually happened and what she had conjured in her head.

Laudanum was a hell of a drug.

But at least it soothed the sharpness of her grief and wouldn’t let her linger on it for too long before it led her mind astray. Every time she thought of the warmth of his body behind her and her heart pierced, laudanum said ���Hey, how about that time you sledged down the snowy hill with your friends when you took a field trip to the mountains?” Every time she missed waking up next to him, laudanum said “Do you remember Christmas at the orphanage? You used to love listening to the choir.” Every time she pictured the intensity of his gaze on her, laudanum said “That trip to New York was amazing, wasn’t it? You whipped that meringue like a true professional”.

On and on, her mind chased Arthur and laudanum chased her mind. In a way, she was grateful. Without it she would surely have had a breakdown. In fact, arguably she had. In the weeks she had been here, she had barely done anything but sit here on a chair and wait for nightfall and then go around to the other side of the wagon and lie in her bed. The times of an orderly, clean tent and the semblance of normalcy were in the past. She hadn’t even unloaded the crates - they were stacked up in the back and every time she needed something, she just rummaged through them and retrieved what she needed and put the lids back on. Her wagon - their wagon - sat close to the cluster of huts that served as camp now. Sadie wouldn’t allow her to camp far from everyone else like she used to, but at least she got to sleep alone.

People came and spoke to her and tried to console her, but nobody could understand the depths of her grief because nobody was in her shoes. Except perhaps Molly, who sulked around and drank and stumbled through her own head maze. "Sláinte to both of us fools!" she had raised her bottle at Savigne one day, on her way out of camp. "What we deserve for lovin' these men." Savigne had felt compassion and a strange kinship for her then and had nodded. This surprised Molly who was used to being pushed around and dismissed and she gave Savigne a long look, swaying on her feet. "At least yers loved ya back," she had mumbled before she had disappeared among the foliage.

She blinked and picked up the paper again. Every time she tried to reread the news, her mind detached a few sentences in. 

“You okay, Savigne?”

She looked up to find Charles standing over her. “I don’t think so,” she said thougtfully.

He pulled out the other chair and sat to her right. “Been a rough few weeks,” he sighed. They didn’t speak for a while. Charles was one of those people with whom silences were never awkward. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s dead.”

She played with the corner of the newspaper, folding it, then unfolding it as he watched her patiently.

“I’ve seen that man walk away from worse odds,” he continued. “Please don’t give up.”

She folded the corner, unfolded it. Folded it, unfolded it. She observed the letters straighten and flip upside down, straighten and flip. “Did you bury Hosea’n’Lenny?” she asked, her speech a little slurred.

In the corner of her eye, he nodded. Another thing nobody had disclosed to her until later. The pregnancy nobody but herself was shocked by, the scandalous heist and the demise of Hosea and Lenny. All secrets and lies. Why should she trust anything they said now?

“I know this upsets you,” he guessed her thinking. “Not being told. But we were just mindful of your well being.”

“Everyone’s lyin’ to me ‘bout ‘vrything.” the sticky words tumbled out of her mouth. Another thing laudanum removed was that filter between your head and your mouth.

She startled when his hand folded over hers, stopping her from the folding and making her look up. “Not everything.”

It was all he said, but the way he locked eyes with her and the way he said it somehow soothed her heart. He looked at her a long time and she looked back. Eventually he removed his hand and she sighed and sat back.

“He’s strong. And stubborn. No lies,” Charles added.

As if it mattered to be strong or stubborn or whatever the fuck else when a ship sucked you to the bottom of the ocean. Often she was glad for the gang’s confidence and optimism. But when the drug wore off, she thought it pathetic. Like they were all clinging to a lie. Like even here, at their most miserable low point, sleeping among gators and water snakes, they stubbornly pretended that their glory days were yet to come. Like this was just a small setback. Like Arthur and Dutch would return and then they would roll their wagons to a breezy overlook so they can go back to robbing people’s heirlooms and inheritance to buy more whiskey.

“My valley is so long,” she drawled, pulling the shawl over her shoulders. 

Charles didn’t ask what she meant or look at her strange, just sat with her. “I’m sorry,” he said what felt like much later. “Wish I could do something for you.”

“What happens now?” she asked, wiping her hands over her face.

“We hang tight until we hear more. Well...you do. Me and Sadie will try to break out John.”

She nodded and waited for the meaning of the words to float down to her. Like a seesawing feather, it eventually did. “Of prison?”

“Yes,” was his simple response.

“That’s good,” she sighed a minute later. She felt a stab of hurt and realized that she resented John being rescued while Arthur was gone, possibly dead.

“Lucky Abigail. Guess family was meant for her,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “Not for me.”

“Savigne…” He waited until she locked eyes with him again. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Doubt that,” she snorted and giggled a little. “But that’s fine!” she waved her hand at the expression on his face.

He looked at her a moment, then rose to his feet and squeezed her shoulder. “Rest.”

It took her a while to realize he had left and she stupidly looked at the newspaper again, eyes growing heavy. Luther must be worried, I haven’t seen him in weeks, she thought to herself.

Nobody worries about you, silly girl, her inner voice scoffed.

Hands pulled up the shawl around her shoulders and she realized she had fallen asleep sitting there because the light was different now. 

“Hey,” Abigail sank into in the chair Charles had vacated a minute ago…an hour ago? Time was fluid now; sometimes it stretched on for eons, other times it blinked by in a heartbeat. 

“Is John back?” Savigne sniffed, wiping her sleeve under her nose. The laudanum had worn off and her mind was clearer again.

“No. They left a few hours ago, ain’t back yet.”

They hadn’t spoken since Jack’s return which felt like years at this point. The other woman was twitching restlessly with worry. At least she had something to worry about. All Savigne had was the desolate landscape of hopelessness. The resentment flared up in her again and she looked away. 

“Did you need something?”

“Came to ask if you did,” Abigail’s eyes flicked up at her.

“So you’re not here to brag?”

“Brag?”

“I’m sure you knew about the child. I’m starting to think everyone knew but me. And possibly Arthur, because he was as dumb as me.”

Abigail bit her lip and shifted in her chair. “Course I knew. Not cause ‘m smarter, mind you, ‘m not. Cause I been there myself.”

“Another thing you didn’t tell me,” Savigne chuckled bitterly.

Abigail exhaled with frustration. “Really Savigne? We wasn’ even speakin’, did you expect me to drop by and tell you I think yer with child?”

She shrugged and hugged herself. She knew she would have been supremely upset and would have dismissed it as a cruel lie if Abigail had done that, but the flame of pettiness was burning hot in her gut.

“I’m sorry,” the other woman said carefully. “For not tellin’ the other thing. Or this. I am. Didn’ think was my place. Seems like whatever I do, I lose.”

“What exactly did you lose?” Savigne snapped. “They’re going to bring John back, then what are you going to cry about?”

Abigail was taken aback by that and looked guilty for a moment. “Arthur is comin’ back.”

“Will people please stop pulling this nonsense out of their ass?!” her voice rose and kept climbing. “No he won’t! He’s DEAD! And I’m FUCKED!”

Heads turned their way. She buried her face in her hands and shivered with righteous anger. Abigail was trying to make peace. But that was easy to do when your man wasn’t floating in the bottom of the ocean, wasn’t it? It was easy to be kind and generous, easy to preach hope and consolation when the winds of good fortune were filling your sails.

She remembered the rich families that used to visit the orphanage for adoption gliding around, smiling at the children like beatific deities. She remembered her friends brushing their hair and practicing their smiles in hopes of being noticed. She also remembered sitting in a corner, scowling with pride, watching these couples stroll around as if inspecting wares in a store.

Savigne, stop scowling, the Sisters would say. Why did you mess up your hair? What is this stain on your dress? Don’t you want to have a family?

One by one she had noticed the pretty girls leave. The taller ones with fair skin and nice eyes. “I have a family,” she would growl. “They’re dead.”

But don’t you want a new family?

“No.”

Savigne, everybody needs someone.

She had observed the men hoist up a child and grin with approval while their wives cooed and brushed the girl’s hair. 

“Not me. I don’t need anyone.”

Every week she had messed up her hair and brushed dirt on her dress and every week she was passed on. A self fulfilling prophecy of her own making. In her grubby little heart, both righteous pride and something else - a hurt she couldn’t quite name. Pride and hurt, all those years her loyal shield and her trusted sword. Until that fateful day in the Bayou when she had let Arthur disarm her. Now her shield was cracked and her sword was broken, and in her heart: a deep compulsion to mess up her hair and muddy her dress.

“Please,” Abigail spoke up. “Let me help. I wanna help.”

“I don’t want your help!” she shot to her feet. “Go enjoy yourself! Go be with your family!”

“Young lady!” Grimshaw hollered from somewhere and she quickly fell back into her chair. 

“You got to rub it in, congratulations,” she hissed and looked away. “Go away, leave me alone.”

Abigail’s eyes flared and her jaw muscles worked but when she spoke, her voice was careful and soft. “I know you don’ believe me but I’m your friend. Wanna be, anyway. I ain’t celebrating and I ain’t rubbin’ nothin’ in. I been where you are. I know you don’ wanna hear it but I’m very upset about Arthur, too.”

“Well that at least I can believe!” Savigne spat, but quieter, so Grimshaw wouldn’t march over.

“Ain’t like that! That was years ago. You wanna judge me for what I did, go ahead, ‘m used to it. Yes, I was a whore. Slept with men for money - the horror! But I been with John for years, I been loyal for years, and it hurts ya sayin’ ‘m lustin’ for another man! Behind John and Jack’s back! Shame on you!”

Savigne defiantly wiped her tears and looked away. She was jealous and every time she was jealous, she turned petty. Old habits died hard.

“I know yer head screwed on wrong right now. ‘M tryin’ not to hear yer poison but it’s hard Savigne! Really hard!” the other woman's voice wavered and she flattened her lips and sat back in an attempt to gather herself.

They sniffled quietly in their chairs for a while. Savigne fished out her stack of clean handkerchiefs and when Abigail held her hand out, grumpily slapped one into her palm, too.

“I been where you are. Lemme help. Least I can do to make it up to you. And least I can do to repay Arthur.”

“There’s nothing to help,” Savigne quipped. “I’m just waiting for this thing to go sideways like everything else in my life.”

Ms. Grimshaw came out of the hut and gave them an even look. They remained composed under her scrutiny and Abigail waited for her to glide away before she continued: “Don’ gotta be that way. You’ll have a kid, ain’t the worst thing. Jack is the best thing I done in my life.”

Savigne rolled her eyes. Abigail just didn’t get it. She was riding with outlaws and her biggest career ambition was to become a better pickpocket. And if John married her one day, Jack was set. Her own life was over. Her ambitions, dust. Her plans, ruined. An unmarried woman with child was a death sentence to all her dreams. Sure, she would survive - she could find the odd job here or there and put the semblance of a roof over her head and food into her stomach. But an illustrious career in a city? That was done. No respectable restaurant would hire her. Everywhere she went, women would look at her with disdain and hurry their husbands and sons away and men would treat her like an easy lay. Never getting married - that was manageable for a woman these days. But a child out of wedlock? Certain ostracism. And what would happen to the child? Rejection by nurseries and schools. Endless teasing and stigma for being a “foundling”. If it was a boy he would climb down chimneys for a living and if it was a girl her highest aspiration would be to become a maid.

“Also, like I said, Arthur is coming back.” Sometimes she wondered how John put up with Abigail’s one track mind. The woman just thought what she thought and nobody could convince her otherwise. 

“Then what? You think we’re going to ride into the sunset after this bullshit he pulled?”

“You knew this what he does when you shacked up with him,” was the defensive response.

“And so did you with John. Didn’t stop you from complaining my ears off!”

“I complain he won’ leave this life, ain’t nothing the same! I ain’t blind, I know Arthur don’ feel that way about the gang no more.”

“Just spare me,” Savigne huffed. “I’m sick of the whole thing. I’m tempted to go to New York and start all over.”

“New York?! Why there?”

“Why not? They’re more open minded over there, I can pull it off as a single parent. More work, too.”

Abigail gave her a side eye. “Ya gonna pack up and go to a big city in yer condition? Where ya gonna be all alone? Don’ know a soul?”

Savigne knew how dumb it sounded and truthfully, had very little ambition or money to make such an upheaval right now. Hell, she hadn’t even gone to work in weeks, the notion that she would rise up like some glorious phoenix and relocate to New York was preposterous. But she shrugged anyway. “Might,” she said curtly. “I’m alone. No ties to anyone. I might as well start new. Could pass as a widow with a ring on my finger. Might even find a good man who’ll stick around.”

The other woman shifted in her seat. “Yer underestimatin’ Arthur’s-.”

“You know what - I don’t give a shit!” she spat. Then hastily looked around for that black bun and adjusted her tone. “He left me. He lost his vote by doing that.”

“He ain’t left you. He went on a job, things gone wrong. Don’ ya think you should wait a little?”

“For what? A horrible, irresponsible man to come back? What’s he going to do? Save me?” Savigne snorted and crossed her arms, “Let’s face it: he’s more likely to hate me.”

“The hell?!”

“A child he didn’t ask for? Because I was stupid? Sound familiar?”

“Absolutely not!” Abigail gasped. “That was very different. He gonna be crazy happy!”

“Any other glowing defense of Arthur you need to throw my way while you’re at it?!” growled Savigne. “Touching how protective you are of him!”

“Stop it! I owe him a lot, that’s all. I have no feelings for yer stupid man.”

“If you have no feelings, stop fucking defending him.”

“Okay fine. Wanna make sure you sein' all your options, is all. Just a few weeks, Savigne. Charles said that what they discussed - sail off a few weeks and return. Hasn’t changed.”

“The ship at the bottom of the ocean disagrees!” Savigne clutched the paper and waved it in Abigail’s face.

“I ain’t a well traveled woman but even I know those have life vests and boats,” was the infuriatingly stubborn dismissal. “A few weeks, and if-”

Just then two horses rode into camp - Sadie and John on one and Charles on the other. The gang, hungry for any good news, erupted in a big pent up hooray. Abigail scrambled out of her chair and ran to meet John. Savigne watched them embrace and kiss as people flocked around them. The resentment, the jealousy that had been percolating in her before flared up so hot and bitter, it took her breath away. She shot up to her feet, swayed for a moment, then walked to the back of the wagon and fumbled with the single sheet of fabric of the tent that remained now. All the pillars had been left at Shady Belle so she just had a bed and a drape of fabric for privacy. She untied it and hurriedly hung it over like a mosquito net, then sat down on the bed, shaking with fury and dejection. She kicked off her boots and lied down, listening to the greetings and exchanges and hating everyone and her own jealous, spiteful, petty self most of all. It’s unfair, she cried silently. Unfair he’s back and Arthur isn’t. Unfair they’re happy and I’m miserable. Unfair they’re a family and mine is dead forever. Unfair, unfair, unfair!

Steps scrunched her way and she stilled, shuffling closer to the wagon. Leave me alone, she screamed in her head. I hate you and I don’t want your pity!

Whoever it was paused in front of the lowered drape for a while, then finally receded. 

She inhaled the smell of the Bayou. I can’t be in this muck, listening to frogs and gators. What the fuck am I doing? I used to work a distinguished job. I have money. I have a friend. Instead I’m here, sinking into the damn swamp. Sleeping in this barely put together tent. Everything is dirty and ugly here, I haven’t bathed in weeks, I can’t even cook. I’m lying here waiting for a man who didn’t give a shit about me. Not enough to stop and wonder what was going to happen to me anyway.

There was a flutter in her stomach and she froze. “Sorry,” she mumbled and splayed her hand on it. “I’m sorry. You must be boiling in pure poison in there.” Shame washed over her. All her life she had missed a mother like an absent limb, and now, when the responsibility was laid at her feet, it was all “woe to me!”, and “what about my career?”, and “what about my dreams?” Doctor Polleux was right - ignorance was no excuse. Arthur didn't do this and the baby certainly didn't either. This was her doing and consequentially, her responsibility. 

“Sorry I haven’t been a better custodian. But that’s all over now. No more laudanum.” she whispered to her passenger. “I was…sick, but I’m better now. Tomorrow we're going to go see Luther.” The thought calmed her heart. “Luther is my friend. Our friend. We’ll ask him what to do. If he’s mean, just ignore it, you hear? He just pretends to be mean.” She sighed and listened to the music of the Bayou for a while, gently tapping her belly. “We're climbing out of this hole. I put us in this hole and I will climb us out of it. This is not a fairy tale, no hero is coming to save us, and that’s fine because we don’t need one. It's easy, you'll see. All we have to do is put one foot above the other. And not look down.”

Hercule crouched next to Arthur as the other man watched the camp below with the binoculars. The moon shone full and bright tonight as voices of banter and ease drifted up to them. If the cowboy was distressed about the number of their enemies, he didn’t show it. Behind them, the rest of the gang was quietly inspecting the crates that Hercule’s men had smuggled over in the cover of dark. A few days from now, when the last reinforcements arrived, they were going to storm the camp and try to flush Fussar out. It had sounded like madness to Hercule, but as he was wrestling with indecision and doubt, Arthur had looked at him and had said “Run with me,” and to his own amazement, Hercule had found himself shaking hands.

When he had returned to his men to translate, they too had balked at this proposition.

“Hercule, how can you trust this blan, this white man?”

“A wolf is not black and a wolf is not white. A wolf is grey.” he had told them.

This had fazed them none, because even though there were no wolves in Haiti, there were wolves in America and this man was American, and his people were intuitive and knew that some things were meant to be understood with the heart, not the head. Their dark eyes had judged the cowboy up and down, had weighed his measure as they mulled on this between themselves.

Then they had said “Okay, we will run with this American wolf. But this plan crazy. We are few and Fussar is many.”

Hercule had shrugged. “Bondye fe san di. God acts and doesn’t talk. We did the talking, now we do the acting.”

So here they were, scouting the camp below them and fine tuning their plans. 

“Bill,” Arthur mumbled, concentrated on the activity in the distance. “Ya remember where?”

“Sure.”

Arthur rose from his haunches and gave him a suspicious look. “Where?”

Bill shifted uncomfortably on his feet and glanced back over his shoulder to the camp below them. “There,” he pointed at the barracks, “…there” - the gun shack, “…and…and…” The slap on the back of his head startled him.

“The fuckin’ watchtower!” hissed Arthur. 

“Was just about to say that!” was the sullen response.

Arthur stepped closer to him, “Listen here ya lumberin’ fool, you do this wrong, don’ bother comin’ back, cause ‘m shootin’ yer useless ass.”

“‘M just tired. And cooked. And hungry.”

The blue eyes blazed at him. “You do this wrong, ya gonna be dead, too.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dutch spoke up. He lifted a rifle out of the crate and checked the scope. 

“Where you need us?” Hercule asked Arthur.

“How about you go ahead first?” Micah drawled. “Draw their fire.” Hercule didn’t engage with him. He didn’t care for this man. This man was lougarou - a skinwalker who dressed like a wolf, but he was no wolf. His heart was the wicked heart of men. He looked at Arthur and waited. “Hey, you deaf or what?” Micah pushed, annoyed that he was being ignored.

“You want us to draw fire?” Hercule quietly asked Arthur as if Fat Belly hadn’t spoken.

“Not you,” Arthur said, testing the sharpness of his blade on his thumb before he notched it on his belt. “You come with me. We gonna go in quite and kill the men aimin’ the gatlins.”

“Since when are you leading?” was Micah’s frustrated protest.

“Since always,” Arthur said, eyes cold as they shifted up to him.

“You okay with this, Dutch?”

“Arthur knows what he’s doing,” was Dutch’s distracted response.

“Wouldn’t know it by the job that landed us here,” was the muttering.

“What’s that now?” Arthur turned to him, voice deceptively mild and Hercule curiously observed the other big man, Bill, flinch and go white like someone had dunked his head in bleach.

“Hey!” Dutch hissed, stepping between Arthur and Micah. “Enough! You can handle your differences when this is done. Until then…” he gave Micah a side eye, “…Arthur leads.” It was obvious to Hercule that there were problems between these three. If he had to guess, the two younger men had a long standing issue. The leader liked Arthur and looked extremely pleased that he was back in the fold. No, more than that: Dutch acted happy and proud, as if his long lost son had returned to his side. Eager to reward him for his choice to return, eager to have his right hand back. This didn’t please Fat Belly who looked disgruntled for being asked to vacate his spot. Clearly there was a simmering power play here but one that only Micah was engaged in. Arthur filled the role naturally, organically and easily and didn’t even seem to be aware of the competition.

“Tell yer men to gather to the North,” Arthur told him, finger jabbing at the spot on the crude map. “When the dynamite goes off, they shoot and draw back. We’ll crawl in from behind and turn them gatlins on the fools chasin’. Tell’em to circle and come join the fight when they hear that.”

Hercule nodded and turned to translate what was asked. The men’s dark eyes shifted to Arthur as they muttered their “wi patron”s.

“What about us?” Dutch asked.

“You push Fussar to the beach. Micah and I will block his way out and meet you there.”

“Why the hell am I going with you?” Micah sneered.

“Cause what we doin’ more dangerous.” Arthur gave him a look. “And I figure if anyone’s gotta die, should be the worst of us.”

The blond man chortled as he reloaded his twin guns. “I like the way your mind works, cowpoke.”

Three days later and twenty minutes after Bill, Javier, Dutch and their guide had left to plant the explosives, Hercule lead the two Americans quietly to descend through the jungle towards the camp. They had waited for lunch to finish because these lazy bastards liked their fiesta and got all sluggish after eating and were prone to nodding off at their stations. Fussar ran a tight ship, but one man couldn't overcome generations of ingrained habits or the lulling power of the heat. Besides, not even the craziest of them would expect an attack on their camp. Given the small number of men he had at his side, Hercule had always resorted to terrorist tactics - a quick nibble here and there before they withdrew to the safety of the jungle. A full head on attack on the camp was crazy but he couldn't argue with the fact that at the very least it would catch the enemy off guard.

He glanced at the cowboy. Fussar was clever and had more firepower, true. But Arthur was really determined to get back home and Hercule had learned long ago that the steel resolve of determination far outweighed cleverness or a superior force. This other man he didn't trust at all because he knew the type. This wasn't a man to turn your back to. Arthur might not be loyal to Hercule's cause or the people of this island, but Hercule had no doubt that he was loyal to something; loyal to what he valued. He suspected that this man, this…skinwalker didn't even know the meaning of the word.

The gatling guns were on high ground and Hercule knew exactly how to get there. He knew the layout of this camp like the back of his hand. He guided the other two men around the low wall and behind the food hall. They carefully looked through the dust smeared windows and spotted a party of four inside: two cooks playing cards at one of the tables and two soldiers using the other cafeteria tables for an afternoon nap. Arthur doubled back and slunk to the backdoor of the kitchen. When he carefully parted it, there was just one guy washing dishes by himself. Hercule followed him in and marveled how quiet he was despite his size. Micah trailed as the third and gently closed the door behind them. When Hercule looked ahead again Arthur had the man in his clutch and his knife did a subtle slash across the throat. A spray of blood misted as the cook struggled to dislodge Arthur's big hand off his mouth. The dishes he had been washing colored red. There was a long moment of mumbled resistance, but ultimately he slumped in the American's arms and was gently laid aside. 

"Go through the other door and take care of them cooks," Arthur whispered to Micah. Then added: "Don' do that shit you pulled in Strawberry. Quietly."

"I got it," was Micah's annoyed huff before he exited the door they had come through.

The kitchen was connected to the food hall with a set of swinging double doors, inlaid with two small windows. Arthur motioned for Hercule to stand behind it before he grabbed one of the dishes the man had been washing and threw it on the floor. Hercule peeked out and saw one of the soldiers stir when the plate shattered. A moment passed and the soldier called out:

"¿Qué pasa Antón?”

When no answer came he huffed with disgust and sat up. "Antón!"

It took some back and forth between him and his sleepy colleague to sort it out, but eventually the soldier slid off the table and trudged over to the door. He banged it open and walked in and Arthur gave him a skull cracking punch in the face and pushed him into Hercule's arms to be immediately wrapped into a choke hold. Before the door could even swing back shut, Arthur had smoothly slid out and was crouching towards the other soldier. Only when he jumped up to impale the other guys heart with a smack did the cooks startle and look up in his direction. They scrambled out of their chairs and inhaled to scream but by then Micah was behind them and stabbed one in the neck from behind. The other one turned at the sound and that was the last thing he did because when looked back again Arthur's blade was in his gut. He gurgled something unintelligible in Spanish and sank to the ground. 

Hercule came out of the kitchen, panting. "The guns close by?" Arthur asked as he wiped his blade on the cook’s shirt before reholstering it.

The black man jabbed his head north. "Just up the steps there. But they'll spot us if we go now."

"We wait here 'til the dynamite goes off," Arthur said. "Then we make a run for it."

They didn't have to wait long. Minutes later the dynamite did go off and it sounded like the ammunition depot because the explosion was massive and shivered the ground under their feet. Hercule heard the splatter of mud and stones against the building they were in and thought they might wait for all three explosions or even wait for his men to engage first, but to his surprise, Arthur pulled his guns and was out the door, so him and Micah scrambled to follow. The camp exploded into action around them. By the time the barracks went off, all three had arrived by the gatling guns and had disposed of the soldiers guarding them. Hercule had a moment to marvel at the gunslinger's speed - Arthur's hands were as fast as bullets themselves and his shooting magnificently true - before he was told to man the gun. Despite never having used one in his life, the concept was pretty basic, so Hercule took over one gatling while Micah approached the other and Arthur guarded their back. The gun was like a bull under his hands - bursting and jerking with power as he swung it around and pressed the trigger, mowing down running soldiers and etching holes into the buildings. It had a deafening cough and the vibration quaked his spine but Hercule clung to it and tried his best to aim true. Just then the base of the tower went up and the metal of the structure screeched like a banshee as it leaned, tilted and tilted and tilted until it smashed to the ground. 

A gust of sand erupted around them and billowed like tan colored sheets, making the camp momentarily invisible as Hercule tried to shoot through the dust storm. He pulled up his bandanna to breath and squinted as sand pecked at his eyes and settled into his hair. He glanced behind him and saw Arthur ducking low behind a barricade, killing anyone who was dumb enough to move through the streets or attempting to come up the steps for the gatlings. His hands were firing and reloading so fluidly, it was an uninterrupted stream of motion. He heard Micah to his left holler in joy as he fired his own gatling, bullet casings erupting around him and pinging off his legs and arms like fireworks. How long this went on he couldn't tell, but he startled when Arthur's hand smacked on his shoulder.

“Saw Fussar run off, ‘m gonna follow.”

“I’m coming with. Out of bullets anyway and the ammunition depot is blown, these guns are useless now.”

They sprinted from building to building as slugs ricocheted around his head like a hailstorm. He ducked behind the crude stone wall and tried to hear anything other than the sharp bark of bullets as he reloaded. His ears were roaring with the noise, his breath short from the running and the dust in the air. 

“Come on!” Micah yelled from ahead of them, “I’m covering.” Hercule heard Dutch holler, pinpointed a direction and stumbled from behind the wall and ducked low, running alongside Arthur as Micah covered their advance. He crouched behind some crates and peeked up. A bullet whizzed by the crate but he got a clean shot and took it. Then another. 

“Be sharp now!” Micah yelled and Arthur jumped up a little to rain a volley to cover the other man. From the corner of his eye he saw Micah run onwards and sit behind a low wall to reload.

“Arthur! Micah! This way!” was Dutch’s increasingly distant call.

Just then a man jumped over the low wall and got tangled up with Micah. He pulled a big knife, the size of his forearm and went for Micah’s throat but the blond man tussled him to the ground and slapped the knife away. The man wrestled his way back up, hands clutching at Micah’s guns to point them away from himself. Arthur reloaded and checked quickly over his shoulder to make sure there would be no fire from behind before he aimed and shot the man in the back of the head.

Micah barked a triumphant cry and pushed the body off himself. He scrambled to put his back against the low wall again. Hercule ran to squat next to him and peeked up quickly to see if anyone else was coming over. When he turned to urge Arthur to sprint on, he was startled to find him sitting on Micah’s lap, their faces so close that their noses almost touched. He saw Micah flinch with surprise, those flat blue eyes widening for a split second before he spat “Cowpoke…”

But he couldn't finish the sentence as he got distracted and dropped his head to look between them. He blinked at the hilt of the dagger he had slapped out of his assailant’s hand a minute ago sticking from his gut and his eyes followed it up to Arthur’s hand, his arm, all the way up to his face. When their eyes locked, Arthur looked on and gave the hilt a sideways push. He coolly watched Micah gasp. 

“Shot that guy,” Arthur said quietly, moving closer still. “So I can do this.” 

He jerked the dagger further right and despite the mayhem around them, Hercule somehow heard the wet tearing of flesh. Micah just blinked on in confusion and his only reaction was a small cough. A few more bullets rained around them, singing against the wall but most of the fight was following Dutch, Bill and Javier and those men sounded even further down the beach.

Hercule’s eyes widened at the scene in front of him.

“Help me you idiot!” Micah sneered at him. “He’s gone mad!”

There was no madness in Arthur’s eyes when they flicked up to Hercule. But he did look very dangerous.

“Patron?!” Hercule stammered.

“This man assaulted my woman,” Arthur said calmly, his blue eyes boring into Hercule’s. His hand jerked again to the right and the blond man he had pinned against the wall moaned. “And means to, again.”

The Fat Belly’s low chuckle drew his eyes to him. “You need…me you…idiot,” Micah's eyes bored into his over Arthur's shoulder. “Gonna risk…Fussar…gettin’ away over…some whore?”

Hercule’s face distorted with disgust. It didn’t surprise him what Micah was accused of. And neither did it surprise him that a man of such low character would think the same of him. He spat to the side. “I’ll cover you, patron,” he growled to Arthur and peeked up to shoot.

A flash of movement as Micah’s right gun came around. He was fast, faster than he should be, but Arthur was ready and gripped it with his left hand before it could turn his way, his other hand on the blade handle seesawing across the belly. The gush of warm, sticky blood was followed by the ropes of intestines.

Micah snarled with renewed vigor and tried to bring his left hand around. But it was caught under Arthur’s knee and wouldn’t budge. He moaned with frustration as his guts boiled out of his stomach and unfurled like glistening coils. Arthur set his cool eyes on the blond man whose gun started to shake with the futile effort to turn. “Think I forgot 'bout ya, you filth?” Arthur drawled, watching his eyes flutter with the loss of blood. “Think ‘m gonna let you loose so you can do what y’aimin’ to do?”

Micah’s right hand unfurled from his gun and gave a weak slap at Arthur’s cheek. “Fucking…coward,” he hissed. “I paid…for what…I done,” was the hiss as the blade serrated on and scraped a rib bone.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

Arthur threw Micah’s released gun over his shoulder as he watched the the pupils wavering, wrestled the other one of his weakened grip from under his knee and checked the chamber. The commotion had moved further east. “Should 'ave done this after Jenny. Should 'ave done it in Strawberry. Should 'ave done it after ya touched my woman. Well…” he sighed, eyes crawling over Micah’s rapidly blanching face, “…’m doin’ it now.” 

Micah growled in anger and twitched about. A shudder shook his frame and he panted and coughed blood when Arthur took a crouched step away.

He placed Micah’s gun against the man’s chest and waited for those dead fish eyes to flutter up to him. “Let’s find out if ya got a heart in there.”

When he pulled the trigger, Micah convulsed and his eyes rolled up in his head. Arthur released him and he keeled sideways, dead weight.

Hercule watched the cowboy reload his own guns before their eyes met. “Couldn' risk him returnin’ home if I die here," he explained calmly. "But Fussar ain’t gettin’ away. Gave you my word.”

Hercule nodded in understanding. Some things were clear to all men. "Tell me when.”

Arthur cocked his guns. “Go.”

They seesawed through a rain of bullets, covering each other. Hercule’s heart was beating against his rib cage and his lungs burned. But he wasn’t nearly as worried as he should be. Because the man next to him was like death incarnate, shooting people so rapidly, that they fell with their faces twisted in surprise at their own demise.  

By the time they arrived at the beach, he was nauseated from the adrenaline and the running, his chest heaving in the humid heat. Arthur spat to the side and sank to his knees next to Dutch.

“He’s stuck behind those rocks,” Dutch said, looking haggard and worn down himself. Arthur managed to nod, hands reloading reflexively, without thinking. 

“Where’s Micah?”

“Dead.”

The leader’s head snapped around, eyes big with disbelief. “What!? How?”

Arthur’s cool orbs flicked up to him, then around the rock they were hiding behind. The other two Americans froze with this news.

Dutch’s gaze shifted to the direction they came from, then back to Arthur. Hercule could tell the man was suspicious by nature. A man who moved pieces on the board just to see all happenstances so he would never be blindsided. Obsessed with thinking his way around corners. Hercule could see the clockwork in his head spin and tick.

“He took a bullet to the heart,” he said to Dutch and made certain not to flinch away from Dutch’s scrutiny.

Dutch looked at him for a very long moment and Hercule stared back. No doubt Dutch was clever, but the art of staring back at white folk and hiding what’s in their heads was second nature to his people.

“I’m sorry for your loss. My people will honor him when this is done,” he lied smoothly.

Just then there was a call from behind the rocks:

“Americans! Amigos! Let’s talk.”

A short silence ensued.

“Unless you want to talk about where to be buried, I don’t see the point,” Dutch called back with a lilt of amusement.

“How about we talk about money, eh?” was the response. This surprised everyone, but not Hercule and his stomach dropped. “I got lots of it. No good to me dead. We can come to an arrangement!”

Hercule glanced at Arthur’s unreadable face, then at Dutch’s which was an open book.

“What kind of arrangement?” Dutch sang.

“No talking!” Hercule hissed. “This man must die! He killed and tortured hundreds!”

Dutch gave him a look that twisted his gut. “Don’t worry, he will pay.”

“Quite literally, it seems,” Javier chuckled. It turned Hercule’s stomach that only weeks ago Javier had been tortured and imprisoned by Fussar, and yet here he was, tempted to make a deal with the man.

“I promised a boat for his death. We had an arrangement!” he pleaded. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did but when Dutch’s gun swiveled to him, he was startled anyway. Because a man could live a hundred lives and still not learn treachery.

“How about we take both?” Dutch mused. “Tell your men not to shoot,” was the cool addition.

Hercule squared his shoulders and pressed his lips together.

“I don’t want to shoot you my friend,” Dutch reasoned amicably. “But we are pretty short right now. I need this for my people. You’re young, if you’re smart and decide to live, you can kill this bastard next time.”

“You will never get a boat from me or any of my men if you do this.”

There was a long standoff. Hercule glanced at Arthur but his face was as unreadable as stone, the gears in his head well hidden.

“Don’t be a hero, son,” Dutch urged and cocked his gun. “Live another day.”

He hated these men, but more than them, he hated his own treasonous heart that saw the logic, that shriveled at the idea of saying no. He fought himself for a full minute as Dutch watched, eyes calm and curious. A better man would say no and die here. But what would happen to his men? If they got into a gunfight with these Americans, surely they would perish, too.

”Pa tire!” he shouted out. Disgust tore through him and his shoulders deflated. A patronizing “Good man,” was his reward for this treason. A jab with the gun to throw his weapon down. He complied. What was another betrayal after the first one?

“Come out, Fussar!” Dutch called. Then to Bill: “Keep your eyes on our friend here.”

Fussar hesitantly stepped from behind the rocks and cringed as if expecting a hail of bullets. When it didn’t come, he blinked at his luck and walked out further, arms raised. Seeing him right there after chasing this man for so many years singed Hercule’s heart. Dutch rose and holstered his weapon.

“Where’s this money?”

“In America of course,” was the pompous response. “You think I’m keeping it in this shithole? Or in Cuba? It’s in dollars, my friend.”

“You have a boat?” Bill yelled over his shoulder, eyes locked to Hercule.

“Not at the moment,” admitted the other man. He wet his lips and pushed his chin up to Hercule. “But I bet your friend here does.” He did a flimsy twirl with his upturned arms and a smile tugged at his lips. “You give me some time with him, I'm sure I can convince him to hand it over. Then we can all-”

The gunshot that ruptured a hole in Fussar’s face made almost everyone jump. Everyone but Arthur, who was the source of it. There was a long moment of stunned disbelief as Arthur calmly holstered his weapon and his compatriots and Hercule gaped at him with slackened jaws.

“What the fuck…!” Bill started, eyes as big as saucers.

“I ain’t kill a hundred people so this man gets us to fuck over the very same folks we promised to,” was Arthur’s calm explanation.

It was hard to argue with that and Hercule’s heart bloomed with hope and renewed respect. The stares of the other Americans, however, turned sullen and angry.

“You can’t make that call for us, Arthur!” Javier moaned with frustration.

“My bullet in his head says differently.”

“Son...” Dutch’s voice quivered. It was obvious that he was shocked by Arthur’s rogue behavior. The pleasure he had shown just days ago for having him back by his side dissolved in front of Hercule’s eyes. Hercule was proud to notice that for all his cleverness, Dutch had a blind side: He thought he knew Arthur well, was confident in this, but he hadn’t seen what Hercule had: that Arthur was his own wolf. Maybe now more than ever. “...we needed that money.”

Arthur notched his hands on his gun belt, gazing back at him. “We always need money. But ‘a man’s word is his bond’ - that sound familiar, Dutch?”

“Of course,” the hands waved softly in placation. “Of course! I know I taught you that, but we could have-”

“Wasn’ you.” Arthur interrupted him, eyes hard. The distance between them was merely a few feet, but to Hercule, they looked miles apart.

“What?”

“Wasn’ you.” Arthur's sharp gaze was unflinching. “Was Hosea.”

There was another long pause as the leader searched for words that never came. Arthur’s eyes shifted to Hercule. “We good?”

“Wi patron,” he nodded firmly. “Boat be here in few days.”

He received a grunt of acceptance as the man walked past him the way they came.

Hercule lowered his hands. When he bent down to pick up his gun, nobody objected. His men gathered around him and they threw the other three Americans baleful looks before they turned to follow.

“Your friends not happy.” Hercule said when he caught up to him.

Arthur strode in silence for a while as Hercule’s men fanned ahead to check for survivors.

“But you are,” was the late response.

“Sure,” he chuckled. “More than happy - I’m grateful! But I’m just a stranger.”

Arthur inspected his shoulder that had the shallow streak of a bullet on it. “Someone once told me ‘bout this kid who bullied a town. Bad kid, rotten seed all around. Like me.” He sighed and squinted ahead as they approached the ruins of the camp. “But, came a day, he did right by just one person.” The blue eyes flicked at him, then away. “Guess I gotta believe sometimes that’s enough.”

They arrived by the low wall behind which Arthur had dispatched of Micah and walked on. Neither looked in that direction but Hercule spat the grit in this mouth in remembrance.

“Bet your woman is gonna be happy when you return.”

“For a minute, if ‘m lucky,” the cowboy snorted. “Then she gonna be whole lotta mad.”

Hercule grinned up at him. “Well you have to stick to her tight anyway, patron.”

“Why’s that?” was the amused question.

“Because everybody know this: sticking with your family is what makes it family.”

[marvel-redemption-omega]

I'm working on a lengthy Adam x !bratty!fem!reader. I want to be able to upload it this evening, but I'm miserable and sick as a dog (running fever plus other stuffs, guessing it's covid again) and I just wanna apologize for the delay in content from my blog. I left y'all hanging like 3-4 years ago with my RDR2 fic and then I give y'all a stupid Hazbin Hotel shitpost that y'all DEVOURED.

Gonna try and feed y'all with more content but we'll see!

[nightsfeelheavenly]

so obsessed with the idea of teasing arthur morgan. just casually throwing my leg over his hips in the tent, settling down over them with my knees on either side, feeling the warmth of his hands on my thighs. leaning down and whispering “plan on sleepin’ first, you mind taking watch?” and watching that man CRUMBLE before sliding off and curling up in my bedroll

[bitin-and-barkin]

Intertwined Fingers

What would the aftermath of your so called death look like?

Warnings: Arthur Morgan x Reader, Gender neutral reader, he's going a bit insane ngl, implied self harm, dog symbolism, smut, fun fact: Pomade was commonly used as lube in the 1800s, Dom reader, sub Arthur, soft sex (I finally did the soft sex thing), No mentions of your genetalia, you just jerk off Arthur because you wanted to take care of him tonight, sorry probably not what the people were looking for but its fine, weirdly described sex to the point where it's not even porn, just an art piece, more yandere shit in the next part but you can smell the start of it here, overuse of the word Intertwined

READ MORE UNDER THE CUT + Pt 2 to another story, Pt 1 here, Pt 3 here

--------------------------------------------------------------------

That night in the hotel room, Arthur sheepishly asked if he could stay with you for the night.

You, of course, accepted.

After climbing into bed, he couldn't keep his hands off of you.

Well, he usually can't, always clinging to you like a koala bear. But especially not tonight.

Rubbing his hands up and down your chest. Feeling the grooves in your skin. The curves and marks. Wrapping his arms around you, nuzzling his nose into your neck.

Making sure all of his touches were gentle, as not to cause you pain.

Feeling your stomach rise and fall as you slept peacefully. Hearing your heartbeat.

Still softly sobbing, keeping it quiet so you could sleep, not daring to let go.

He felt like sinking into you in that moment.

For the first time in ages, Arthur slept peacefully. He could sleep for ages with your hands intertwined with his.

When you tried to get up in the morning, he pretended to be asleep so you'd stay with him for longer. When you tried to get up anyways?

He pretty much begged you to stay with him.

You ended up laying in bed for another hour before you finally were able to leave.

While taking you back to camp you told him about the doctors. How you already went to the one in Valentine, but they could only do so much.

He said he was gonna get a doctor to come here and properly check you out again, as he knew one that owed him some favors.

Worries of discreetness be damned.

Once you had gotten back to camp, people stared at you like they were looking at a ghost.

In fact, Sean fainted when he first saw you. They thought you were dead.

You even looked the part.

Hours had passed and it was sundown. Arthur had brought in a doctor named "Alphonse Renaud." By now, he had been in there for hours, Arthur right by his side.

His hands were soaked in blood, helping the doctor deal with everything they did to you.

The sick fucks had put nails in your legs.

Nails.

Your back was ripped to shreds, with some marks looking even like they came from whips.

They were irritated too, and Dr. Renaud guessed that they had poured whiskey into your wounds.

He was wondering how you managed to let him hold you the night before without wincing and whining out in pain.

Just imagining how much pain you must've been in, when he thought that he needed to hold you?

How much pain you must've been in when he was asking you on the ride back home if you felt okay?

He felt like the worst shit on earth.

Alphonse estimated you'd live a lifetime of numbness and pain on certain, scarred parts.

At least you weren't in pain right now.

You were currently passed out from Morphine after Arthur yelled at Swanson to help alleviate your pain, when he heard you whimper as the doctor worked.

He silently cried into his hands next to your bedside after he heard your shallow breaths.

He was scared. So fucking scared.

A 3 days passed, with Arthur watching your every movement like a hawk. He was around you 24/7. All other priorities just seemed to fade into the background.

You were fading in and out of consciousness. Going through fevers and hot flashes, scaring everybody at camp.

Whenever you were awake, you seemed to be in a trance. Muttering about things that weren't there, unable to recognize anybody. Not even your husband.

Arthur hadn't slept in that time either. Afraid that if he looked away for one second, the O'Driscolls would swoop up and take you away from him again.

He didn't even think of letting Kieran near you, your horse, or the tent you were in.

He got antsy when you got home, gaining an even shorter fuse to match. Doing everything to make the place more comfortable for you. Cleaning your bedsheets, changing your bandages. Gently talking to you about his day and asking about yours while you were asleep, that way if you woke up you wouldn't wake up alone.

Hosea insisted he needed rest. But every single time he went to bed, he couldn't sleep. Wracked with anxiety. Knowing you were just 15 feet away, safe and sound in your tent, yet still wondering where you were.

Wondering where his darling was.

He snuck into your tent later that night and sat down next to you. Coming down here just to make sure you were still breathing.

Watching your chest rise, your breaths were still as shallow as ever.

He had just gotten you back and he was already losing you again.

And with his coddling and touching, he had only made it worse.

He'd give anything to go back to the way things were.

Before you went on that shitty sniping job, god, what in fucking hell made Dutch think that was a good idea?

He'd give up all his things. He'd kill every O'Driscoll known to man. He'd break his own legs. He'd trade places with you. He'd kill himself.

Just for you to be okay.

He reached down, tracing his finger against scars that weren't there before.

He started talking softly to your sleeping body,

Saying how later he'll take you to the city and get you anything you want. He'll take you out dancing, or to the saloon, or to one of those new picture shows if you feel up to it.

How later he'll shoot Colm for what he did. Make his death slow, make him feel every ounce of pain you did. Doubled. He'll make Colm beg for mercy, then leave him to rot to death in some shithole.

How later, if that stupid Tahiti dream ever becomes realized, he'll settle down with you. Have a kid or two if you feel like it. As long as he can raise them with you.

Only you. Nobody but you.

How later, he'll build a mansion for you and you'd never have to be afraid of anyone hurting you ever again.

How he's so sorry that you had to come find him.

That you'd kill him if you died.

He heard the bed creak as he nervously chatted on and on.

Felt your fingers intertwining with his.

He turned to you, smiling.

You had awoken, and reached out to him.

He tucked your hair behind your ear.

There you were.

For the first time in a long time you were coherent. Aware. Unafraid.

And for the first time in a long time, you saw him clearly.

He took your hand and raised it to his lips, gently kissing your bruised knuckles. Asking how you felt as he did.

He looked... tired.

There were scrapes on his palms and hands, deep cutting scars. Going up and along his wrists and forearms.

Now that you think about it, when you first saw him again, his sleeves were rolled down.

He never rolled them down.

There were new gashes on his face. Along his lips and jaw. He was starting to look like John.

His cheeks were gaunt, and he had deep eyebags. As if they've been festering for months.

His hair was longer, a bit tangled too.

You're used to him being so broad, and while he still is, he looks almost underweight.

You took your other hand and reached up to his cheek, gently stroking it.

He leaned into your touch. He looked exhausted.

God, What had happened while you were gone?

He was resting his face on your hand as he held your other.

You gripped his jaw and pulled him close, softly placing a kiss on his lips.

And placing his free hand on yours, he returned it.

Bodies intertwining like a jigsaw puzzle.

He tried to pull away, wanting to give you air, but you pulled him even closer.

God, you were gonna be the death of him.

He pushed his hands under your shirt,

with you hastily undoing his belt.

Whispering to you,

"Darling, you're so pretty it hurts."

Pushing you to the bed,

placing kisses on your scars.

You pulled your hand away and placed them on his jeans, groping him through his pants.

His head whipped back, letting out a shaky moan.

Whimpering something unintelligible.

You were toying with his tits through his shirt.

Biting down, leaving hickeys along his neck.

Continuing to grope his dick, making him sport a tent in his pants.

And just looking into his eyes, and he had the look of a kicked puppy.

Just begging for you to properly touch him.

Unzipping his fly, his dick sprung out. Slapping against his stomach.

No wonder he had that look in his eyes. He'd follow you like a dog, and worship you like god. At least, it looked like he wanted to tonight.

You took his dick in your hand, pumping him up and down. Pressing your forehead against his, telling him to just relax, that you wanted to take care of him. Helping him take his shirt off as he whispered "Are you sure?" Asking you if you felt well enough to do this.

His breath hitching, he fumbled to untie his bandana before resorting to just rip the thing off entirely.

Peeling off his shirt just to feel you more. To touch you, as you pulled him close. Asking him to tell you just how much he missed you as pre-cum seeped out of his dick, slicking your palm.

You pulled forward and gently kissed his collarbone, licking your free hand and playing with his chest as you stroked him at a steady pace.

Biting down on his neck, his flesh soft between your teeth.

Only yours though. Only yours.

He slotted his head into your shoulder, and began to mumble, kissing your neck up and down.

Cradling your head in his palm.

Running his fingers across your bones, licking stripes against healed wounds.

To whimper and to whine, just like he did the day before.

Like a dog doing all the tricks it knew.

Fucking like two instruments playing in tune.

His eyes were glossed over, his hot breath puffing like smoke, and his words weren't making any sense anymore.

The sensual turning the sexual into the unintelligible, just repeating over and over,

I love you,

I love you,

I love you.

People in camp always talked shit about Arthur, how he was "Van Der Linde's Bitch." His dog, broken in like a wild horse. Obedient, pliable, perfect. But they're giving credit to the wrong man.

It was all you. Only you, Only you.

He arched back on the bed, crying your name as he came. His seed splattering across his stomach, into your hands.

Begging you not to leave him ever again.

Not even once,

Not even once,

Not even once.

Pleasure sparked behind his eyelids like a gunshot.

You hushing him with silent kisses, telling him to quiet down.

Letting him rut and sputter into your hands like putty until he finally came completely undone, and the only noise was his labored breathing, panting.

His hands trailed up your thighs, eager to return the favor. But you gingerly grabbed his palms and brought them up to your lips.

Oh so gently kissing his knuckles, just like he did for you.

His eyes were still red from crying. Months of grief released in a week.

You pulled his face close, kissing him on the cheek.

Pulling him down into bed, slotting your hips in between his.

Sleeping together,

with your hands intertwined.

|

|

|

|

|

Should I keep this story going???

@yyiikes

[animasolaoriginal]

I n f a t u a t e d ♦️THREE

CHAPTER ONE◾TWO THREE FOUR◾FIVE SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾️TEN ELEVEN◾TWELVE◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN

He finds out the girl he picked up on a whim is the perfect candidate. So innocent, so submissive already, with just the right amount of Daddy issues. But she still has a lot to learn, and he's determined to teach her everything.

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dubcon elements. Dom/sub dynamic. Sex toys. Fingering. Cunnilingus. Orgasm denial. Oral sex/deepthroating. Anal play. Creampies. (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 4.9k

TWO 🟥 THREE 🟥 FOUR

He's surprised how quickly she adjusted to her new surroundings, to the things he's asked of her, forced on her. Maybe she's still feeling the after-effects of the drug he's given her last night, maybe she doesn't understand the situation just yet, maybe she's simply the perfect candidate for this. To stay here, for him. She's barely putting up any fight, only seems embarrassed most of the time, but the way she's sucked him off has shown him how eager she really is.

Even though she still has a long way to go. Too fucking innocent.

She's that little ball of hair and limbs on his lap, curled up, melting into him, small hands that have been around his cock now gripping his shirt. Feet tucked under his thigh, deep little breaths against his chest. It's been only a few hours, and she's already so submissive. He's almost disappointed he didn't get to break her first. But maybe her defiance is yet to come. He's certainly looking forward to it.

His phone chimes on the coffee table, and he throws a quick look at the display. The courier is here. Good. Without a word, he stands, picking her up effortlessly. She hums against him, leans into him as he carries her into the bedroom. When he puts her down on the bed, leaning over her for a moment, he meets her hooded eyes. So pliant, so innocent. He can't help but lean down further to press his lips to hers.

She melts into the mattress as he pushes her deeper, putting his weight on her, elbows on either side of her shoulders as he gives himself a few minutes of a bit more much-needed pleasure before he has to leave her. She's hesitant at first, but as soon as he slips his tongue between her lips, her own jumps into action. A groan escapes him as she kisses him back with more and more confidence. His fingers dig into her hair, their tongues wrestling, his cock stirs back to life against the fabric of his pants.

He leans back abruptly, breathing a little harder, the girl beneath him panting as well, her lips parted and red, glistening. Her eyes on him. “I gotta take care of something,” he tells her quietly. She only blinks. “Be a good girl and wait here for me, okay?” The way her pupils dilate when he calls her that makes his stomach tense up. He's noticed it before, how she reacts to his praise. It's an intoxicating sight.

He crawls off her and stands, looking down at her small frame. White lace was a good choice, accents her innocence perfectly. Those little embroidered flowers barely cover anything, but it's still enough fabric to keep it interesting. She's beautiful, the way she lies in front of him, chest rising and falling, that flutter to her stomach, the little twitch to her thighs as she presses them together and tries to hide her sex. He raises an eyebrow at that.

“While I'm gone,” he says, a smirk growing on his lips, “I have a little task for you.”

He steps towards the nightstand and pulls open the first drawer, randomly picks some of its contents and throws them onto the bed next to her. Her eyes widen when she follows the gesture and stares at the colorful toys. He picks up one of the smaller dildos and braces himself on one arm as he leans over her.

“I want you to be very wet when I come back,” he whispers, gently taking her hand and placing the object onto her small palm. “Understood?”

She still looks at him in shock, and he can already tell she's never used any of the things he's presented her with. Another challenge, another thing he's willing to change. He leans back and looks down at her, head cocked to the side. His eyes narrow slightly when she doesn't reply.

“Understood?” he repeats a little harsher.

A tiny gasp escapes her and she sits up, nodding frantically. “Yes, sir.”

His hand finds her cheek, a gentle caress, thumb running over her bottom lip. He watches her intently. “Good girl.” The shiver that runs through her amuses him immensely. Patting her cheek, he then turns away and leaves her to her own devices.

Returning to his phone, he sends a message to the courier, and minutes later there's a chime on the door. His men are good, and fast, and when he looks through the things in the box that was brought up to his place, he nods in contentment. The things she left in the club, a jacket, a phone, case stuffed with some money, some keys and her ID. He's surprised that she's actually 19, when she looks quite a bit younger. Not that it really matters. His eyes scan her name, memorizing it. Fits her.

There's a folder tucked into the side, all the information they could gather on her, and the more he reads, the wider his smile gets. She is perfect, a random pick, an instinct, and it has still been the best choice. Alone in the big city. He checks her phone, swipes through pictures and messages. There's only one new message, someone congratulating her. Not many social contacts, no Mom or Dad or other relatives. Does explain a few things though. The girl definitely lacked the presence of a proper authority figure in her life, or at least someone who could give her the attention she needs, someone to hug her even, guide her through life, tell her what's right or wrong. No wonder she's so overwhelmed with his advances, yet strangely compliant at the same time.

Daddy issues.

What a perfect little thing that found her way into his clutches. He turns the phone off and puts it back into the box, then locks it securely in the safe in his office, before he focuses on the bag that came with the delivery. Clothes he ordered for her, more underwear mostly, some dresses, shoes. He doesn't plan to take her out much, not yet, so she won't need too many clothes anyway. They're just an illusion of safety for now, something she feels more comfortable in, before he'll take that away as well.

Grabbing the bag, he returns to the bedroom – and freezes. The bed is empty, except for the array of sex toys on the blanket. Untouched, unmoved. And the girl is gone. Something hot rises inside him, his hand tightens around the straps of the bag. He checks the bathroom, also empty. When he opens the door to his walk-in closet, he hears a soft little gasp, before his eyes move down to the far back where she's curled up on her side, wide eyes staring at him from under her lashes.

Like a beaten animal – and he hasn't even done anything to her yet. Not really, anyway.

He puts the bag down on a shelf and approaches her slowly. The dildo he gave her lies in front of her, just as untouched as the rest. She curls up even more, a little ball of hair and limbs, white lace in stark contrast to the dark rug she's lying on. He crouches down, hands resting on his knees as he watches her.

“What are you doing here, baby?” he asks quietly. “Are you hiding from me?”

She sniffles, shakes her head. “No,” she mumbles, wide eyes following his every move. Why is she so skittish all of a sudden? The drugs probably wore off. Poor thing.

He doesn't care. His hand reaches out and grabs her elbow, pulls her closer. A little yelp escapes her. He sits down on the floor and pulls her between his legs, she struggles against him but his fingers close around her arm, squeezing harder than he intended. She winces, a deep shudder rushing through her small body when he drapes her legs over his thigh, making her lean against him. One arm securely around her, holding her with enough authority that she stops squirming, he raises the other hand and grabs her chin, makes her look at him.

“What happened?” he asks, looking at her, scanning her face, fear and shock evident on it.

She averts her eyes, chewing on her lip. He squeezes her chin.

“Look at me.”

She does, with a soft little whine, blinking rapidly, eyes glistening as she meets his gaze. “M'sorry...” she mumbles.

“For what?” His voice is stern, and she frowns at his tone.

“For... for not... doing... what you told me...” she whispers, the first tear falling from her lashes. “I... I couldn't...”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Her cheeks are bright red by now, her eyes moving over his face in frantic little flutters. “Felt... wrong...”

He watches her, letting go of her chin to move his hand straight between her legs. She flinches and yelps when his fingertips brush against her panties. The fabric is a little damp, warm against his touch. He doesn't hesitate and slips a finger under the hem, testing the waters. She turns her head away, whining softly as her blush spreads over her shoulders. “Do you need my help?” he whispers.

She only stiffens in his hold as his finger glides along her slit. Warm, wetter than he expected. He doesn't know why she was so stressed about this task or thinking she failed him. She's perfectly responsive. His lips brush against her temple.

“Tell me you need me to help you...” he breathes against her.

Her thighs twitch. “I... I need you to... to help me...” she mumbles out, burying her face in his chest in a little gesture of embarrassment. So fucking cute.

“Good girl,” he hums and kisses her forehead while his finger slips between her folds, gathers her slick and promptly dips into her entrance.

She flinches, but keeps quiet, leaning into him as he nudges her legs apart with his thumb. His finger slips in and out of her, her tight walls gripping him in a way that makes his cock throb. Her wetness gathers around him, quiet squelching sounds filling his ear. She lets out little noises of discomfort, barely-there whines, almost-sobs but in a way that doesn't seem too distressed. She's slowly adjusting, relaxing in his hold, her breaths deeper.

His thumb finds her clit, and when he pushes gently on it, she wails a little louder, her legs trembling, her small hands gripping the front of his shirt as she melts into him more. He keeps drawing tight circles around her nub, his digit pushing deep, in and out, faster, her wetness runs over his hand. The moment she becomes really still, a sharp inhale cutting through the air, he stops, pulls away, and she looks up with her lips parted, almost pouty, eyebrows furrowed, disappointed.

He smirks at her and brings his wet finger to her lips. She doesn't fight it when he slips it into her mouth, rubs it over her tongue and along her gums, pushes deeper. She freezes again, stares at him, but then she closes her lips around his finger and sucks, her tongue flicking around it, licking up her own juices. He pulls it out with a wet pop and leans down, capturing her mouth for a quick, deep kiss, sucking on her tongue, tasting her. She melts into him, clinging to him, but as soon as she starts to relax again, he lets go, leans back, leans around her to grab the dildo still lying behind her on the floor.

“Here,” he says and puts the small pink object into her hand. “If you want to finish it, do it with this.”

She stares at him, eyes wide, fingers curling around the toy, her face flushed. And then she shakes her head, catching him off guard.

“No?” he whispers, raising his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

Her breaths are loud through her nose as she holds his gaze, not saying anything.

He narrows his eyes. His first instinct is to grab the toy and shove it deep into her tight pussy himself, but he refrains, pushes her off his lap and stands, then grabs her wrist and drags her out of the closet. She stumbles after him and yelps when he throws her onto the bed.

Scrambling to her knees, her lips parted and trembling, she stares at him with her eyes wide in shock. He ignores her for now and walks to the bedside table, rummaging through the drawer until he retrieves a little teardrop shaped object, bright pink as well, smooth silicone with a little antenna.

A high-pitched squeal escapes her as he grabs her and pushes her onto her stomach, one large hand on her lower back, holding her down as she starts to squirm. “Stay still or this'll be more uncomfortable than it should be,” he tells her through gritted teeth. She stiffens, her breaths loud and frantic as she white-knuckles the sheets.

He moves the toy between her ass cheeks, pleased to see the butt plug is still in place. Nudging it slightly, he makes her wince. Pushing her legs apart a bit more with his knee, he slides her underwear aside, grabs her thigh to steady her and lets the small vibrator glide between her slick folds, and it's only a little push of his thumb before it slips into her, swallowed up by the tense muscles of her pussy. She lets out a strained whine. He wipes his palm over her mound gently, then tugs on the fat string until he finds the thicker bit at the end. The button clicks audibly when he presses it, and she gasps when the first vibrations shake her body. It's low, but still definitely overwhelming for her.

He puts her thong back in place and grabs her elbow, dragging her off the bed. Her legs are trembling, the low hum between her twitching thighs barely audible, but he hears it, sees her reaction to it, feels his blood pumping into his cock, the throbbing almost painful, and he wonders why he's taking his time with her. He could have had her last night, this morning, any time he wanted, fucked her hard and mercilessly, any hole he desired, and yet he waits, eases her into it, with a patience (or restraint) that surprises himself.

Sighing loudly, he grabs her hand and leads her out of the bedroom, she follows him on shaking limbs, too stunned to protest now. They reach the open kitchen, and he grabs her waist and sets her on the island, hears the faint clanging noise when the base of her plug hits the marble top. Spreading her legs, he steps between them, braces one arm on either side of her, stares down at her darkly.

Her eyes are wide, glistening, shock and uncertainty on her face, but there's also a deep blush and a tightness to her lips as she fights the sensations pulsing through her small body. Her hands fidget between her legs, a nervous little gesture. He rips them away, tells her to sit on them. She does with a bit of hesitation as she watches him with bated breath. He leans in, lets his breath fan over her cheek, then kisses the corner of her mouth, and there's a jerk in her neck as she turns her head, trying to meet his lips.

He pulls away before that, exhaling through his nose. His hands move over her legs, thumbs brushing along her inner thighs until he pushes them against the damp fabric of her underwear. Her wetness seeps past it already, staining the white satin bit, and he licks his lips at the sight. His restraint is slipping, he can't help it, he can smell her arousal, and it's driving him insane.

In one swift motion he grabs her hip, pulls her to the edge and leans down to press his mouth to her inner thigh, quickly kissing up the soft skin to where the little pink antenna pokes out of her. His free hand tugs at it, then he drags her panties aside and closes his lips around her folds. She yelps softly, body jerking against him. His fingers dig into her flesh, hold her in place as he laps up along her slit, gathers her sweet wetness on his tongue, drinks her up like a man parched.

She whimpers when he sucks on her clit, teeth grazing her soft, sensitive skin while he fumbles with the toy and presses the button a few more times, feeling the vibrations increasing, her hips jerking, thighs pressing against his head. Her noises are getting louder, helpless whines and mewls as she squirms on the counter, hands still squished under her legs while he continues to eat her out with a passion that he hasn't felt in ages.

Holding her with one hand, he tries to counteract her uncontrollable twitches, while his other hand rubs over her thigh before his index finger pokes at her entrance, following the toy inside. It's thrumming hard against her tense muscles, and he pushes it around a little with his finger before he finds the right spot, and that's when she really wails, body spasming against him, the heels of her feet thudding loudly into the cabinet as she tries to ground herself somehow.

He holds the toy pressed to her g-spot, still sucking on her clit, eyes moving up to watch her lose it in front of him. She's arching her back, head tilted upwards, chest pushed out, arms trembling before she can't keep her composure any longer and pulls her hands from under her legs and grabs his hair, two sets of small fingers with an iron grip that surprises him. Either to push him away or hold him right there, he isn't sure. Whatever the case, he lets her, gives her that one moment of control.

Her walls tighten around the toy and his finger, rhythmic clenching, her orgasm is so close, she's right on the edge, and it's that moment that he hooks his finger around the toy and pulls it out, leaning back, slipping from her suddenly limp fingers, and leaves her throbbing and panting, watches her deflate as her orgasm slips away again. A whine escapes her, and she falls backwards onto the counter, body convulsing without release, hiding her flushed face behind her shaking hands.

He straightens himself, licks his lips and then his finger, puts the vibrating toy on the counter before he turns it off. She's sobbing now, overwhelmed and left hanging. Poor thing. But it's not over yet.

Hooking his hands under her arms, he hoists her off the counter and pushes her down on her knees in front of him. She's too surprised to react, slowly lowers her hands and looks up at him, tears streaming down her red cheeks. Without a word or command, he unbuckles his belt and opens his pants, then snaps his fingers at her. Despite her trembling state, she follows the order instantly, automatically, that inborn desire to please stirring within her, when her small hands move up to push his pants and underwear down enough to free his erection.

The initial touch is almost enough to push him to the edge and over, but he braces himself, puts his hands on his hips and watches her as she closes her fingers around his length, slowly stroking up and down like he's shown her. Her eyes stay on him, watching him closely, and he tilts his head, pressing his lips into a thin line, a slight furrow between his eyebrows. He sees her swallowing, and barely a second later, her lips brush against his hot skin, the contact enough to coax a little groan out of him.

He watches her closely as she moves her lips up and down his shaft, tongue licking along his bulging veins, circling his tip, flicking over his slit, before she opens her mouth and takes him deeper. She's a little hesitant, careful, one hand still on his girth, the other braced against his thigh as she slowly bobs her head, lips closed around his tip, cheeks hollowed, the little suction really tempting his self-control. He wants her to find her own pace, get better on her own, learn to pleasure him properly, but he also really wants to fuck her throat and make her choke on his cock. The struggle is real.

His hands move to her head, a gentle little caress, fingers sliding through her hair, slowly nudging her closer, she shifts on her knees, the hand on his thigh pulling her into him. Her eyes are closed now, and he can see tears forming under her lashes as she keeps moving her head back and forth, the hand that's tight around his girth keeping her from taking him deeper. He feels her warm mouth, that little tongue flicking around his tip, hot and wet, sucking softly, almost meditatively, and he can't help it, he bucks his hips slightly against her, his cockhead poking into her cheek when she turns her head with a little muffled whine.

One of his hands moves down to grab her chin, holding her in place, head slightly tilted, as he repeats the same motion, pushing into her mouth, watching her cheek bulge. He hasn't noticed it before, but she's a natural at keeping her teeth out of the way, her jaw opened wide enough to allow him to slip in and out fairly easily. Her eyelids flutter open, and she meets his gaze, her eyes glistening, pupils dilated more than he has expected. She's enjoying this, huh?

He smirks at her, moves her head a little and tilts her chin up before he pumps his hips a little harder against her, more of his cock slipping into her small mouth. She stiffens, both hands now gripping the fabric of his pants, bracing, a sliver of panic in her eyes. He watches her closely, the grip on her chin hard as he concentrates, holds back, fights the urge to just fuck her cute little face. His breaths are quick and loud through his nose.

She holds still, doesn't fight it, and he uses that submission to move faster and eventually slips deeper, feeling his tip prodding the back of her throat. She gags almost immediately, a sudden reflex, her body convulsing against him, fingers digging into his legs, and he lets her pull back with a deep cough, saliva dripping from her lips. But he only lets her relax for so long, before he pushes his cock back into her mouth, deeper, to that spot once more, and she gags again, spit filling her mouth, coating his tip, yet this time he holds her head in place, and she lets out a pained little howl, muffled but clearly distressed.

Sighing, he grips her hair and pulls her back again, lets her catch her breath, swallow the excess spit. Tears stream down her face, her eyes are red, eyebrows furrowed, a helpless expression mixed with something like indignation looking up at him. A low laugh escapes him, and he grips her chin and pulls her back, cock slipping into her mouth, her tongue scraping along the underside, frantic little breaths through her nose, warm on his skin.

“Relax,” he tells her, and strangely enough it's that command that lets him slip deeper, past her gag reflex, further into her tight throat. It's only a few seconds though before she gags yet again, fingernails sinking into his legs, that little uncontrollable twitch as her body fights the new sensation of having her throat stuffed. She gurgles, desperate to breathe, too panicked to relax anymore. He pushes her away, and she splutters, spit and precum flying from her trembling lips, her shoulders shaking.

It takes all of him to loosen his grip on her, but when he lets go of her chin and her hair, inhaling deeply, she looks up almost surprised. Bracing his arms on the counter behind her, he closes his eyes, fighting the urge to make her choke again. That feeling when her throat tenses around his tip, squeezes him, it's something he enjoys a little too much, almost as much as watching her suffer through it, with her tears streaming down her face and her hands digging into his legs, that desperate struggle for control.

He'll force that urge right out of her, soon. Another time.

“Suck,” he grunts instead, standing still as he leans over her.

She resumes her ministrations, one hand around his girth, pumping and stroking, while she closes her lips around his tip again, sucking and licking it, keeping it far away from the back of her throat. She's shaky and sloppy, her wet slurping noises echoing through the room, her body still trembling, but she somehow manages to bring him right to the edge after all. He feels his balls tightening, his stomach tensing up, his cock throbbing in her hold. His hands itch, clenched into fists on the counter, his body shivering. So close. So fucking close...

A deep groan escapes his throat, and he leans back abruptly, grips her hair and pulls her off him, a sharp inhale coming from the girl beneath him. Her eyes are wide as she looks up at him, and he just ignores her, hooks his hands around her elbows and pulls her to her feet. She's that tiny body he can manhandle however he wants, and she ends up on her stomach on the counter, short legs dangling off the edge, feet kicking before he cages her in, one hand on her lower back, the other moving straight to the little shiny knob sitting between her plump ass cheeks.

Before she can comprehend what's happening or try to fight him, he drags her panties aside and pulls the plug out with a plop, puts it on the counter with a clang, before he grips his throbbing cock and pushes the tip against her sphincter. She lets out a surprised wail, her hands reaching back to swat him away, but he only grabs them and bends her arms behind her back, held by one large hand. She still struggles as he pushes further, forcing his tip deeper. He doesn't have time to prepare her properly, he's close to exploding.

She whines, writhing on the counter despite his unrelenting hold, and he watches her tight muscles give way to him, the grip almost as good as her tensing throat. His crown slips in, and he stops, letting it rest there as he strokes his shaft hard and fast, until he feels that tension finally dissolve. He comes with a deep grunt, arching his head back, feeling his cock throb and twitch in his hand and in her ass.

Spurt after spurt shoots into her tightness, filling her up until the first drops seep past the tight ring of muscles that clench around him involuntarily as she squirms helplessly, sobbing softly. When he relaxes against her, shoulders sagging, the grip on her arms loosening, he wishes he'd prepared her better, made her more pliant, open her up properly to take more of him. But this'll do for now. Once the twitching subsides, he gently pulls his cock out, watching her ass gape for a moment, his thick seed slipping out almost immediately.

He pushes it back in, feeling her tense muscles close around his finger. Then he grabs the plug and brings it back into position, holding her down again as she starts squirming more, the cold metal slipping into place, plugging up his warm cum. He exhales deeply once he is done, and when he lets go of her and steps back, he can't help but slap her plump cheek once for good measure.

She sobs louder, but remains lying on her stomach, legs dangling off the edge, immobile, all the fight gone from her body. He watches her as he puts his spent dick back into his pants. “What a good girl you are,” he whispers, noticing a wave of goosebumps rippling over her skin. His hands are on her round rear, gently sliding up and down, thumbs teasing between the cheeks. He fixes her thong, nudges the plug, smirks when she flinches at the motion.

Then he grabs her waist and pulls her off the counter, turning her so he can scoop her up into his arms. Despite her reluctance and the fact that she's still crying softly, she leans against him, needy little fingers digging into the collar of his shirt. No matter how hard she fights him, fights the sensations and experiences he gives her, she is clearly craving this, his attention, the care he gives her afterwards, the gentle moments after however rough he treats her.

It's a good dynamic. It'll work, he's sure. She will be absolutely perfect.

He carries her into the bedroom, carefully putting her down on the bed. She immediately rolls onto her side, knees pulled up to her chest, wiping at her wet face, avoiding his gaze as he watches her closely. When he leans down, she flinches, but he only grabs the edge of the blanket and drapes it over her small body.

“Rest now,” he tells her, straightening back up. “I'll order us some food.”

TWO 🟥 THREE 🟥 FOUR

End notes: Just a little side note on where this story is set: it could be literally anywhere (where there are skycrapers or a downtown area with taller buildings). I did not have a specific place in mind, could be any major American city, could be a bigger European city, anywhere you like to think of. It doesn't really matter anyway. (And if it is set in America, just imagine his club to be one of those more lax ones where the drinking age isn't 21 or at least nobody cares about it.)

Also, you may have guessed it, but our male protagonist is a little bit more than just a nightclub owner. I won't go into too many details, just know he's influencial, if you'd like to call it that. And definitely intimidating enough for anyone to bow before him, not just our poor girl who might just be a little in over her head at this point.

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Monday!

TAG LIST: @qmsvpx @cyan1decandy @bimbos-are-angels

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

CHAPTER / / / ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE◾

SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾️TEN

ELEVEN TWELVE◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN

[cowboyfromh3ll]

ever since your sex hcs included arthur and strength kink and getting lifted effortlessly i need More… part 2 of sorts of arthur sex hcs pretty please how rough he is his hidden kinks and things he wants to do to you how he likes to go down on you all of it 🙏🏻 he is a giver and i want to be tossed around by him very badly

Arthur Morgan NSFW HC

I didn't proofread this

Warnings: smut, size kink, strength kink, breeding kink

Depending on how he's feeling for the day his roughness would vary

Overall his touches are very heavy handed and firm

Manhandles you like you're a weightless toy

One minute you're getting pounded the next you've been flipped into a completely new position

Picks you up by your wrists and drags you across the bed or into a new position

Grabs your ankles and pulls you towards him

Or grabs your waist and moves you around like that. He especially loves doing this when you're riding him

Gives you absolutely no warnings either so you're just swept up

Wouldn't want to tie you up, instead opting towards using his sheer strength to hold you down or in place

I think for a more hidden or lowkey kink he has he'd have a breeding kink

Wouldn't indulge in it until the two of you have actual talks of having a family together

He probably also discovered for himself just how much he liked doing it

Dreams of having his own family one day and the thought of finishing inside you and you having his children gives him goosebumps

Constantly finishes inside you, it's a regular practice during sex

Even if you do fall pregnant he'll continue to do so

Watches himself go in and out of you after cumming inside you and just revels in the sight of copious amounts of cum being pumped into you

Like you said, he's a giver

He takes his time with it and everything, traces open mouthed kisses up to your inner thighs before tracing them back down again

Removes your underwear with his teeth, he knows things are about to get wicked

Kisses and breaths on your pussy, blowing on it and drawing it out before finally giving in

He's really skilled but he isn't the most messy eater, slow but passionate

Literally buries his nose into you and shoves his face in, even let's you grab his hair and push him in

Like Cardi B said, swipes his nose like a credit card

Lots of fingering while he's sucking on you, maybe he'll even slide s pinky into your ass

ALWAYS makes you finish with head too

His beard will be glistening by the time he's done

If you're smaller than him he'll want to see you wearing his clothes while he fucks you

Or if you dress in his clothes and put on his hat and try to act big and bad while domming him

Has a huge thing for you wearing cowboy boots.

Would be a little nervous to introduce weaponry to the bedroom but he'd have fantasies about rubbing his gun on your cunt through the fabric of your underwear

[narcoticv3nus]

Catch a Ride to Heaven ❤︎ Arthur Morgan

Kinktober Day IV: Virginity

summary: rebellious reader is a sinner for her cowboy tags/trigger warnings: 18+, f!reader, virginity loss, p in v, praise, fingering, religious symbolism, cherry popping, midhonor!arthur, smoking, dom!arthur, sub!reader, rough sex, a bit of degradation, pet names, author attempts at accents wc: 5.7k

MASTERLIST

“Ma’am”

You looked up from your bible sitting on your lap, noticing a rather large man standing before you. His shoulder-length brown hair cascades down, framing his rugged features and intense blue eyes. A short beard adorns his handsome face, emphasizing the scar on his chin. Despite his rugged appearance, his smile reveals straight white teeth, complementing his sun-kissed skin with charming freckles. His well-worn cowboy hat had seen better days, colored black with a weathered rope tied around the middle and what looked to be claw marks running down the sides.

“Good morning, mister,” you answered, fiddling with the cross around your neck, trying to tame the sinful thoughts running through your mind. You had come to notice this man from afar. He would stop by your little town now and again, whether that was to buy guns or sell a suspicious amount of items at the fence nearby. Your eyes always followed him. You couldn't help it, although you tried to pray the feelings away many times. God never answered your prayers.

Your daddy was the local pastor. He was always smiling and friendly, claiming he prayed for every person he came across. He was a good man, always going out of his way to serve others. It seemed God had given him the gift of spreading his love all over, yet it seemed to run out when it came to you.

Your daddy had always been hard on you after your mama passed. Your brain was too young to remember much of her, but you could still remember the sound of her voice in your ears and the soft, comforting scent of her clothes.

Daddy said it was because he loved you; he was so strict, which you never really understood. Anytime you made a mistake or a mishap, Daddy would sharpen you back into shape, sometimes going to extreme measures. The bruises on your behind still stung when you sat down.

He never permitted you to be alone around other men, claiming you had to stay pure in the eyes of God or else you'd burn in hell for all eternity for spreading your legs for no-goods. He said men only wanted one thing, but he never specified what. It didn't take you long to figure it out. You were a smart girl. At least, that's what everybody said.

You didn't feel smart now as Daddy’s teachings drifted from the back of your mind like a cloud of smoke, thoughts of purity and maidenhood be damned. God knows you tried to resist them, and you really did. To push those thoughts aside, burn them, shut them out as much as you could.

But wouldn't he have answered your prayers if God were all-loving? Heaven knows you wanted to be a good girl. You did, truly! But there was something about this man that had your body growing warm, his deep southern drawl reaching into deep parts of you you never even knew existed. He had your voice growing shy, your hands feeling clammy as your thighs pressed together, desperate to soothe that sweet ache between your legs.

Sometimes, he would compliment you, saying he liked your dress or how you style your hair.

“May I say you're lookin’ lovely' today, little lady.” You swallowed deeply, your lips parting as you gazed up at him, eyes wide. “Thank-thank you, mister,” you stammered, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

“You…you're awfully kind.” You continued, not being able to help yourself. How could you stay away when you yearned for him so deeply?

“I ain’t really,” he answered bluntly, his eyes boring deep into yours, the corners of his lips twitching into a grin. You've seen that same look on many men before, but only he had your heart racing with want.

“Maybe just to pretty ladies like yourself,” he continued, his hand reaching up to scratch his stubble chin.

If your face wasn't on fire before, it sure was now. You didn't know what to say as you began to stutter, sweat building between your legs and inside of your bodice. “I don't—” Your fingers curled around your cross, praying to God to give you strength or show mercy.

“What’s your name anyway?” He spoke up for you, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a pack of premium cigarettes. He placed the stick between his lips as he held the lighter close to his face, raising a brow when you lacked a response.

You gave him your name. Your eyes were bashful as they looked down at his shoes, noting the quality of the leather and his metal spurs.

“Ain't that lovely,” he responded, gray tendrils of cigarette smoke escaping his nose, his eyes never straying from your face.

“What’s yours?” you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady as your subconscious body seemed to float away, high into the sky and never to be seen again. You've never felt so euphoric. If it was wrong, how come it felt so right?

“Arthur,” he answered, tapping the ash from the end of the stick away into the dirt. “Arthur Morgan,”

“Well, it… it's very nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” you said politely, part of you hoping to appease him. It seemed to work as his grin grew wider, his teeth poking out from behind his pink lips.

“Yeah,” he agreed, his eyes looking you up and down. “You too,” he said, emphasizing your name before exhaling another cloud of smoke. You bit your lip to hold back the whine building in your chest. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. I just wanted to put a name to a face s’all.”

You wanted to tell him, no, to please stay, just a little longer. And yet you only watch in silence as he dipped his hat to you before turning and striding in the other direction. You watched him go, eyes drifting low to his backside, appreciating the natural sway of his hips as he left.

My Lord, please give me strength.

You and Arthur had met several more times after that. He'd sometimes saunter up to you after church, asking about your day and flirting with you right in front of the house of God, sometimes even in front of your Daddy.

Daddy had given you a good whooping after that, reminding you to stay away from that man if you know what's good for you. But you just couldn't, no matter how hard you tried. Lord knows you did.

But like Eve and the serpent, Arthur offered you the tastiest treat you couldn't refuse. Why did it feel so good if these feelings were so condemned? You started questioning your faith the more Arthur lingered around, and you started to fear for your sake. Maybe he was no good after all. Perhaps this was all a test.

But no horns were sprouting from the outlaw’s head, no devil’s tail swaying mischievously behind his back, he had no red eyes, and no white fangs. And despite what the poets might say, he had no slimy forked tongue. And you would know, counting how many times your eyes had fallen to his mouth as he spoke. Each time his tongue ran over his lips, yours would do the same.

There came a time when he placed a hand on your shoulder, leaning close to your face when he asked to buy you a room somewhere for the night. His cold eyes burn through you. You knew you should've said no, refused the forbidden fruit, and asked him to leave you alone for good. You were a child of God, blessed without sin, and designed for purity. But those would all be lies. No one is without sin. You thought as you nodded, your breath shaky and your cheeks stained red.

Daddy will raise hell. You reminded yourself, but it was already too late. You sealed your fate when you decided to shake hands with the devil.

As Arthur led you up the stairs, his hand entangled with yours, his heavy footsteps echoed throughout the hotel, the wooden floors creaking under his weight.

He opened the door for you to enter the small and empty room, the hair rising on the back of your neck as he followed close behind you. “Arthur, I—” you stammered when it dawned on you, realizing what you were about to do.

“Shh, don't be nervous,” he soothed as a heavy hand rested on your hip, sliding up your waist. “I’ll take good care of you,” he reassured, gently removing his hat and placing it on the night table beside the bed.

Like a predator circling its prey, he stalked around your body until he stood in front of you, both hands on your hips as he smiled down at you. He was so close. You almost let out a whine of fear, eyes glued to his teeth to ensure he didn't have fangs, just in case.

“I promise I don't bite,” he chuckled, almost like he could read your thoughts. Maybe he could. He leaned close to your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Unless you want me to.”

You couldn't hold back the whimper that escaped you, anxiety and desire twisting and churning in your stomach, leaving you speechless.

“I've never…” Your voice trailed off, the words getting lodged in you as Arthur hummed in response, seemingly unsurprised.

“I figured,” he chuckled, confirming your suspicions. “Sweet, innocent things like you usually are,” he grinned, flicking the cross against your chest. You weren't sure what to make of that.

“We just won't tell ‘em, ay?” he let out a huff of amusement, reaching back to unclasp the necklace around your neck.

“Wait,” you halted him, gazing at his confused expression. “I…I want to leave it on,” you murmured, eyes drifting downwards, hoping you hadn't disappointed him. You weren't sure why you wanted it to stay; it didn't make sense logically. He was right; you should put it away, considering what you were about to do—what you were about to let him do to you.

However, something about it gave you a sense of peace or reassurance: even though you were betraying everything you were ever taught, everything you've ever known, God was still there, and he still loved you. Maybe giving in to your deepest desires could reconnect you to him in some way, that finding pleasure in the most sinful of ways wasn't sinful at all. Wouldn't he want you to feel good if he really loved you? To take what you want?

He was silent momentarily before he removed his hands from your grasp. Here it comes. You thought, eyes shutting, waiting for his disapproval.

His fingers grasped your chin, tilting it upwards, his thumb rubbing softly over your bottom lip. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.” his voice cutting through the silence. “You can do whatever you like, darlin’.” his low, warm voice was gentle and consoling, offering comfort instead of pain.

“Thank you,” you breathed a heavy sigh of relief, your eyes gazing up at him with adoration, yet your hands continued clutching your dress, unsure of where to put them.

He hummed again, taking your small hands in his much larger ones, gently urging them towards him. You gasped as your fingers made contact with his skin, like it was the most lewd thing you've ever done. It might as well have been.

“I should be thankin’ you,” he responded, lifting your right hand to meet his lips, kissing your knuckles with a sweet softness you've never known. “Ain’t every day I meet a pretty girl like you.” he charmed, stepping closer towards you, your body stiff with nerves.

“I thought you said you were always nice to pretty girls.” You recollected, thinking back to the time you were first properly introduced.

“Well, I might've lied. Just a bit,” Arthur smirked, chuckling at your shocked expression. “They're not always as sweet as you,” he whispered, his face inching closer to yours. As your noses brushed together, he tilted his face to the side, one hand reaching up to guide your face to do the same in the opposite direction.

“Arthur, I don't know–” “It's alright,” he hushed, his breath hot against your lips. “Just follow my lead, alright?” You nodded slowly, taking a deep breath when he requested you to. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, the thin hairs of his beard tickling your cheeks. “Now, breathe out. Slow.”

As the cool air inside your chest unfurled from your lungs, his mouth pressed against yours. You squeaked in surprise, squeezing your eyes shut as his lips moved against yours. His hands smoothed down your lower back, pushing you closer until his erection was pressing up against your stomach.

You moaned into his lips, your body set ablaze as you struggled to kiss him back, your movements stiff and uncoordinated. He pulled away, a deep chuckle leaving his chest, causing you to squirm in shame.

“Just relax, sweetheart.” he purred, the fingers undoing the top buttons of your dress. “Don't be so nervous,”

“Easy for you to say,” you huffed, watching as his hands descended to each button, opening it with practiced fingers. He laughed, kissing your forehead with a smile. “I know, but just trust me.”

Trust me.

This was the most trust you've ever put in anyone you've ever met in your entire life. Here, this man was undressing you so calmly, like it was the most casual thing in the world. It probably was, to him. How many girls has he been with? You thought almost bitterly, jealousy spiking at him cherishing any other woman like this.

Every man you've ever met has bragged about how many girls he's bedded, whether they were modest wives or working whores, it didn't matter. It didn't matter if the man was handsome or ugly, rich or poor, dirty or clean. They all had the same goal in mind. Maybe Daddy was right. You thought anxiously as your dress fell into a pool around your ankles, leaving you in your bodice. Perhaps you were just another notch under Arthur’s belt. Even Daddy would stumble home with his clothes undone and lipstick stains adorning his neck.

Maybe Arthur is different. Maybe he's a good man.

“What's goin’ on up there,” Arthur asked teasingly, yet concern still laced around the edges of his voice. “If you don't want this–”

“I do!” You interrupted quickly, hands latching onto the front of his shirt, your lips puckering in embarrassment. “Sorry, I–I'm just nervous s’all.”

“I know,” he said, his arms resting against your upper arms, rubbing his calloused hands over your soft skin. “I understand. We’ll take it slow.” He promised, leaning forward to capture your lips in another kiss. He held his lips against yours this time, letting you adjust to him as his fingers deftly coiled around the strings of your bodice, slowly unlacing them one by one.

“S’been awhile myself,” he admitted, hoping to soothe you in some way as he took his time undressing you until you were left in only your bloomers, standing still with your face hot and your lips chewed raw.

“You don't…” you hesitated, wondering if you even wanted to know the answer. “…do this often?” You finally inquired as his eyes filtered over your exposed form. “Nah…” he answered, hands running all along your body.

“Well… once upon a time, maybe.” he grinned at you wickedly, his white teeth gleaming underneath his self-satisfied smirk. He laughed, finding the expression you subconsciously made amusing.

“Don't get all jealous now. It ain't like that anymore.” He promised, unbuttoning his clothes this time, undoing his vest, and taking off his short sleeve. “I wouldn't take advantage of someone like you,” he reassured, undoing his suspenders until he was left in nothing but his pants with his gun belt still sitting heavy over his hips and gun holster attached to his side.

Your eyes roamed to a large expanse of his chest, thick, coarse hair sprouting from his skin and leaving a path down into his pants. “Now,” he started again, your eyes snapping back to his face.

“Go sit on the bed for me,” he commanded, his tone firm yet tender, a heavy hand smoothing over your head. After letting his words sink in, you did as you were told. You knocked off your shoes as you sat at the edge, trying to avoid his gaze. With a simple click, he pulled the gun belt from around his pants and set it down near his hat, his holster following suit.

“Take ‘em off,” he instructed, his eyes studying your face as he undid his belt, waiting for you to undress. You clutched the warm off-white fabric of your clothes, your breaths coming in shaky, knowing you were about to expose your body to a man; you've never felt so vulnerable.

“I won't ask you again,” he threatened, his lips tightening as his eyes narrowed. “I have no problem takin’ you back home.” Just the thought of home had fear swirling in your gut. You'd instead take this than face your daddy. You knew it was unavoidable, but you'd rather it at least be worth it.

You nodded your head swiftly, standing back up to shed yourself of your underclothes until you were left in nothing but a necklace sitting on your naked chest. The cold surface of its metal and the cool air caused your skin to rise in goosebumps, your nipples perking in response.

“Good girl,” he purred, eyes drinking in your naked form with a dark hunger you've never seen. The spurs of his boots clicked as he reached forward, carefully sliding them off before setting them aside.

As you sat back against the bed, your fingers reached up again, clasping your cross, letting its sharper ridges poke against your skin.

“Don’t be scared now,” you gasped as his pants fell to the floor, his cock finally springing free mere inches from your face. Your jaw practically dropped to the floor as you stared. You've never seen one before. Do they all look like that? Are they always this big?

“You okay?” he laughed, strutting towards you, his cock bobbing between his thighs, hanging low towards the floor. Up close, you could see every vein protruding from underneath his foreskin, a strange liquid shining at the tip.

“Um…” you were at a loss for words, unable to look away. “What if it doesn't… y’know,” Arthur tilted his head to the side as he neared, hands on your waist as he urged you back further. “…fit?” You finished with a squeak as your head hit the pillow below, and your hair splayed out behind you.

You peered up at him, curious as his cheeks dusted into a dark shade of pink. Was he embarrassed? Did I offend him? “It’ll fit,” he said, looking away almost bashfully. “Gotta prepare you first,”

Prepare me?

He leaned forward until his forearms rested against either side of your head, trapping you underneath his body. Soft brown hair strands framed his face as he leaned closer, and front pieces fell over his thick brows.

You gazed into his clear blue eyes, deep as the sea, with a warm yellow ring around his black irises, reminding you of the sun’s rays casting light across blue skies. His eyes flickered between yours, seemingly searching for something before his lips connected to yours once more, his hairy chest pressing against your breasts.

Reaching up with shaky hands, you entangled them into his hair, resting them gently in fear of maybe hurting him. “That’s it…” he encouraged, his hand finding yours, interlocking your fingers, and pressing them to the bed.

“Just breathe,” he reminded before kissing you again, his cock twitching against your thigh, subtly rutting against you. You did as you were told: in and out. You thought to yourself as you practiced slow breaths until your heartbeat slowed to a semi-normal pace. “You got it,” he smiled into the kiss before continuing down your neck, rubbing his lips over sensitive skin.

You whimpered, your hand tightening against his as he lowered even further, reaching your chest. He let out a deep groan as he pressed his face against your breast, taking a nipple into his mouth to suck.

You looked down at him in shock, unsure what to do as he began rutting harder against you. Is this what people do? You were so confused, your thoughts racing a mile a minute. He let go with a slow suck, his heavy eyes meeting yours once more.

“Have I sprouted three heads?” he chuckled, worrying his lip with his top teeth. You shook your head, one hand gripping his shoulder to balance yourself.

“I don't… am I doing this, right?” As you whispered, your face flushed with warmth, and you squeezed his hand tightly, seeking comfort.

“You don't gotta worry your pretty little head over nothin’,” he said as his fingers dipped between your bodies, tracing over your thighs before nearing your pussy. You could feel its dampness trickle between your legs and into the sheets, your little pearl throbbing with need.

“You're perfect,” he murmured, his gaze softening into an emotion you've only seen flicker in his eyes and disappear as if it was never there. But this time, it stayed; it settled for you.

You didn't know what to say, so you opted not to speak; the silence spoke for itself as you stared back. The hand in Arthur’s hair cupped his stubble cheek, urging him closer before kissing his lips. He grunted at the contact, his tongue prodding the entrance of your mouth, forcing it to open before it slid inside.

No fork. The thought popped into your mind as Arthur’s tongue slid against yours, massaging the wet muscle with flicks of his own.

The hand against your leg reached underneath your thigh, lifting it around his waist before dipping back between your legs. You gasped into his mouth as his thumb reached underneath your hood, finding your pulsing clit and pressing down, moving in slow and deliberate circles. You moaned out; never once had you felt anything so amazing in your entire life. You had never touched yourself down there before; shame always held you back, and now you regret it.

All those times you refused your aching body with release almost seem abusive looking back now.

“Oh, Arthur,” you gasped into his mouth as he continued, your hips lifting to try and chase the addicting sensation.

“It feels so…” You couldn't even find the words to describe the feeling. It would be useless to try to explain it now.

“Like that?” he groaned, picking up the pace of his movements as his other fingers teased your entrance, coating his calluses in your essence. You nodded, mouth still open as broken whines and whimpers escaped your wet lips. You arched your back, your face falling to the side as you squeezed his hand, nails biting into the flesh of his skin. Arthur didn't seem to notice; if he did, he didn't show it, fully enraptured by your sensitive flesh.

“Christ, you're so wet.” Arthur didn't mean anything by it, but the mention of a name so holy during a time like this had your thighs closing around his forearms, trapping his hand against you.

He was also right. You don't think you've ever been this wet in your entire life. “Don't stop, Arthur.” You pleaded, trying to reopen your legs to give him more room.

“Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart,” came his husky reply. You sighed at his words, more so the thickness of his voice.

“Wider, darlin’,” he grunted, his middle finger catching onto the rim of your hole. “Gotta stretch you nice and proper, so you can take my cock.”

“Arthur!” you whined, embarrassed by his words, throwing an arm over your eyes. He laughed breathlessly, his movements slowing down. “Thas’ what you want, ain’t it?” He urged his finger, slowly inserting itself as you bucked upwards, trying to chase the dwindling pleasure.

You whimpered in reply, opening your legs further, allowing him to slip his finger in deeper. It was so thick and so warm, your pussy welcoming him with wet pulses as he slowly moved it in and out. The pain was sharp but was slowly replaced as his finger curled deeper, reaching places you weren't aware even existed.

“There’s a girl,” he rasped, eyes glancing between your face and your slippery cunt before adding a second finger. He wasn't deterred by the small amounts of blood coating his digits, only focused on making you feel as good as possible while preparing you to take him.

“You're doing so well.” he sighed, twisting his fingers before spreading them into scissoring motions, completely enraptured as your pussy convulsed around him, spilling more and more slick as his fingers quickened their pace.

The only sound in the room was your deep moans and the sloppy sound of your wet pussy getting fucked by his hand. Arthur shifted his wrist so the edge of his palm rubbed against your sensitive button, curling his hands deep against your G-spot and smirking in triumph once he found it.

“There it is,” he chuckled as he gazed upon your expression. Your thighs slammed closed around his wrist as you arched your back deeply, feeling your spine ache in protest, but you didn't care.

“Ah! Right there!” You squeezed his hand with all your strength as a new sensation built in your stomach. Something was coming.

“Arthur!” You whimpered; your free hand reached towards his wrist, which was now twisting with more force as his fingers pumped faster, harder.

“Wait! It’s—I’m,” Arthur was quick to silence you with another deep kiss, yet you couldn't kiss him back as much as you wanted, your mouth struggling to stay closed as whorish noises forced their way out.

“Just let go, honey,” he groaned, the heel of his palm digging deeper. “It's alright, just let go.” His voice was so thick and coarse, so warm and so rich, so deep and so guttural you couldn't help but fall victim to his spell.

With one final wail, you felt something rush out of you, something liquid but didn’t quite feel like pee. All you knew was that it felt good.

I hope this is what heaven feels like.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, your voice growing tight as Arthur continued his pace, helping you ride out your high before eventually slowing, dragging out your orgasm for as long as he could.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he moaned, taking in your debauched state with a proud smile. Your hair was in disarray, strands sticking to your sweaty skin as your eyes fluttered, lashes resting against your darkened cheeks, and your eyebrows drawn close. Your lips were wet and rubbed red from his kisses, drool lewdly sticking to the corners of your mouth. Your naked chest heaved, your cross still sitting in between your breasts.

“You alright?” Arthur chuckled, slowly removing his fingers from your wet heat and wiping the mixed residue on the sheets.

“I never wanted it to stop,” you whimpered at the empty feeling inside you.

“I know that's right,” he agreed with a chuckle, squeezing your hand one final time before letting it go. You gazed up at him sheepishly, your hands reaching out to grab his forearms, letting your hands feel the warmth of his skin.

He hoisted your hips upwards, wrapping your thighs around his waist before leaning forward, his palm cupping your cheek before slotting his mouth against yours. Your eyes fell closed as you lost yourself in the kiss, unaware as his hips shifted forward.

With one hand around his cock, he pumped it generously, coating his dick in precum as he guided it toward your entrance.

“Big inhale for me, darlin’,” he requested one final time. You did as you were told, breathing in a large gulp of air before you felt something catch against your rim and push inside, filling you inch by inch as the air caught in your throat.

“And out,” he grunted, pushing his cock to the hilt, forcing himself deep inside, cursing as you clamped around him. He swore he'd felt traps looser than this.

Your exhale was probably closer to a sob. You've never felt so full in your whole life. Although the stretch wasn't nearly as painful as you imagined it would be. There was just so much pressure.

“You're doing good, fuck, just keep breathing.” he panted, barely even able to pull back with how tight you were clutching him. You nodded when trying to focus on his words as his cock throbbed inside of you.

“Good?” he grunted, his face twisted into something akin to pain, his heavy brows pulled forward, his face creasing as his eyes threatened to squeeze shut despite his resistance to keep them open. He sucked on his lower lip, struggling to concentrate as your wet heat pulsed around him.

“It feels… full.”

He groaned in response, thrusting up into you until his pretty cock punched against that spongy spot, causing you to kean, your body squirming, unsure if it wanted to pull away or chase the feeling.

“It's too much,” you whimpered, your hands pushing against his abdomen before he took your wrists in one hand, forcing them above your head as he rocked against you, fucking his cock in and out in slow yet deep thrusts.

“Take it,” he practically growled, his warm gaze turning cold as he towered above you, one hand enclosing around your hip as leverage, manipulating your body up and down in time with his thrusts.

“God, fucking take it,” he accentuated each word with a powerful shove, your skin slapping loudly each time they met. You couldn't even use anything to stabilize yourself, his fist wrapped firmly around your hands, holding them down with ease.

You were forced to take the onslaught of pleasure, tears welling up in your eyes as you cried out with movement, each jamming of his cock against your sore, sensitive pussy.

“Arthur!” you sobbed, your body squirming desperately underneath him, attempting to run away from his battering hips that grew faster with each minute that passed.

“Yeah, say my name,” he moaned, his eyes falling shut as his lips parted, deep pants escaping his chest with every movement. “Go on, say it again,” he reopened his eyes, glaring down at you with a look of something fierce.

“Arthur!” You moaned, pleading with your eyes for him to slow down. He smiled wide, letting go of your wrists, urging you to wrap your arms around his shoulders as he leaned in close, chest to chest.

“Am I being too rough?” he teased, pecking your lips tenderly as he slowed to a softer grind, allowing you a bit of grace.

“It's okay,” you panted, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, closing your eyes in bliss as his thick cock ruined you for anyone else. “You can go faster… if you want,” you gripped him by his arms, burying your face in his neck, shyly kissing the expanse of his throat.

He let out another deep groan, his hand resting behind your head, pulling you closer as his other curled into the sheets below you, fucking up into you at a steady pace. You held onto him tightly, knowing you wouldn't last much longer.

“It's coming again,” you warned, your voice high-pitched and airy as you struggled to breathe, feeling as though he was fucking into your lungs.

Arthur leaned upwards, letting you fall back onto the bed as he took hold of your waist, his unoccupied thumb pressed down against your clit, rubbing fast circles as he urged you to finish.

“You’re almost there,” he grunted, watching as his cock reappeared before disappearing back inside you, the base coated in your milky arousal.

“You got it, c’mon,”

You reached behind you, fingers curling into the sheets below as you arched in his touch, gasping for air as the sweet pleasure built quicker, coming in faster and harder. “M’so close, Arthur.”

“Yeah, I know,” he cursed, fucking himself deeper, trying to get as much of himself inside as possible.

“I can feel you squeezin’ me,” whines began to escape his lips, sounds you never thought you'd hear him make.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, barely holding on as the thread threatened to break. You watched Arthur’s shoulders shake with what looked to be laughter, his thrusts stuttering before picking back up again.

“Yes,” he dipped his head to the side with a hiss, his thumb pressing harder against your delicate pearl. “Feels so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,”

Something about the nickname did it for you. It was said with affection and lust, smooth as silk and sweet as strawberry wine. Arthur’s voice was thick and rich, slipping into your ears and knocking around in your brain.

You came with his name on your tongue, crying to the heavens above, knowing that even if God has turned back on you now, at least you’ll suffer knowing you were loved in some way by someone. You felt his nose nuzzle into the side of your neck, his hips slowing into something almost romantic.

You felt him place a kiss on your shoulder, almost as a silent apology, before drawing back and slamming forward, fucking you so fast and so deep the frame of the headboard knocked against the wall over and over. You held onto him for dear life as he used you for his pleasure, groaning uncontrollably in your ear.

“Almost there, fuck,” he whimpered, his hold on you tightening to something almost painful before he pulled out swiftly, pumping his cock at an inhumane pace before shooting white ropes across your stomach. He came loudly, teetering near a shout. Every time you thought it was over, more and more kept coming out, eventually spilling onto his hand and running down his length.

He glanced down at the cross, rising and falling with every movement of your chest. He smirked, holding it up in his clean hand, his thumb smoothing over the protruding patterns.

At least now he can say for certain where he’s truly going.

“C’mon, darlin, let's get you cleaned up.”

main masterlist, rules

[applepiesupreme]

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 37

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/152613556

She crated everything of importance, then lingered around for a bit, equally relieved and sad to finally leave Shady Belle. Relieved because she had never liked it here and sad because this time she was definitely losing the tent. Sadie had told her that they were going to move fast, so they would only take the important personal items. Aside from Charles, there were no other men left to lug the big stuff - Uncle wouldn’t touch anything due to his lumbago, Swanson was perpetually stumbling around drunk and Strauss argued that if he had been built to do this kind of work, he wouldn’t be needing a collector for his debts in the first place.

She sat at the table as the day was still bluish, her breath misting a little and wondered where Arthur was and how he was doing. It felt a little ironic that she had arrived in this country on a ship in less than pleasant circumstances and now he was leaving on one the same way. Like a silly relay team, they had connected and brushed fingers for a second, then they were thrown hundreds of miles apart. Anger and longing mingled and intertwined in her heart. She thought of how he had explained to her in the Bayou that he didn’t have any other means to make money and that he needed money to break off. She understood that this was his only trade and yet, in her heart, she also resented him for it. Arthur was a smart, capable man. Most people in the gang were. They could do a million other things. Instead they were all addicted to easy money, and the funny part was that it wasn’t even easy.

She approached the horses and patted Frost's neck, cooing to him that his owner would be back, then climbed on Cricket and rode this particular route for the last time. Despite hours of thick, dreamless sleep, she was tired and worn out. Like a bucket brimming with water, she had reached the limits of her capacity. Every added drop now just slid off because there was no more room in her. Sister DuBois used to say bad news come in threes so if there was one more shoe to drop, she expected it to happen soon. 

Work was surprisingly boring. Despite their promise the previous day, the detectives didn't return. But the lunch crowd doubled in size, full with with people who wanted to mingle and gossip about the robbery. She fulfilled order after order, her plates meticulous and perfect but also repetitive and boring. When her shift ended and she walked out of Antoine's, Sadie was leaning against a lamppost nearby.

"Did you find a spot?" Savigne walked up to her. 

"Did. Ain't great but it's well hidden. Pinkertons are in a frenzy. ‘M sure they gonna find and swing by Shady Belle soon."

Savigne exhaled with frustration. Ever since the Heartlands, the gang's prospects were continuously declining. It was obvious to everyone but themselves. Every spot they picked was worse, with every move the noose drew tighter. If it wasn't for Arthur, she would have moved a long time ago, but here she was schlepping her stuff around with them and living off crates. Why even work in one of the most prestigious restaurants in the country if you're going to live like a fucking homeless person?

"You ready, Sugar?" Sadie straightened.

"Yeah, let's go. I still don't know what we're going for, but I guess you would have told me if it wasn't private."

"Feel crabby," Sadie rolled her shoulders. 

Savigne blinked up to her and half chuckled. "I thought that's just the way you are."

Sadie gave her a side eye. "More crabby than usual."

They checked Cricket out of the stable and tied him and Sadie’s horse a block away from the clinic. Then they filled out forms and waited in the small lobby. Sadie paid upfront and asked Savigne to get checked first when prompted and she relented. Maybe she would get some candy out of it and hell, even that would be an improvement to her current mood. Finally they were guided into a small, spotless room and she looked around with approval. You would expect all clinics to be clean, but in Saint Denis if that was your expectation, you were in for a rude awakening. This, no doubt, was one of the fancier ones. The clinics in the poorer neighborhoods stank worse than the neighborhood itself, which was an impressive feat. She poured herself a glass of water and inspected the books on the shelves - a mixture of medical works in French, German and English. 

A few minutes later a stunningly handsome, tall man with sandy hair, a slim mustache and soft hazel eyes walked in, their folders at hand. Savigne did a double take - in another life she would have been smitten with this man. Impeccable suit, well picked spectacles, an attitude exuding professionalism, discipline, precision and care. 

"Ladies!" She heard the slight French accent in his perfect English. "I'm Doctor Polleux. Welcome. Who goes first?"

"My friend here," Sadie ushered Savigne into the chair. 

She sat down, enchanted by the turn of events. She liked clean, well kept, professional, beautiful people and she liked watching them display their art whether it was food or medicine or something else entirely. His hands were silky and warm as he shook hers - clearly the hands of a man who handled delicate skin and turned book pages and wielded intricate tools instead of guns.

“So…” the doctor said and pulled a chair to sit closer. “…nice to meet you, Miss Ricci.”

“Likewise,” she breathed and took another sip of water. Up close, he looked even more handsome. There was a bit of yellow in his hazel eyes and his lashes were long and dark. She sat up a little and hoped that she didn't look like roadkill after the day she had yesterday. Was it odd to be enchanted by some stranger while Arthur was fleeing for his life, fate unknown? Perhaps. Had Arthur made that choice without even talking to her and practically abandoned her? Absolutely.

“Can you state your complaints?”

“She fainted a few times,” Sadie stepped up to stand behind her chair. "Overall tired. Gained a little weight. You get the picture.”

"W-what?" Savigne stammered up to Sadie and and turned back to the doctor. "Just a tiny little bit," she said hastily. "Also, the fainting - more like I was a little dizzy.”

“We had to carry you,” Sadie crossed her arms and threw a foot out. “And, like I said, y’aint exactly light no more.”

“That’s bull-” Savigne bit down the rest of the word, cleared her throat and glanced at Polleux sitting in front of her. “My friend exaggerates.” She glared up at Sadie, irritated. She was perfectly well and only here to do this woman a favor and there was absolutely no reason to mention any weight gain. 

“I see. Let’s get your blood pressure and all that. Please take off your coat.”

The doctor checked her vitals, her eyes, her ears, then put on his stethoscope and listened to her heart and her lungs. His touch was light and soft and she enjoyed his sharp attention on her, even if it was purely professional. 

“You seem a bit anemic, but otherwise fine.”

“Thank you,” she smiled and wished she had met him when she was cleaner. Judging by the immaculate white of his shirt collar, he was the kind of man who would have noticed that.

“Any unusual complaints?”

She inhaled and thought on this, milking her moments in the chair. "Well...I have a weird flutter in my stomach sometimes.”

He paused. “A flutter?”

“Yes, right here," she pointed to her abdomen. "It's not painful or anything. Feels like bubbles.” 

Savigne was pleased when he didn't give her a dismissive look and instead asked “May I see?”

"Certainly, doctor." She unbuttoned the bottom buttons of her blouse and pulled it up to reveal her chemise underneath. When he leaned in she smelled his cologne - very faint but vibrant and fresh, like his hands and his eyes.

He inserted the earpieces, held the bell of the stethoscope against her stomach and listened for a while. 

“When was the last time you bled?”

This gave her pause. “I don’t bleed very regularly,” she explained as she tried to remember. "Never have. But it’s been a few months. Maybe…three?” It occurred to her then that for a long time now she had been expecting a period that had never come. He moved the bell around, listened attentively, then folded it away as Savigne flitted through her memories and tried to pinpoint an approximate date. 

“Any nausea?”

“Sometimes. I threw up a few times, but the last one was weeks ago and..." Ecco's memory floated by and with it, her stumbling to the street and finding a dark corner to unload her stomach like some homeless wretch. "...I'm a cook," she explained as she wiped the memory away, "and I could have tasted something off." Then, eager to gain his approval, or any reaction whatsoever beyond the mild disinterest he was gracing her with, she added: "I work at Antoine's." If he was impressed he didn't show it, which bruised her ego a little.

“Your friend mentioned weight gain?”

“Just a little,” she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Her dresses had been adjusted twice now but that wasn’t because she was enormous, only because she enjoyed a perfect fit.

“Mood swings? Cravings - that sort of thing?”

“Yeah but I have a stressful job,” she tried to gloat again. "It can be hectic at times." Again, he didn't react other than a mild "hmmm" which was disappointing. God, how much weight did I gain? she thought, a little deflated. Sure, I'm no staggering beauty like Sarah but I’m practically invisible to this man. 

“A fluttering you say…”

“Yes. Like bubbles.”

“Hmmm…”

Polleux gave Sadie a look and Sadie looked back, silent and unblinking.

“Miss Ricci, I think it’s safe to say you’re pregnant.”

Savigne blinked at him, then grinned and giggled with childish delight. “Very funny. I know you read my file, doctor.” He was flirting with her after all and that gave her a hefty boost of confidence.

His brows pinched and he opened her folder again. “What did I miss?”

“I was told the ship I arrived on had a typical outbreak of cholera a few days in. But the real kicker was the smallpox that broke out after.”

“Yes, I see.” He looked up at her with raised eyebrows as if he expected further explanation. “I mean…I almost died. Most of the passengers died.” His expression didn’t change at all. “Doctor Polleux," she cleared her throat. If he had a sense of humor, it was as dry as the Sahara. "I'm sure you're pulling my leg because we both know I can’t get pregnant.”

Those cool professional hazel eyes assessed her for a long moment. 

“Who told you that?” was his late flat question.

“I’m sorry?” she stammered. 

“Who told you that…” he repeated calmly and added “…nonsense?”

This threw her off and she struggled to find a response. Either he was exceptionally gifted at delivering dead pan jokes or he wasn't nearly as good of a doctor as he pretended to be.

Clearly ‘Sister Rodriguez’ would be a ridiculous answer so instead she opted to mutter a defensive “Everybody knows that.”

He gave her an owlish blink and closed her file.

A short silence ensued.

“There is no direct correlation between smallpox and female fertility,” he said carefully.

Something coiled around Savigne’s throat and started tightening.

“W-what?”

“There is no link. Scientific link. I know there are some midwives tales, but they’re incorrect,” he said calmly. "It might have made you less fertile but clearly it hasn’t made you sterile. While not the only criteria, the fact that you bleed indicates you’re fertile.”

“I bleed very irregularly,” she quickly countered.

“Indicates perhaps low fertility. But not infertility.”

She looked at him like he was speaking in tongues. “That’s…you’re clearly mistaken.”

He shifted in his seat, gently reached out to place the files on a nearby table. “I understand this comes as a surprise to you,” he said slowly, “and I’m trying to be…delicate. But there is no in between or 'a little bit' here. You are pregnant.”

“I can’t be!” she lobed back, now skidding dangerously close to irritation and panic.

His eyes, soft and warm when he had entered, hardened a little. He seemed to take her objection as an affront to science itself.

“Miss Ricci, I’m going to be direct…”

What the hell were you until now? she thought sourly.

“…unless you swallowed a pocket watch, there’s an extra heartbeat in your abdomen.”

“I’m sorry, WHAT?!”

He calmly studied her as her hyperventilating picked up speed.

"Check again! Please!"

"Certainly." The stethoscope was pulled out again and he meticulously listened to her abdomen as Savigne watched him with hawk-like attention and a growing sense of dread. 

He cleared his throat and put it away.

"I stand by my diagnosis."

The room darkened and brightened back up as if something monstrous had flown in front of the sun.

“This is...can't be," she panted. 

"Would you like to hear?" he held out the earpieces to her and she recoiled as if he had slapped her. "No!"

"I would," Sadie spoke up. 

She crouched down as Polleux offered her the headset and under Savigne's disbelieving stare, listened intently, then grinned up at her. There was a forlorn look in Sadie's eyes and it only disappeared when Savigne angrily slapped the bell on ther stomach aside. Sadie cleared her throat and moved back to her spot as the man sat back in his chair.

"Judging by your reaction, this was not planned," he remarked. "I'm sorry to hear that. I’m going to give you a few minutes with your friend.” He rose to his feet. “I will be back.”

The monster flew across the sun again Savigne felt herself go boneless on the chair.

“You faintin’ again?!” Sadie remarked above her and next thing she knew, she had grabbed a book from the shelf to fan her face. “Listen here,” she hissed, then softened her tone, “Savigne, honey, calm down, okay?”

“I can’t be pregnant,” she mumbled. Moving her lips was an entire endeavor. The dark spots were back.

“Well…” Sadie chuckled nervously, “…gonna have to go with the doctor I paid fifty fuckin’ bucks for on that one.”

Savigne tried to speak but words wouldn’t come out. Her mind went blank every time she tried to think about it; like it was so big, it wouldn't fit into her head. “I can’t,” she tried again. She hadn’t bled in a long time and she had gained weight and also her breasts had been sensitive for months now, but these were all fragments, tiny brush strokes on a painting, how could they add up to a child? She had been sexually active since she was a young girl. True that it hadn't been nowhere near as rampant and consistent as it was with Arthur, and true that her previous partners had pulled out more often than not…but still!

“Remember, children,” droned Sister Auchter in her spinning head, “the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. It is vain to do with more what can be done with less.”

“Calm down. It’s fine.”

“How…the fuck…” Savigne panted, “…is…it fine?!”

“Don’ make me hit you with this book,” Sadie hissed, fanning furiously. “Will, if I have to.”

She wheezed for air and loosened her top buttons, too. Impossible, she thought and yet, deep deep down, in the dark folds of her gut where instinct ruled, somehow it rang true.

She almost erupted into laughter at the absurdity of her situation. A child out of wedlock! Worst thing a woman could do to herself. A scarlet letter that she had hung around her own neck. And now of all times! The room did a full flip and settled down again.

The other shoe, she thought then as her humor curdled into misery. Has to be. Bad news come in threes. 

“It’s okay,” Sadie crouched down and grabbed the back of her head to press her face against a shoulder. “It’s fine. Breathe.”

Savigne exploded into sobs. “Oh my god! I want to die.”

“The hell?!” was the other woman’s gentle scolding. “Settle down. What if it was TB or somethin'?”

“At least that would kill me,” she cried harder.

“Hush sugar, just calm down. We’ll think of something, okay?”

“That’s right,” Savigne whispered hastily as she pulled back, “I heard there are places we can go! Doctors that will-”

Sadie gave her a look. “No.”

Savigne’s face fell. “What do you mean, no?”

“You know how many women come out those feet first?!” was the vehement hiss. “Ya gonna have to shoot me before I let you go near!”

“But…but…I can’t shoot!” Savigne wailed.

"Just breathe. Easy. Calm. Breathe."

Sometime later the door opened and closed again. 

“Miss Ricci,” said the doctor, settling in his chair across from her again as Sadie vacated it. He handed her an immaculately clean handkerchief. “I understand your worries. You might think this is the end for you, but you’d be surprised how many women come here in your condition. You are not alone.”

She wiped her face furiously and cried harder. “Can you give me something? A…a remedy?”

“No. You’re too far along. Heartbeat audible with a stethoscope means at least twelve weeks, probably more. Any concoction someone might offer you is likely to kill you. Do not - I repeat - NOT drink it.”

“Hand the damn thing over!” she sobbed.

The doctor and Sadie exchanged a look. “I’ll never understand why this country is so damn…puritanical,” he sighed and scraped his chair closer. “Young lady,” he started as if he wasn't a only a year or two older at most. “I understand you’re not married. Personally, I don’t give a damn. I’m a doctor, not a priest. Now…let’s be pragmatic. Is the father still in the picture?”

“He will be. He’s away,” Sadie piped up.

“That’s good,” he remarked.

“I will kill him when he returns!” Savigne yelped.

“I would rethink that strategy,” Dr. Polleux said drily. Then he turned to the blond woman: “Does she have others to lean on? I know she doesn’t have a biological family,” he sifted through the file.

“Course she has,” Sadie said, clenching her shoulder.

Savigne just cried and let them talk it out. Her head was reeling, everything was is shambles. Someone was standing in the room that was her mind with a sledgehammer and meticulously smashing every piece of furniture into smaller and smaller pieces until there was nothing but dust.

“Excellent! Women with experience in the matter?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. A little laudanum if she gets too worked up but keep it on the low end. I know it’s passed around like candy these days, but personally I don’t think it’s good for the baby. I recommend regular check-ins. And she is a little underdeveloped.” He eyed Savigne with some scrutiny. “There are maternity houses…”

“She ain’t goin’ there,” was Sadie’s sharp interruption. “Like I said, she got people.”

���I admit…I wouldn’t recommend it,” Polleux said with some resignation. “One hears barbaric things. But it would at least be a safe birth and if she doesn’t want the baby…”

“No maternity house for Savigne,” Sadie squared her feet as if she was going to get into a fistfight with the doctor over it.

“I’m glad for that. If money is an issue…I have sent many unwed mothers to the workhouse.”

“She good,” Sadie growled. “We got money, too.”

“I know she’s working but she might not be able to much longer. In this country, for whatever reason, that’s a scandal. I’ve seen mothers work in fields all over the world but here we get hung up on such things.” He turned to Savigne again. “You will start to show soon,” he said calmly and ignored her whimper of disbelief. “Only reason you haven’t already is because you’re undernourished and it’s your first. Your stomach muscles haven’t expanded before. But that will change very quickly. If you must, stick a ring on your finger and lie would be my suggestion. Wouldn’t fly in a small town but in Saint Denis, nobody knows their neighbors’ name.”

He watched her cry for a while longer, his face calm and composed. No sympathy but also a complete lack of judgement. “Of course I suggest you do it for real when the father returns, so he can claim the child. Otherwise things might get…complicated for both of you.”

“But I can’t have a baby!” Savigne sobbed miserably. “What the hell am I supposed to do with a baby?”

“Miss Ricci," he pushed his spectacles up with the faintest impatience, "I hope you’re not making a case for immaculate conception.”

“No but…”

“Or claim that you don't know how babies are made.” Savigne decided that she didn't like Doctor Polleux after all. Not even a little bit.

"I want a second opinion!" she spat. 

"Sure, that's your prerogative. Like I said, I stand by my diagnosis."

His complete confidence made her panic even more. “But…”

“Good news is that it’s only six months out - give or take.”

“Oh my god,” moaned Savigne, dizzy with overload. “What’s the fucking bad news?”

The doctor didn’t even flinch at the vulgarity, just looked at her, cool as a cucumber.

“Bad news is the same.”

“Thank you doctor,” Sadie said hastily and started to button up Savigne’s blouse. “We'll be back.”

The blond woman pulled Savigne to her feet and stuffed her arms into her coat, then hustled her out of the room. They stumbled through corridors and then back through the waiting room where Savigne’s clearly unwell state alerted the waiting patients and scared a child enough to make him burst into wails. Once they exited the clinic, Sadie turned her by the shoulders and propped her up against a wall. “Now listen, I need you to pull yerself together here! You’re pregnant, you ain't dyin’.”

“I can’t be! Sister Rodriguez said-”

“Bitch lied. Let’s go.” She grabbed Savigne’s arm and dragged her towards the horses.

The Saint Denis crowd parted around them, a sea of eyes brimming with curiosity, revulsion, sympathy at her state. Nothing felt as lonely and humiliating as being in a vulnerable state in a big city. People glanced at her like she was rude for crying in public, for making them uncomfortable and marring their perfect day. Women tsked with disapproval as they glided by and men averted their eyes, reluctant to shame her further. Don't you understand that it's crude to be upset in public? they said silently. That it's uncivilized to cry and moan out in the open? That’s what closed doors are for.

“Cheer up, sweetheart!” someone yelled.

“I'll cheer you up..." Sadie’s head snapped back, "you son of a..."

“She was a nun,” Savigne sobbed. “Nuns can’t lie.”

“Doctor didn’ even give you nothin’ and you gone stupid anyway.”

Savigne stopped in her tracks and forced her to stop, too. “What are we going to do?” she whispered with urgency, grabbing Sadie’s jacket.

“We gonna go back to camp,” she growled, peeling Savigne’s claws off herself, “Then we gonna eat. Then we talk.”

“But…”

“Asked n’ answered. Let’s go!” She dragged Savigne further down the street. For her size, Sadie was remarkably strong.

“Oh how dreadful!” was a tittering whisper from nearby.

“Then look away you ugly cow!” Sadie yelled before she turned back to Savigne and jabbed her head at Cricket: “Up you go. Preferably before I shoot someone.”

Savigne wiped her palms over her face, took a deep shuddering breath and put a foot in the stirrup. Then she blinked and looked over her shoulder: “How come you’re so calm?”

“I knew,” was the dry retort. 

“W-what?”

“I know what a woman with child looks like,” she glared. “My babies never grew full. But I been there. Three times.”

Savigne slowly climbed up the saddle and somehow found the decency to feel a little abashed. “I’m sorry.”

There was a curt nod. “‘M sorry too, Savigne, I am. Sorry y’aint ready. Sorry yer dumb man ran off. Sorry you had nobody around you honest. Or nobody to teach you. Cry about it, sure. I know I did. For my babies and Jake. Cry about it long as you need. But then you get up and go on. Life comes at you and you got no choice.”

“I can’t do this,” Savigne whimpered.

“You can and you will. Women been doing it since dawn of time. Your mom did it.”

“My mom wasn’t alone,” she hiccuped. “She had a husband.”

”First of all, y’aint alone. What the fuck am I? Furniture? Second, Arthur gonna come back.”

“We don't know that!” She flinched a little at the hard reaction in Sadie’s eyes.

“He ain’t dead," the blond woman hissed and inched closer to Cricket, her eyes blazing. "He was dead, I would have to give ya his bag, don’ I?” She shook Arthur’s satchel in Savigne’s face, her sisterly patience clearly running thin. “Y’aint gettin’ it cause he ain’t dead. Maybe will be by my hand or yours when he come back, that’s a different story. Now…” she swung herself up into the saddle and gave Savigne a fiery glare that didn’t brook arguments. “Camp. Food. Talk. Let’s go!”

She rode on and Savigne swayed on the saddle and turned Cricket to follow.

He had never been homesick before. Probably because, discounting the hellhole he had ran away from as a child, he never actually had a home. His home had been the gang and for over twenty years, he had never been apart from it. Even now, in this godforsaken place, he was with them. And yet, he was homesick. A deep painful yearning was burning through his gut, threatening to bore a hole through him as he longed for his tent. Not the old cot he had slept on for years. His tent of barely six months.

He sat apart from the others, elbows on raised knees, back against a crumbling ruin of a wall, trying to to ignore the sunburn that was blistering his skin and the dizziness dancing behind his eyes. That proved to be easier to ignore than Dutch's incessant droning in the background and the homesickness in his gut.

Turns out, washing up on a shore a thousand miles away with nothing but the clothes on your back and the bruise of colossal failures in your heart gave you a hell of a perspective.

Hindsight was cruel; there was little of value to be found in that garden of regret. But, spurred by his thirst for pain, he went digging anyway. He thought of Luther and he dug that bitter soil every day, every hour of every day. And just like Luther, he reached the same revolting truth:

Vanity.

Vanity had watched him from the corner of the room as he argued alongside Hosea to Dutch, all the while smiling coyly at his hubris. Vanity had cooed encouragement into his ear as he had lied on the bedroll the night before, thinking the plan was solid and doable and most importantly - his ticket out. Vanity had squeezed his shoulders and cheered him on as he sat that morning to watch Savigne ride away and Vanity had insisted all would be well. No trouble, Vanity had whispered, no worries, no hesitation. Hesitation is defeat. It had held his coat as he dressed up, had sat on the saddle behind him on Frost as he rode out, had followed him step by step when he fled from the gunfire and had crouched next to him in that deserted building as they waited for nightfall, purring that it wasn't over yet. Vanity had aided his steps as he boarded the ship and the next morning when he stood at the banister to watch the endless stretch of water, drifting away from everything that had any value to him, Vanity had stood with him and soothed his regrets. Vanity had woken him on a strange shore and urged him to go on, to fight, to try, to live. For what? To amuse me, little boy, Vanity smiled. To entertain me. To please me.

The colossal pompousness of thinking his participation was going to prevent another Blackwater! His gut had advised caution but his arrogance had won out. In the end, his arrogance always won out.

Now it was time to feast on the fruit of that arrogance: the loss of his home; the loss of a future with the woman he loved; the loss of a friend and last but not least: the staggering loss of a parent.  

But, in this vast dark ocean of despair, a single source of consolation: Savigne didn't need him anymore.

Truthfully, she never had. Her independence had been the source, the inception point of his desire for her in the first place. The way she had come and gone to camp, full with her own purpose. Her steadfast march through life. He was just the brute who had saved her from other brutes. And now that the last of them was rotting in a swamp, his mission was complete, his role fulfilled. She could finally ride on and prosper. Perhaps she would get that dinner shift. Perhaps she would go to New York. Maybe she would meet a man like Dunham. She had Luther, she had Sadie, she had his money and she would be happy. Hosea had told him that making her happy would make him happy and in a twisted, ironic way he had been right. He just hadn't known that the price of making her happy was removing himself from her life.

In this, at least, he had accidentally succeeded.

A hand landed on his shoulder and a water canteen appeared in front of his face. "Son," Dutch sighed and dropped down next to him. "How are you holding up?"

"'M fine," he rasped and took a swallow. 

"What a shithole," Dutch muttered, leaning his head back on the broken wall.

"Don' like islands no more?" Arthur chuckled bitterly as he took another mouthful. 

"I have to admit," the older man drawled, "The plan is going to need changing."

They sat in silence for a long while. The heat was as bad as Lemoyne heat because it had a habit on settling on everything like dust. There was no escaping from it in the shade, in the open, wet or dry. It was in your eyes, your lungs, between your toes.

"We need to get off this island," Dutch said at last. "Hercule says he can provide us a boat."

Arthur didn't answer. He wasn't interested in getting off the island. He had made peace with the fact that this was his final destination. 

"We need to get back to our people."

They better off without us, he thought but didn't say it. It was simply too hot to argue.

His silence must have bothered Dutch enough to push on: "They need us."

They need us like they need the plague.

His huff of amusement stirred Dutch: "You disagree?"

He sluggishly scratched his beard. "If you say so, Dutch."

"I know you're tired. God knows I am, too. But if we stay here, we will die."

That's the plan. Better than any of yer shit plans, that's for sure. Turns out, better than mine, too.

Dutch flustered a little at his non engagement. "He was like a brother to me," he offered at last. It was a seldom moment of sincerity for Dutch and Arthur took a deep breath and nodded and hoped that would be the end of it but of course he wasn't that lucky. "But we have people depending on us! You have people depending on you!"

Any other day, this would infuriate him. This cheap attempt to dangle Savigne in front of his nose to make him get up and trudge on. Today it only amused him. That's the thing, he thought, she don’ depend on me and she don’ need me. In fact, she better off without me. I played my part in her life, I killed that asshole and cleared the ladder for her. Now all she gotta do is climb and all I gotta do is die.

Dutch prattled on and on but Arthur hardly listened. There was a vast sadness in him, for things that would never be, but also gratitude for things that were. He hadn't managed to touch that untouchable thing - a family of his own - but he had come very, very close. And somehow, in the mayhem that was his life, he had stumbled upon a woman to allow himself to be vulnerable with; and when he had unwrapped his heart to her, she had handled it with care and tenderness. If that was all that was in store for him, so be it. It was more than he deserved.

Night crawled in and the music of the jungle changed. Dutch left his side at some point and at some other point he was given something to eat and he chewed on it listlessly. He wasn’t hungry but it helped to pass the time. Then true dark set in and he was looking forward to it, because night meant sleep and sleep meant dreaming. The same dream he had had since he had fallen into this hellhole. He wasn’t interested in escaping from the island, but he was very happy to escape from reality.

He stumbled to his hammock and lied in it, swinging and watching the stars, waiting for his eyes to grow heavy. Waiting for sleep to end the nightmare that was the day. And eventually, it did. 

Their tent stood before him, in this perpetually repeating dream, location unspecific and unimportant. What was important was the tent and what it stood for - home. White drapes hitched to the ground, firm enough so they wouldn’t blow in the summer breeze, but loose enough to let the air in. The thicker maroon canvas rolled up and tied off. In his dream, it was always summer. Maybe because that’s when he had built it. Some indeterminate time between twilight and the earliest hours of daybreak. 

Instantly he was in front of it, pushing open the flap to step in. The light in here was a muted blue, as if the tent was encased in ice. The covers on the bed were piled up and he knew she was there. A feeling of deep pleasure surged through him, cool in contrast to the hot flare of his homesickness. He unbuckled his gun belt and in the dream, it didn’t jingle. Then the belt of his trousers. One by one he peeled off all his clothes.

Then he carefully crawled on the bed and lifted the covers. A flash of her toffee skin, the curve of her buttocks, the slope of her hip. In reality, Savigne rarely slept naked. She claimed that if something unexpected happened and they suddenly had to run out, she would die of shame if she was naked. He remembered bursting into laughter at her admittance and he also fondly remembered how annoyed she had been at his mirth. But in the dream she was always naked. He moved the covers further: the gentle indentations of her spine, the soft shoulders and the waves of dark locks. He slid in behind her and settled against her back. This was his favorite position and maybe that’s why he dreamed about it so often. She was smaller and fit perfectly into his chest. He tucked an arm under his pillow as his other hand glided over her hip, her waist, up an arm, then down to rest against a plush soft breast and he spread his fingers to gently grasp it. 

She stirred a little and took a deep breath. Her skin was smooth and soft. He kissed her neck as he shifted to adjust behind her with little to no gap. Her hair smelled of lavender, the way it had when she had first approached him in Valentine way back when, but her skin smelled of lemon drops and that was new. He paused at the change, cautious. The dream was precious to him and the last thing he wanted was a deviation, a disfigurement, a change to it. Because it was perfect as it was. 

She sighed and dreamily grasped his forearm, her clutch weak with sleep. In his dream he somehow knew it was Sunday and the whole day was ahead of them, so he didn’t want to wake her yet. But when she did wake, he would make love to her, slow and lazy and he felt his cock between them harden at the thought. Then they would sleep some more, eat breakfast and go to Valentine. And there, in that warm pool of water he would make love to her again - this time rough and aggressive. His appetite and need for her never waned and he was fascinated by that. Why had that first tryst in the woods not been the end of it? Why had he circled back again and again, unable to stay away? It had to be the curse of good things in life.

“Welcome back,” she mumbled as he kissed her shoulder. 

Then suddenly the dream diverged again, sharply this time, because she said “You’re late, Arthur.”

He froze for a moment, finding himself in unfamiliar territory and not happy about it. This was all he had left and he liked it fine the way it was. Although it wasn't unpleasant, he didn't like that she smelled like lemon drops and he didn't like that she spoke those words. Before he could dwell on it though, she mumbled “Don’t smush the grub”. 

He blinked in confusion. “What d’ya mean?” he whispered, alert and wary.

She sleepily tugged at his hand resting on her breast and guided it to her belly. She pressed his palm flat on her pear shaped bump and folded her hand over his to keep it in place. He rose on his elbow in surprise. Under his fingers, the tremble of a rabbit heart, soft and hurried.

“The grub,” she murmured.

In his gut, currents turned, collided, swirled, spiraled and converged to form the point of a vortex. It grew and grew and expanded into a maelstrom that yawned open with quiet force. And in its dark center blossomed a dazzling flower of understanding. 

Arthur flinched awake and the hammock rocked wildly as he struggled to sit up. 

“Can’t be,” he mumbled softly into the thick cacophony of bug chorus. A sharp shake of his head to disperse the spell of sleep followed. The dream unfurled and blew apart like an apparition as he clutched at it. “Can’t be,” he said again, mouth dry. 

And yet, in his gut, it felt true. An instinctual certainty, like lining up cross hairs on a moving target and knowing the exact moment the bullet would fly true. 

He fell back into the hammock and gulped deep breaths of the soupy air. He ran his hands over his face and then wiped the sticky film of sweat on his shirt. His heart hammered in his chest as the dream lifted and evaporated. It was still dark and the only sounds were the chirping of bugs, the croaking of frogs and the snoring of the other men. He shifted in the hammock and straightened a little to settle back in, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again. He lied there and thought and thought, and the more he thought, the more it seemed true. He thought on the little things and he thought on the big things. His mind flooded with memories, by themselves subtle and tenuous like wispy strings. But when he lined them up and coiled them together, there was a solid, firm rope in his hands. No wonder my plans derail, he huffed a quiet chuckle of disbelief to himself, 'm blind as a bat. 

It’s a dream, let it go, his head tried feebly. You’re just spinning tales.

But his gut held firm: you're going to be a father.

Rapture exploded and expanded in his chest and he took a slow, deep breath as it burned through him with blinding heat. He lied dazzled and faint as a tidal wave of pleasure rolled over him. And then another. And then one more. 

But underneath those waves: a dark undertow:

He had left his woman and his child behind, defenseless and alone.

Again.

The notion prickled the hair on his arms like the advent of a thunderstorm.

Years later the spiral voyage of his life had turned the same bend. Maybe the mere irony of fate. Or maybe a test of capricious gods to see if this time he would choose differently.

And he had chosen the same.

He scrambled out of the hammock, fully awake now and stood weak and trembling for long minutes, grateful that everyone else was fast asleep. Then he grabbed the half empty packet of cigarettes and walked away from camp on shaky legs.

Dark thoughts clawed at him. All this time he had convinced himself that she didn't need him. That his part in her life was complete. That she was better off without him. For days now he had taken countless casual risks, had tempted death, even chased it every time he had popped out behind a wall or a tree to shoot back just a little too early or had remained in the open just a little too long. His steps faltered as he realized that an enormous calamity had swum by him like a great shark in dark waters and he hadn’t even known, merely now felt the wake of its departure. His vision blurred with the afterthought. Because alone maybe she would have moved on and prospered. But a woman with child? His child?

The shark hadn’t swum by after all. It was merely circling.

What man would darken their door? Micah? O’Driscolls? Another group of drunk vagabonds? Come to bruise and smother what he had neglected and abandoned. Come to hurt what he loved.

He stood breathing the thick air of the jungle and watched the blue of daybreak settle around him. A new day was dawning. The fever dream of the past week shriveled and dissolved and the fool who had wallowed in aimless self pity gasped his last breath. A great weight rolled off his shoulders. He shifted on his feet and and straightened his back. Made a promise to an asshole in a swamp, he thought. And ‘m damn right gonna keep it.

Hercule heard the approaching steps and rose a little to see who it was. It’s the runt of the litter, the sickly man, he thought when Arthur strode out from under the trees and headed towards him. Only he didn’t look so sickly today. Today he looked like a whole new man. Taller and bigger somehow, with a different gait.  “Can’t sleep?” Hercule asked as he fished out a cigarette from the offered package.

The American grunted affirmation as he lighted first Hercule’s cigarette, then his own.

He was curious why this blan, this white man approached him now. All these past days as they marched to lose the men following them, he had barely spoken, rarely eaten, never even met his gaze. He had just trudged around with the rest of the group and whenever they ran into trouble, his friends had slapped a gun in his hands and he had shot back. His marksmanship was spectacular, but it was obvious that his heart wasn’t in it. He just did it reflexively, as if this was his second nature, something he could do in his sleep. His compatriots treated him like a formidable warrior, but Hercule had been convinced he would die within the week. He had seen people give up before. They had that particular look in their eyes.

So when Arthur’s cool blue gaze locked with his now, he was naturally startled to see a different man looking out. His curiosity turned into intrigue.

“Different climate?” This wouldn’t be the first man who looked tough until he met the Jungle. 

“Got things on my mind,” the other man grimaced.

“Your people back home?” 

The man exhaled out a long cloud of smoke, nodded, then quickly glanced over his shoulder before he said “My family.” The timbre of pride was palpable and pulled a grin of approval from Hercule:

“Lucky man.”

They didn’t talk for a while, just watched the day break as they smoked. The jungle sloped downwards ahead of them, lush and thick as he watched a flock of parrots take flight. Hercule had run into all manner of folk in his life and he liked to think that he was a good judge of them. These Americans acted like a band of brothers, a pack. The fancy man, the cunning one was the leader of the pack. But interesting enough, this man here was no follower. No, he was his own wolf.

“You got kids?” he was asked suddenly.

“Unfortunately no,” Hercule mused. “My life too crazy for that right now. Some day, I hope. When all this is behind me.” Then, just because it was the polite thing to do: “You?”

Arthur squinted into the distance and took a moment before he uttered a confident “I will.”

Hercule resisted the urge to smack him on the shoulder. He got the feeling that this man didn’t like being touched. “Congratulations.”

The cowboy nodded, then turned and gave him an intense look.

“Tell me ‘bout this boat.”

He sobered at that. “I need a favor first.”

“Name it,” was the flat response.

“Fussar. He’s enslaving people. Exploiting them, using them. They live in horrible-”

Arthur’s hand waved away the rest like it was unimportant. “Name it,” he repeated.

He hesitated. A no nonsense man. Not interested in plight and tragedy, just here for a transaction. So be it, he thought. “I need him dead.”

A nod as he smoked and scanned the horizon line. “Anythin’ else?”

Hercule huffed a half chuckle despite himself. “My apologies,” he laughed. “I think I made it sound too easy. Fussar has a small army in his command.”

The blue eyes flicked at him and his grin dissipated. Yeah, forget the others. Forget the fancy leader. Or the one with the cruel eyes and the big belly. This was the man he needed in his corner. Because, if he asked it, this man would burn the world and light his cigarette on the embers. 

“You got guns?” was the casual question.

“Of course,” he licked his lips.

Another silence ensued. He watched the bigger man smoke and wondered if he had had a heatstroke earlier. He had looked pretty miserable and spent. Now he stood shouders rigid, oozing competence and confidence. In truth, Hercule had offered the boat in a moment of desperation and hadn’t been too concerned with keeping his word. Now he thought he damn better made sure to arrange it for real, because it wouldn’t do to cross this man.

”Get me them guns,” Arthur said as he crushed his stub under a heel. “And that boat. Fussar is dead. He just don’ know it yet.”

Hercule watched him turn and stride back to the ruins of the church. Over the years, he had met many who vowed the same. But this was the first time he actually believed it.