#arthur morgan x reader

[stottlemorgan]

"A Little... Refinin'." / Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Fluff

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Summary: You shave Arthur's face for him. It's all cutesy and y'all're sweet one one another and GAH. Tags: Fluff, literally the purest fluff. Starts off with Arthur being very full of self-loathing. Word count: 2,958 Author's Note: Thank you to the sweet anon who requested this, I truly hope you love it. I got SO carried away with the idea that it just... Needed to be a fic instead of headcanons.... Love uuuu. Ao3 Link

A heavy sigh. Tired, worn skin, parts dry and sunburnt and peeling. Wrinkles nestle deeply into his skin at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. Nasty scars deboss his features, as though he is a sculpture, uncared for and unfinished. Full of dips and marks both inside and out, never to meet the kiln, never to be improved. An impossibly repugnant sight.

He feels the disgusted expression morph his features into something even more grotesque before he sees it reflected back at him in the small mirror. It feels like an insult every time. His lips part dumbly, from behind which unevenly set teeth peek. His brow furrows, shadowing the one thing he may dare to like about himself; the blue of his eyes which are currently squinting. Staring too long at himself brings forth thoughts and memories as worrisome and uncomfortable as his face.

The shaving station is a necessary utility, but to him, a feigned performance of self-value. A place for him to hack at his hair and beard, quickly and methodically. To finish up with a shrug and a “good enough”, not a place for priggishness.

“You ugly bastard.”

Arthur’s voice barely escapes as much more than a low grumble, a subtle but continuous and harmful mantra that coats his insides like tar. He begins an attempt to crush the familiar feeling with some deep, grounding breaths. His palms take some of his hefty weight, the wood of the barrel beneath them pressing pinkish shapes into his skin. Much like most forms of pain, he doesn’t mind it.

The rustle of your skirts and the padding of your pottering feet marry together with the chirping birds and whispering spring air as you round his tent and give him a once over. You smile and nod in greeting. He returns the gesture, albeit a tad stiffly, struggling to climb out of his thoughts, though your voice helps coax him.

“You look like you need a shave, Arthur.” You walk past him and through to the back of his tent, an air of domestic authority about you as you snatch some of his washcloths and socks from the little hanger and stuff them into the basket at your hip. He does a double take, his head turning as his gaze follows you.

“What?”

On occasion, you’d make little comments like this; telling him you like the new shirt he bought in Valentine, or his recent decision to grow his hair out. It left him quietly bewildered each time, unsure whether the arrhythmic dance of his heart was due to fondness or awkwardness. Whatever it was, he has spent each moment in your presence suppressing it. You pass by again, placing the basket on the floor outside of his tent with a thump. “I said you look like you need a shave–” you say with a smile, “-You’re gettin’ all scruffy.” Your nose scrunches as you gesture to your own chin, scratching it as though you have stubble. His self-loathing lightens further, your playfulness stirring into the bitter tar like honey, sweetening him up as it always does. 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gettin’?” He asks, making you laugh.

“Mister Morgan, you ain’t scruffy. Far from it. You jus’ need a little… Refinin’.” You say with a grin, waltzing closer to him. He feels the column of his spine lock up slightly at your closing proximity and he swallows down a nervous sound. “Refinin’, huh?” He echoes, his eyes flitting down to your flowing skirts as you stop in front of him. He forces his eyes closed before he can think of how nicely your shirt fits. “Yessir.” You say simply, picking up the razor from the barrel, turning it and watching it glint in the sunlight. Arthur’s features tighten slightly, and his eyes flutter open as he feels you lean forward and one by one remove each item off of the barrel, playing them on his cot. “What’re you doin’?” You return to the barrel and pat the top, “Sit, I’ll give ya a shave.”

Arthur blinks, and his head is shaking before he even finishes processing your words.

“Naw, you ain’t gotta do that–” You roll your eyes, swatting at his chest and his skin beneath the fabric tingles in waves again and again. “Oh, hush up and sit’ch your ass down.”

With a concessive sigh, Arthur plants himself atop the barrel, lips pressed into a firm line. When you take a step closer, standing between his thighs, his expression blanks. And when you gently take hold of his chin between your forefinger and thumb to examine his face, his mind follows suit, whiting out into nothing.

You hum, giving him a good look before speaking casually. “Wha’chu want, then?” Your words take a moment to register as Arthur’s muddled head scrambles to take in anything going on outside of the fabric of your skirts brushing his thighs and the tip of your thumb grazing his lower lip. His voice lags, his gaze drifting about as you move his head left to right, “A clean shave, I guess.” Your nose scrunches as you look him in the eye, “You sure? I could have some real fun ‘n’ give you a little moustache.” You whisper the last words, leaning in a little closer. Arthur has to nod and chuckle to counteract every single signal in his body threatening to fizzle out entirely. “Sure, sure. A ‘little moustache’ it is.”

You give a triumphant grin and straighten up with a soft sigh as you grab the necessary items from his cot. You hum gently as you lather his shaving brush with lye soap and Arthur quietly watches. The domesticity of the situation makes him shift atop the barrel, his lips pursing. After a moment, you step closer again. “Sit up some more.” You say softly and he obeys, straightening up with a big breath. You place the fingertips of one hand against his cheek and bring the shaving brush up with the other.

Taking your time, you guide the lathered brush about, coating his bearded jaw with the cool soap. You concentrate on evenly coating Arthur’s face while he watches you. You place the brush down and pick up the straight razor, bringing it to his jaw and carefully starting to scrape away at his facial hair with rhythmic scratching sounds, holding the skin taut with your thumb.

“Thought you were going into town today?” He asks in a soft, low tone, watching your pupils grow larger as you lean close, into the shade of his tent. “Mhm,” you nod, your nose scrunching a tad in annoyance, “Grimshaw had other plans. Or should I say, demands.”

Arthur huffs a chuckle through his nose as he sneaks in fond glances at your face, thinking you’re too busy scraping at the ridges of his jaw. Then he notices the subtle flutter of your lashes, the slight raise of your brow, the way your concentration becomes forced. His fingers fidget against his pants in quiet panic. His voice comes out almost comically casual, “Well, I could take you in later on. If you’d like.” You pull away to rinse the razor with a slosh and look him in the eye, your expression sincere, “You sure? I wouldn’t wanna disturb your day.”

“Naw, you ain’t disturbin’ nothin’. I’m goin’ in anyway.” You return to shaving, cleaning up the right side of his jaw.

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Press your lips together,” you say quietly, and he follows your instruction. You use the pad of your thumb to pull the skin of his chin tight and carefully shave around the scarring there. Arthur can’t help but feel quite exposed in this moment, having someone acknowledge him so closely; no shadow, hat nor unfriendly grimace to protect him. You watch his eyes dart about and up. You hear his feet shuffle in the dirt either side of you. This reaction has you opting to not comment on his scars, though a slight pinch in your brow betrays your thoughts.

A lull forms between you again. You’re not quite sure what to say, and neither is Arthur. The two of you silently take one another in, having only been this close once when he untangled a branch from your hair. Sure, he’d done it out of courtesy as you’d had a bucket of water cradled in your arms, but despite his denial, it was also an urge of the heart. Thoughts of how satiny and warm your hair was in the spring sun weave through his nerves as you start to speak again.

“What’re you goin’ in to town for?” A low, long and dumb hum vibrates his palette as he catches up to the moment, “M’gonna check in with the sheriff, see if he’s got any more bounties.” You nod slowly in response, focused on his chin.

“I read about that man you caught for him last week. That death tonic slingin’ bastard. You did good catchin’ him.” As you speak, Arthur’s expression morphs with bemusement. He blinks, his lips pursing and he talks over you as you try to tell him to press his lips together again, “Wha’chu mean read?”

“It was in the New Hanover Gazette,” You pause to look him in the eye, realising what his next question will be, “you weren’t mentioned. Was just a piece on the idiot you captured.” He visibly relaxes with a nod. You nudge his chin with your knuckle, guiding him to press his lips together again, which he does. You clean up his chin, your fingers nimble and wet against his now smooth skin. “He was a bastard. A peculiar one, too.”

“Sure seemed it if his poster’s anythin’ to go by.” You move on to shaving the left side of his jaw. You pull away to cleanse the razor in water again before leaning back in. Gently, you place your free hand at the side of his neck, using your thumb to pull the skin taut, and you feel his throat undulate as he stifles a hitch in his breath. Months of lacking tender touch makes it feel as though you’d pressed a hot iron to his skin. Arthur feels a buzzing need to speak, to distract himself, so he speaks; his toes wiggling inside of his boots unbeknownst to you.

“What’s your business in town, then?” He glances up at you in time for your gaze to meet his, and you offer a warm smile to which he responds in kind. His toes curl in his boots. You tip his chin up to shave the middle section of his neck, hearing a silent sigh of thanks escape him for the relief in eye contact.

“I fancied myself a trip to the 50 cent show. I’ve heard it’s good.” You murmur with a tilt of your head as you focus. Arthur gives a silent “Oh?” and a raise of his brow,

“It’s interestin’, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve seen it?” You ask, moving to rinse the razor again, glancing at him as he rolls his shoulders a little.

“Mhm. I won’t spoil it for ya.”

“S’mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You quip and he chuckles, watching as your playful snooty expression changes into something akin to mischief. “Now,” you grin, eyes glinting, “It’s moustache time.” You state with a shimmy of your shoulders.

Shock and felicity meld together at his seat and flood up through to his chest, shucking any previous coherence from him as you swoop in close. The sides of your skirts brush at his inner thighs and he swears he can vaguely feel the shape of your hips. His hands move to grasp his outer thighs, steadying himself, resisting the urge to pull back. When you press your thumb to his top lip and pull a little to shave the top edge of his moustache, the touch draws a shaky huff from him. You’re quick to look him straight in the eyes, your body frozen,

“Am I hurtin’ you?” You ask quietly.

The closeness. Your breath, laced with coffee. The musk of whatever homemade soap you use. The spring morning glowing behind you, setting the edges of your hair alight. Your pupils, enlarged from facing into the shade. His mind is already flooding with ways he would draw this moment, your ethereal beauty. And his body is simmering with thoughts of how you feel, whether the rest of you is as soft as your hair. He clears his throat, a tight, choked sound,

“No.”

You scan his face for a moment before continuing your ministrations. The longer you stay so close, the harder neglecting the quickening of your heart becomes. You find yourself taking slower, deeper breaths as you work, purposefully savouring the coalescing scents of Arthur’s shaving soap and skin. You keep the pad of your thumb against his lips, guiding his skin to move beneath it as you shape his moustache.

He notices the way your gaze flits about his face each time you pause to check the shape of the forming moustache - how you linger a little when his eyes meet yours. Each scrape of the razor, each shift of Arthur’s thighs, each sweet touch of your fingers to his skin is like a flint to steel, striking, igniting a fulsome blaze between the two of you. Yet only a moment later, your thumb leaves his lips, lagging in its descent, brushing, leaving a flaming yen behind which he swallows down. It sinks through him and swells warmly within his groin.

“You’re all done.” You say with a smile, washing the razor and wiping it down. You move away to place it on his cot with the rest of the things you’d moved earlier. Arthur takes a deep breath, loosening up his neck and brain with a shake of his head,

“Thank you, Miss.”

He rises from the barrel, not able to check himself in the mirror quite yet to review your work - too busy quelling his full body fluster. He flattens his thumb against a small bit of shaving foam collected on his shirt, scooping it from the fabric and flicking it onto the floor.

“S’my pleasure, Mister Morgan.” You reply, your expression as earnest as your tone as you turn to face him.

Arthur lets out a strained sound when your hand moves to cup his face and the pad of your thumb rubs over the edge of his mouth. He can feel a glob of cool shaving soap mush under your thumb as you rub it away. He hopes that there is more somewhere, perhaps on his jaw, behind his ear, but you pull away again, wiping your hand on your apron. “You do look mighty handsome, especially all gussied up like that.” You murmur, grinning, and Arthur swears he’s heard you wrong.

Another lull begins to creep up between you before he shoos it away with a gentle catch of something trying to leave his throat. Whatever it is breaks down into a shocked, stuttering chuckle, his eyes closing, his head shaking.

“Don’t go startin’ that with me, Miss.” He mumbles, giving you a fond and sheepish expression, one hand swatting at you lazily. “I’ll start whatever I like, thank you very much.” You snark, walking back to the basket you’d left at the entrance of his tent, bending over and hiking it up onto your hip. Arthur’s eyes snag on your rear, his hand coming up to push his hair back and then rub down his face, his palm grazing over his newly styled moustache as he sighs, “I’m sure you will.” You turn to him and simper, swaying a little from side to side,

“Would you come to the 50 cent show with me before you meet with the sheriff?” You tilt your head.

Arthur’s breath escapes him yet again, his focus darting away, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror resting sideways on his cot. You’ve done a very good job, as good as you can do on a stretched and exhausted canvas such as him. “Sure-” He nods, looking back to you, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, “Sure. I’ll join you, if that’s what you’d like.”

“I’d love it, Arthur.” You say, your smile only growing, a sweet sigh leaving you, “I’ll just finish this up-” You gesture with the basket, “And then I’ll get ready. I’ll meet you at the horses?”

“Okay then.” He nods again, a tad nervously now.

“See you soon, Arthur.” You say softly and ramble off to finish your chores across camp. Arthur reorganises his shaving supplies atop the barrel in an awkward and flustered manner. He curses quietly as he knocks and catches the small bottle of aftershave from the barrel before popping the stopper from the neck and pouring some onto his palm. He pats it about his face, and after glancing at you from across the way, pours a little extra into his palm and applies it.

He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror again, seeing how neatly you’ve shaved his face. His gaze drifts about the parts of his face you’d touched so carefully; his jaw, his chin, his scars, his lips. For the first time in a while, self-loathing and shame aren’t the first things to rip through his head and pool heavily in his lungs. Instead, his thoughts stall long before that looming gate and distractedly wander towards you. How sweet you are towards him. How you called him handsome. How you asked him to the 50 cent show. How he really wants to go with you. How he might just buy you dinner.

Thank you for reading, dear hearts. I love sharing our love of rdr2 together <333 Tags for friends: @kayyqua

[dmitriene]

Arthur Morgan brushing your hair in a platonic way by the fire until it accidentally turns into sex because why not

the fire's soothing scent comes from gradually burning logs that have been piled up in a circle on the ground and the branches thrown over the top, exuding an enveloping warmth over where you sit between arthur's spread, muscular legs, slotting the curve of your back against his broad chest as he divides your hair between his long, nimble fingers, smoothing and disentangling through them, sometimes forgetting about the comb that lies next to him on the log.

arthur is as warm as the fire, as if you were to put your hand down and let the bright, stretching flames burn your delicate skin, however, his warmth suffuses right into your veins, rushes through the bloodstream and stays in every nook and cranny of your body, causing you to lean closer to his chest like a cat absorbing sunlight, feeling the vibration of a rough, hoarse laugh that runs through every muscle in his body as he allows you to curl into his form and cuddle closer.

continuing to weave your strands together and then unravel them, taking a comb to run over the ends, paying attention to the small shudders of your body as he sweeps over the area of your head that gives you a scatter of goosebumps, and so on, the arcane until your hair is docile, strands no longer tangled, streaming downwards without knotting together, allowing him to put the comb aside, bowing his head forward, squaring his body and nosing in the top of your head, leaving there a soft, lower descending kiss.

your shoulder quiver, and you feel arthur's face nudging in between your hair, fingers pushing your strands out of the way, allowing him to press his chapped lips to the skin on the curve of your neck, arching to the side towards every touch and kiss, your lips parting in a languid sigh, forgetting that there are many eyes around you, unable to resist, not with the way he looks at you, hungry, piercing to the very muscles from which you are composed, when you catch a glimpse of his blue green eyes within your peripheral vision.

the orange glow of the fire smoothes the features of your face, sets your eyes on fire, softening and making them even warmer than before, and arthur is grateful that he is sitting, because otherwise, his knees would have already buckled, and he would have fallen exactly at your feet, without a twinge of conscience, without worrying about the people around you, just like now, when he covers your delicate skin with spreading, stubble tickling kisses and playful bites, making you gasp, wrenching to hide your warming face against his stretched out shoulder.

arthur can't hide the sudden spark of an arousal, resist the molten heat soaring through his stomach, the heaviness of groin, where his cock swells under the fabric and underwear, filling with blood, pressing into the small of your back, lower, where he can feel the swell of your ass even through all the layers of skirts at your dress, and his hips canting forward to chase the ghost of a plushness that hides beneath, stutter, when he realizes that this is not a place to do so, groaning low against your shoulder blade, where he nuzzles in, before gathering you up in his arms.

the low snickering and teasing from some of the men in the vicinity are just a passing buzz through your ears, as arthur carries you through the camp towards his tent with long steps, you know you're going to have to be quiet, and he's going to help you do that, because you lose and swallow all the words when you meet the gaze of his eyes, eclipsed by dilating pupils, full of carnal need, all dedicated to you, his tongue filling your mouth with greedy force and drawn out, gravelly moan.

you're all sopping wet through your undergarment, soaking beneath the skirts that arthur works on to discard, rip in sherds that would decorate the floor beneath, press his calloused fingertips against the plushness of your skin, leave the indents of his touch on you, while ravaging you whole, spread the tender lips of your cunt around the sheer, engorged girth of his cock, listen in to your hiccups of his name, before silencing you, feeling the sting of your teeth's against his shoulder, as he puffs warm breath against your sweating temple, grunts sweet names, working you to your orgasm.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[zae-heeyyy]

Aegis

Summary: You defend your daughter from Micah. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,810 Tags: fluff, family, girl dad Arthur, angst, high honor Arthur Warnings: Violence, mistreatment of a child

an: This was an anon request. I was weary about this one because I'm not a mom, nor do I spend a lot of time around toddlers, but omg exploring girl dad Arthur was so fun! Shout out to @emerald-ranch for helping me with a horse fact for this one! Thanks for reading. Enjoy!

Aegis: as in protection, means or method of defending

A pair of hazel eyes cut through the dark, shining like twin stars burning holes in the blanket of night. Those usually bright supernovas seemed dull now, washed out by the weight of the world. Your daughter's tiny form scooted in impossibly closer, and you bundled her up, swaddling her like she was still the wiggling newborn you'd held in your arms three years ago.

"Bea," you sighed, trying your best to shield her from the beast that was your frustration. Exhaustion had settled in your bones hours ago, pressing your patience paper thin. Sleep called out to you from the void, and you wanted so badly to answer, but your daughter reeled you back every time.

"I want Daddy," she whined, clutching the fabric of your shift in her little fists. 

You missed him too; she had no idea. In a time that seemed like forever ago, you and Arthur laid in this same cot, your fingers tangled in his shirt in the way your daughter's were in yours now. Motherhood terrified you, and after telling Arthur you were pregnant, you cried all through the night. Raising a child was daunting enough, but doing it with an outlaw in a gang seemed like a nightmare turned reality. 

Solid arms held you together in body and mind. He was your rock even though he was going through his own quiet panic. Arthur knew the harsh realities of parenthood all too well. Still, he knew the brightness, blooms, and blossoms it could bring, and he let himself want it more than anything. Making good on his second chance at having a family, he married you right away and devoted all of himself to you and the baby.

That warm summer night after your screams and her cries had died down, he bowed his head over her, staring without a word. First, one salty tear fell from his face and onto the blanket you'd knitted for her, then another, and another. You tried to offer him the dignity of silence, but your tears burst out with a sob. It was only then that he spoke, snapping out of his baby-induced trance, his eyes wide with concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong at all."

And his baby loved him oh so much, the very definition of a daddy's girl. He was the one who protected her from spiders and wasps, the one who made her giggle til her face turned red, the one who'd lift her up on his shoulders and run amok through camp, and the one who snuck her candy when she thought you weren't looking. He was her Polaris, and little did she know, she was his entire universe. Leaving both of you at camp, even if only for a few hours, chipped away at a piece of his soul every time. In the present, you combed your fingers through her light-colored hair and kissed her on the head twice–one from you and one from Daddy, as you always told her.

"I know. He'll be here when we wake up, honeybee."  

And the tent fell silent, but your daughter twisted and shivered, unsettled by passing footsteps.

"Momma…" Her words came out smaller than her. "M'scared."

You wanted to tell her there was nothing to be afraid of, but you couldn't lie to her–not when there was a price on her father's head, not after Blackwater, and not after Colter. In yet another attempt to calm her, you whispered soft shhs. But then she spoke once more, a single word–a name, and your breath caught in your throat.

"Micah."

You sat up with the quickness of a startled doe, sweeping your eyes over your daughter. Tears stained her rosy cheeks, but she was otherwise unharmed.

"What about Micah?" The question came out more urgent than you'd intended, and she hid herself in your bosom. You hoped she didn't hear your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. 

"Don't want him to come here."

"Why'd he do that?"

She only shook her head. You peeled her away from you, wiping her tears away with the pads of your thumbs before cupping her face in your hands. Your voice was loving but firm–a quiet, motherly demand.

"Bea. Talk." 

She vocalized as best as she could: "He's scary and mean."

And then, after a long pause, her small hand came to rest over yours on her cheek.

"He touched my face."

A curtain of red-hot wrath veiled your vision, and it took everything in you to hide it from the baby in your arms. No matter how big she got, she would always be that pink, wrinkly baby in the knitted blanket. You put on a stellar performance, eyes twinkling, your smile adding light to the darkness that'd settled over you. You reassured her that Daddy and Uncle Dutch would take care of that, that she had a whole family looking out for her, and that she was safe. 

In one last attempt to get her to settle, you laid back down, closed your own eyes, and began a slow hum of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." In the middle of the second run-through, she'd gone limp, finally.  You tried to follow suit, but your thoughts were louder than ever. 

Arthur'll be back soon.

Let the men dish it out. 

Get some sleep, get some sleep, get some sleep.

But your legs swung over the cot, and you left your eaglet behind in the nest as you soared into camp, sharp eyes scanning for your prey–a rattlesnake masquerading as a man. The drunk bastard saw you coming, flashing his fangs in a smug display of mockery. He didn't expect the beer bottle he'd been nursing to explode across his head, the glass shattering like a storm of meteors crashing down to earth. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, and you were on top of him in an instant in the only way you'd ever be–out for blood. A blackhole temporarily swallowed both of you as you slammed your forehead into his with all the force of two colliding planets. 

The shockwave drowned out everything around you–so much so that you didn't hear someone shout for Arthur and didn't notice your husband had returned just before you left the tent. Micah fought back hard, trying in his intoxicated stupor to twist free, but you had him good, your nails like talons breaking skin and cutting off his air supply.

An owl-like screech tore through your lungs as two strong hands yanked you away. Your husband's eyes locked onto yours, grounding you, clearing the haze of fury. Time seemed to slow as you saw yourself reflected in concerned chrysocolla-colored eyes.

"Hey now, hey, easy…"

Just when he thought he'd calmed his distressed mare, the snake hissed in the grass.

"Get control of your whore, Morgan!"

"Arthur," you caught his attention, him looking from Micah back to you, "Beatrice." 

At hearing his daughter's name, Arthur bared his teeth and dug his nails into his palm. Without thinking, he shoved you aside, and you knew if you let him get to Micah, all hell would break loose. Roles reversed, you grabbed at his sleeve with both hands, pushing your weight into your heels to keep him in place. Micah started a mocking chortle. 

"That seed of yours." He tried once again to rise up on his feet, "Ain't much hope for her. She'll let fellas buy her for a penny just like her momma."

His taunting stung enough for you to temporarily lose hold of Arthur, and he took his chance, sending the metal tip of his boot flying into Micah's chin. The devil incarnate spit out blood and chipped bone and let out a hoarse, guttural bellow of pain, but he didn't try to stand anymore. 

"Lucky she got to you first." Arthur spat, "I ain't stopping her next time."

Your husband stomped off with his arm around your waist, back to your lion's den where your cub was still sleeping soundly. Collapsing onto the cot, you dug your palms into your eyes, trying to ease the pressure of a building headache. Lantern light came into your field of vision as Arthur's calloused fingers pried your hands away. 

"That was stupid," he whispered, aware of Beatrice still sleeping. One hand clutched your chin, and the other moved your hair out of your face to get a good look at you, "I woulda' handled it."

The cold sting of a wet cloth against your bruises made you wince. 

"I know. Couldn't help myself."  

Arthur didn't say anything else and finished cleaning you up in silence. Though the presence of your family back together brought you a semblance of peace, you twisted the gold band around your finger, lost in hellish thoughts. You and Arthur made promises to each other and to your little girl, and you'd make good on them, no matter the cost.

"I'll kill him next time."

Arthur had stripped down to his union suit and nodded at you as he took his hat off and set it beside the photo of your daughter's namesake.

"I know."

Then, his face lit up. He stopped your fidgeting by taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles. Deep down, he knew you had it in you, but something about his wife, the sweetest thing he'd ever met, nearly ripping a man's head off his shoulders with her bare hands, struck a cord of pride within him. 

"Though I don't think anybody in their right mind would tempt you after seein' that."

And you felt embarrassed of your wild display of maternal ferocity. But Arthur, in all his tenderness and love for you, made all your doubt vanish.

"That's my girl," he whispered, holding his hands out.

You let him hoist you up into his warm embrace. The steady rise and fall of his chest and rhythmic heartbeat could've lulled you to sleep right then and there. This closeness had become a delicacy since parenthood, and you savored every bite. Arthur sighed contently as he breathed in the scene before him. Though you were buried in his chest, you knew he was looking over at his sleeping baby girl while he was hugging you.

"Maybe one day she can spend the night with Abigail and Jack, and we can have some husband and wife time." 

You hummed in agreement, tempted to let your limbs fall weak in his arms. The sounds of rustling blankets woke you right back up.

"Daddy?" 

Arthur didn't let you go. Instead, he squeezed you harder, a silent thank you for the life you'd birthed, the life you'd given him. He guided you back to the cot beside your daughter, tucking both of you in and pressing a soft kiss to your foreheads.

"Hey, sweetheart. I'm here," were the last words you heard before soaring serenely off the cliff of consciousness. 

[frillydolle]

(not 100% sure if my ask sent since my internet sucks… but once more just in case-)

young!arthur having his true first time w young!reader (arthur is around 22, reader is like 19. both are in the gang)

obv arthur has slept w prostitutes before this, but they had always done all the work. now, when arthur is actually about to have sex w someone, the guy has little to no clue what he’s doing 😭

TYSM IF YOU DO IT <3333

꒰ ୨ৎ ꒱　 ──　 mdni nsfw　 femreader　 arthur has no ides what he's doing 　 you don't either.

arthur morgan. a young, rugged, and outlawish man merely in his early twenties. he was young, but he was so free, running away from lawmen as swift as an arrow, being too quick and witty to catch proper. although he may not have the silver tongue from his old mentor, dutch, but he has the wit to run away subtly, like his other mentor, hosea. despite his rough and callous appearance, he wasn't unknown to women and... working women. in fact, many of the girls wouldn't tease each other on who could get a certain cowboys attention.

they would all lead the intimacy, arthur would lie down on the cot and take it, since that's what working girls were paid to do, right? and he'd let them do their work, over and over. he'd pay well, and god, did they always make him feel good, no doubt about it. how he'd lay on the hotel bed as the women would unbutton his blue shirt in such a slow, teasing way─ then again, this was just again to take his mind off mary. damn that women...

that all changed once he met you. oh, how he was head over heels in love with you for days until he confessed that he was sweet on you, and even so, you've never seen a burly man get so flushed over you!

you were younger, nineteen, to be exact. knowing this, arthur was unsure of how to act around you, too nervy and in love. that journal of his was filled of pages with ur sktehced face. he was a little scared of physical contact until you initiated it first and now he's arm is never seen away from being around your waist. he was soo nervous to even kiss you incase you didnt want to:( he was just scared of making you uncomfortable since that's the last thing he wanted to do.

“'m sorry, honey... i never really done this before.”

“thank goodness, i haven't done this either. we'll just.. take it slow?”

despite the maany times you've told him that he's fine, that he's doing well, you can tell he was still a little anxious of doing something wrong, he wanted this to be right for you, he just wanted to make you feel... well, good. this might be this first time, but he wanted to impress you badly.

and oh.

oh.

this was like your own slice of heaven. he was so good despite that he no idea what he was doing. the way he held you with such delicacy. his hands weren't firm they were gentle, he didn't want to hurt you, he wouldn't know how to act if he did. his hands would trace up and down your body, leaving goosebumps in his wake. his callous were rough and yet his touch was tenderly with you. he took his sweet time with you, arthur was determined to work his feelings within you even if he wasn't sure if he was doing well, he had to make sure.

“does that.. feel good, sweetheart?” “that okay, darlin'?” “hope i ain't too rough fir ya.” “yer so good to me, yer a good girl.”

“mhm─ oh, arthuurr.. feels so good, oh my god─”

and that's exactly what he wanted to hear.

[animasola86]

LOST & FOUND 🫂 CH11

Mommy and Daddy have made up, and now you're in the middle of a very steamy threesome.

soft!Daddy!dom x Mommy!domme x little girl!reader

WARNINGS: F!Reader insert. NSFW! Mommy/Daddy kink. Dd/Md/lg dynamics. Dom/sub undertones. Pet names. Shared shower. Mutual washing. Mutual masturbation. Vaginal fingering. Threesome. Unprotected, rough vaginal sex. Voyeurism/cuckqueaning? Cunnilingus. Overstimulation. (More notes under the cut!)

WORDS: 5k 🔷️ READ ON AO3 🔷️ 1–2–3–4–5–6 7–8–9–10–11

A/N: RECAP: Reader (we call her Pumpkin) is in her 20s, has hair and female genitalia, suffers from depression and anxiety, and has agreed to become the little girl/submissive to a couple she's supposed to call Mommy and Daddy, who are in their early/late thirties. READ THE WARNINGS!!! The Daddy/Mommy AU continues, and now they've joined ranks. 🔴 Do you like moodboards? Here's some Pinterest boards of Mommy, Daddy and Pumpkin.

Chapter 10 🔷️ Chapter 11 🔷️ Chapter 12

While the shower really was unusually large (two tiled walls, one glass wall, floor-to-high ceiling, one giant door), you still felt crowded between the tall frames of Mommy and Daddy. It had been a blur how they'd stripped out of their clothes, then helped you out of yours (which seemed to be the easiest part as you were neither wearing panties nor a bra, just your sundress), and now you stood between a wall of muscles and two very impressive breasts, their warmth radiating off of them as the water cascaded down on you from the waterfall shower above your head.

But despite the awkwardness of being naked (which you'd experienced with both Mommy and Daddy before, just not together), you felt safe. They were so attentive, Mommy taking care of your hair while Daddy rubbed body wash over your skin, and they still stole the occasional kiss over your head or past your shoulder as well. It felt right, somehow, on a strange level, like loving parents should behave in front of their children (to some extent), but also like a couple welcoming you in their midst.

At first, it had been weird seeing Daddy kiss Mommy like that, and you couldn't deny the little tinge of jealousy, but he'd been right. You had to get used to this. You were part of a love triangle now, so to speak. And if you wanted to spend time with them, you had to adjust to them sharing affections as well. It was what you wanted, you didn't want to choose, no longer feel as if you'd ignore one of them by doing stuff with the other.

And it wasn't as if they ignored you then either, on the contrary, every kiss they shared, they gave back to you double. You felt Mommy's soft lips on yours and her hand on your chin, guiding you, before she moved back to tend to your hair, and then it was Daddy's turn, his hand on your face and his tongue in your mouth. Your head was positively spinning after only a few minutes of steam and warm water, kisses and cuddles, gentle touches and demanding grabs.

You stood there and let it happen, as was your role, apparently. Though the longer you passively shared the space with these handsome people, the more you wanted to touch them too. Feel Daddy's muscles twitch under his tight skin, trace the veins running up and down his arms and legs and abdomen, feel the weight of Mommy's breasts in your small hands, poke her firm nipples (and taste them?), but whenever you dared a look lower, you felt the heat crashing into your head.

The idea of Daddy's cock was still a little scary to you, even after feeling him and having him in your hands before. He seemed larger today, or maybe you felt smaller, more intimidated, as you stole glances at him while he rubbed his big hands over your back and stomach. Mommy wasn't as shy about it. Once she was done with your hair (having put it up into a tight bun full of conditioner), she grabbed the soap and started washing Daddy's chest, quickly moving lower, her hands grabbing his cock as if it was the most natural thing to her (which it probably was).

He let out a little groan, grabbing her chin and pulling her in for another kiss, their rough breaths mingling. “Let her do it,” you then heard him rumble against her lips. She exhaled loudly and nibbled on his bottom lip, giving him a little stare, before leaning back, letting go of him and turning to you.

You blushed in anticipation. “You've touched Daddy before, haven't you?” she whispered over the rush of water cascading down on all three bodies. You blinked, averting your eyes (trying to find a spot that was okay to stare at), then nodded. “Don't be shy then, just soap him up. It's alright, cariño.”

You swallowed, turning your gaze to meet Daddy's. He smiled softly, just standing there, tall and handsome and still slightly intimidating. It was Mommy who guided your hands to his groin, her fingers making yours curl around his shaft. He was warm and already harder than you expected. Slowly she moved your fist (or what fit around him) over his length, up and down, from the base to the tip, shifting his tight skin over his hardened core.

Eventually she let go to gather more soap between her hands, then focused back on his balls, while you kept stroking his cock, your tongue poking out between your lips as you concentrated. His hand came forth, gently curling around your wrist, moving your hand a little faster and more in a twisting motion. You looked up at him, noticing too late that your tongue was still out. He smirked, his free hand grabbing your chin as he leaned down to close his lips around the tip of your tongue, giving it a quick suck. You gasped into his mouth.

“You're so cute, pumpkin,” he breathed against your lips. “Never change.”

You smiled shyly when he straightened up again, the hand on your chin moving to cup your face and caressing it gently. You continued the up and down motions of your hand, the twisting turns, the curling of your fist around his tip, until he carefully pried your hand off his cock.

Mommy had moved on to soap up his broad back, standing behind him now. You watched with growing warmth in your gut as she rubbed her hands around his torso, her long fingers scraping over his pecs. He turned his head and looked at her, then let out a sudden laugh when she retrieved her hands and slapped his butt.

He turned around and leaned down to catch a kiss from her, his arm curling around her body, hand firmly on her thigh. “You naughty girl,” he muttered against her, and she snickered into the kiss. You noticed how his hand slipped lower, right between her legs, over Mommy's smooth mound. She cooed into him, arching her back, a little sigh escaping her lips.

“Pumpkin,” he addressed you then, his voice hoarse and rough enough to send a shiver down your spine, and you took a step closer. His free hand was extended towards you while he was still focused on shoving his tongue into Mommy's mouth. He grabbed you when you were in reach and brought your hand to where his own was rubbing up and down between Mommy's legs. “Show Mommy a good time, hm?” he hummed, holding your fingers to push them further.

He kept kissing her, holding her in place, while his hand hovered over yours. You felt a bit strange to touch another woman, even though the same woman had touched you in the same way at least twice before. You felt around a little blindly, your fingers slipping between her labia, right into her slick. A moan escaped her, quickly swallowed by Daddy's mouth. The angle was different from how you'd touch yourself, so you fumbled for a moment to find her clit, but when you did, she bucked her hips into your hand, sighing past Daddy's attempts to silence her.

You felt her nub throbbing against your fingertips as you drew slow circles around it, biting your lip as you watched Mommy and Daddy kiss deeply, Mommy melting more and more into Daddy's hold. They looked so beautiful like this, the handsome man and the gorgeous woman who should both be portrayed in one of those fancy magazines, but instead they stood with you in a shower, trying their best to make you feel included.

Daddy's hand eventually brushed against your leg, pulling you closer until he could reach around your rear where he rubbed it up and down and around your soft ass cheeks, fingertips teasing between them. You kept rubbing Mommy's clit, occasionally caressing lower to tease at her entrance, wet little squelching sounds echoing past the constant stream of water.

It was a wild tangle of hands, three bodies pressed together, two of them still engaged in a passionate kiss, and you wondered where Mommy's hands were – until you felt one of them bumping past your wrist, blindly fumbling to find your own crotch.

You angled yourself to make her reach it better, and unlike you, she immediately went for your core, dipping two of her fingers into your clenching cunt. You hadn't even noticed how wet you were until she slipped in with ease, pumping her digits in and out, making you stumble against Daddy, who held you closer, his big hand resting on your ass.

When your first moan ripped from your throat, he leaned away from Mommy's face and bent down a little to reach yours, and as soon as you met his heated gaze, you grabbed his arm in support and tilted your chin up, hungry to taste him too. He indulged you, kissing you just as deeply as he had kissed Mommy, and you could swear you tasted her on his tongue.

Your head was spinning, empty and full of cotton at the same time, breathless gasps and mewls slipping past your swollen lips. Mommy's fingers were relentless, pushing harder, faster, curling at just the right angle, until your legs were shaking and you had to fully lean against Daddy. You tried to keep up with her rhythm and mirror it on her own cunt, focusing on her clit, feeling her tremble as well, and somehow, with Daddy's strong hold on both of you, you remained standing when your orgasm washed over you like a gentle wave, hers following shortly after.

While your noises were muffled, hers echoed through the tiled room, a drawn-out moan, ending in a soft “Oh mi amor...”. She pulled her fingers from your still pulsing pussy and grabbed your face, prying you away from Daddy before continuing the kiss chain with even more fervor. He still held you and her, watching you (you could see him out of the corner of your eye, how he licked his lips and smirked, clearly enjoying the sight).

You leaned into Mommy's kiss, trying to mirror the rubbing and sliding of her lips and tongue as best as you could with how lightheaded you still felt. Eventually your eyelids fluttered closed and all you did was melt into the touches and ministrations, feeling as if you were floating, surrounded by steam and warm bodies, far away from any problems you might have ever had. Nothing mattered anymore.

You didn't even notice the loss of Daddy's hand until Mommy leaned back a little, breathing harder against your lips. “Don't you dare,” she whispered, and you opened your eyes in confusion. You realized Daddy had his big hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it lazily, while she pointed her finger at his chest, smirking darkly. “If you shoot that into the wind, I won't let you rest until you give me another load!”

“Come and get it then,” he teased, his eyebrow twitching.

You noticed how Mommy bit her lip, her hands still curled around your face. “Hmm,” she hummed, then looked at you. “Cariño, Mommy needs Daddy's cock now, is that okay with you?”

You blinked, not quite understanding what she was implying. Well, you did, she wasn't very subtle about it, but you didn't know why she was asking you for your consent.

“Don't be alarmed, little one,” she continued. “We like it a little rougher than your average couple, but don't worry, we will not be like that with you. You can stay and watch if you want... I'm just warning you.”

Now you were really alarmed, despite her words, because of her words. Daddy's hand came forth and curled around your waist. “She's staying,” he said, looking at Mommy. “I want you to stay, pumpkin, this is part of our agreement. You are a part of us now,” he added, his eyes moving to meet yours. Your heart beat faster.

Without really knowing what was going to happen, you nodded. Mommy gave you another peck before letting go of you, her fingertips trailing up Daddy's chest as she walked around him towards the wall. He was still looking at you, his gaze so dark and intense, a somewhat sinister smile curling his lips. He reached out to you, caressing your nape, pulling you against him.

“It'll be fine, baby girl, stay close to me, okay?” he whispered, and you nodded again, mesmerized by the strange energy radiating off of them. He gave you a wink, then turned to face Mommy.

She was leaning against the wall, backside to you and Daddy. He stepped closer, his hand shooting out to grab her hair. She cried out softly when he pulled her head back, his other hand curling around her throat, squeezing lightly. They looked at each other, Mommy blinking through her lashes, her face tilted up.

“I love you, remember that, yeah?” he muttered quietly, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose.

“I know, papito, I love you too,” she whispered, reaching behind her to caress his side. “Now fuck me already, I need it,” she added with a smirk.

He let go of her throat and pressed her roughly against the wall, his free hand shooting forward to smack her ass, the sound so loud it made both her and you flinch and cry out. “Impatient little slut, aren't you?” Daddy rasped, the degrading name making you frown. Mommy didn't seem to care as she pressed herself against the wall, hands on either side of her shoulders, head turned, cheek against the tiles.

He stepped behind her, rubbing his pelvis into her rear, his cock sliding between her cheeks. His hands moved down her sides before he gripped her hips and pulled them back a little, making her arch into him. You felt a little weird watching them being so intimate, feeling like a passive bystander, out of place, cold under the warm water. Suddenly Daddy turned his head to you, his eyes even more intense, causing you to stare at him in confusion.

“You wanna help me out, pumpkin?” The shift in his tone confused you even more. He sounded so caring again, while barely a minute ago he'd called Mommy a slut. “Come closer.”

But you followed his words, eager in a way you couldn't describe, your stomach tense in anticipation. Swallowing, you looked up at him, blinking away the water running down your head.

“I wish I could do this to you too,” he whispered, tilting his head to you. “Soon I can, and soon I will, but for now you can only watch, okay?” Heat crashed through your body, but you nodded. “Grab my cock, baby,” he then said, his tone a little rougher again, making you spring into action immediately. Though you fumbled a bit to reach it, you managed to close a hand around his shaft, hot and harder than you'd felt before, so tense it was bobbing against his lower stomach. “And now bring it to Mommy's cunt,” he continued, watching you closely, his hands digging into her hips as he pulled her a bit closer.

You nodded, your tongue back between your lips as you tried to line up his cock with Mommy's entrance. It was a simple task, and it made you feel included, no matter how weird it might have been. It didn't feel weird as you did it, it was just an order and you felt the need to follow it.

You felt the warmth radiating off Mommy's core, you couldn't quite see what you were doing, but eventually you seemed to have done it – when Daddy suddenly rolled his hips against her rear, causing her to issue a low grunt as he slipped into her, sinking his entire length into Mommy's depths in one swift thrust.

You stepped back, letting go of him, but his arm shot out and wrapped around your shoulders, holding you against him. “Stay,” he breathed, bending down a little to press his lips to the top of your head. “Watch me rail your Mommy.”

You should have felt shame and maybe even terror or disgust or anything negative for doing what you did, but you were frozen to the spot, pressed to his side, mesmerized by the little tremors crashing through his body as he started moving against Mommy, slow nudges at first, before he pulled back more only to thrust into her again with force. She moaned and groaned with every slam of his hips, flat against the wall, arching her back into his motions.

And you stood beside him, your hands reaching out to snake around his waist, his muscles shifting under your palms, his body working as he pounded his cock into her cunt. It was obscene, it was fascinating. His arm stayed around your shoulder, hand tight around your forearm, his other hand moving up Mommy's back to curl around her hair again, fisting it tightly.

His thrusts became faster, harder, pelvis smacking against her cushioned rear, wet skin slapping against wet skin, her moans turning into whines, groans into grunts, sounds of effort echoing through the room; noises that did something to you, that sank into your skin, cut into your nerves, awakened sensations you never knew could be this intense.

You watched Daddy's face. Hard, concentrated, stoic even, his eyes focused on where his cock vanished into Mommy, lips a thin line, his nostrils flaring as more and more labored breaths left him. You felt the need to comfort him, so you started rubbing your palm over his shifting abdomen. He looked down, a sudden tilt to his head, looking like a predator who noticed the movement of his prey. You froze, lips parting, your stomach tensing, your own cunt clenching harder around nothing.

He continued the rapid snaps of his hips, fast and hard slams, making Mommy cry out as he pummeled her into the wall, but his focus shifted to you, his hand sliding down your side, pressing you closer against him, your breasts squished when he snaked his hand down your back and between your ass cheeks. His long fingers brushed against your labia, and you gasped softly when he slipped one digit between them, dipping into your slick. You braced against him, moving up on your toes to give him better access, your arms tight around his waist.

You had no idea how he did it, but he kept the steady rhythm of his thrusts, sinking his cock into Mommy's fluttering cunt with unrelenting force, while also pushing his finger into your own pussy, just one finger, but it felt as if he was railing you instead. You buried your face under his arm, feeling the tight skin and hard muscles, inhaling his soft scent, soapy and masculine. His finger moved in and out, slowly matching the same beat of his hips that kept rubbing against your stomach, and you moaned into him as Mommy moaned into the wall, her body shuddering against his.

It was a whirlwind of sensations, watching them fuck, being fingered, feeling every twitch of his body, hearing those lewd noises, from their labored breaths to the loud squelching, and when Mommy came, you felt something warm spraying against your leg. She cried out loudly, her whole body spasming. Daddy's hand in her hair moved around her throat and pulled her back against him, bringing her closer to you as well, and with one arm still around him, you snaked the other around Mommy's waist, holding her too, your hand brushing over her chest.

Her hands found yours, and she guided it to her breasts, making you grope one while she fondled the other, you even started rubbing your own against Daddy's hard muscles, as he kept pumping his hips against Mommy and his finger into you. He sounded more and more agitated, quiet groans slipping from his now parted lips. He tightened his hand around Mommy's throat, tilting her head back to press his lips to her forehead, and you saw her eyes rolling back, her mouth agape, breathless moans escaping her.

“Come on, Daddy,” she rasped barely audible. “Fill me up...”

“Beg for it,” he said hoarsely, baring his teeth.

“Please, please, give me your cum, Daddy,” Mommy cooed, her body shaking in his tight hold, every thrust making her boobs bounce against your and her hand. “Please fill me up, I need it so bad!”

He let go of her throat and slapped his hand over her cheek, making her cry out louder. You winced at the sudden impact, flinching away. “What a needy little slut, huh? You sure you deserve it?” He sounded so mean, and yet you couldn't help but gasp at the rough texture of his voice, the low hum shooting straight into your tensing core with how it vibrated through your body.

Mommy wailed, chanting a chorus of “Yes, yes, please!” before he slapped her again, then pushed her back against the wall, making you stumble as you had to let go of her breast.

His finger slipped from your cunt as he grabbed Mommy's hips with both hands, and you could barely hold onto him as he started to really hammer into her, faster and harder than before, desperate almost. He groaned and grunted, animalistic noises filling your ears that made your cunt flutter.

Mommy whined and mewled, her body convulsing, legs shaking badly beneath her. You felt her orgasm as if it was your own, a sudden shiver, a deep throbbing, your own body trembling against Daddy's. And suddenly he stilled, pushing Mommy against the wall as he leaned in to wrap his arms around her waist, folding over her, holding on as his hips stuttered, a low moan akin to something that sounded like a “Ah, my good girl” escaping him as he buried his face in her hair.

You still clung to his waist, now somewhat sandwiched between them, feeling both of their shudders, being lulled by his low praises and her soft gasps, and all you could do, as he pumped his seed into Mommy, was close your eyes and lean into the sensations, your own cunt weeping, clenching around nothing. Whatever had just happened, it had been the hottest thing you'd ever witnessed and experienced.

For a long moment nobody moved. Only the water kept cascading down their slick bodies. You felt weirdly disconnected, floating in the warmth settling around you, lightheaded, dizzy, content. You could have stayed like that forever, but somehow, when you blinked your eyes open again, you found yourself back under the full spray of the shower, with Mommy in front of you, her hands massaging your breasts, while Daddy stood behind you, his fingers gliding through your hair.

You looked at Mommy (her face flushed, one cheek redder than the other, but a warm smile on her full lips) before you turned your head and looked up at Daddy (his hair was tousled, red spots on his cheeks, a gentle twinkle in his dark eyes), wondering whether you'd just had a very vivid dream or not. He leaned down and kissed your cheek, rubbing his wet beard against your jaw.

“You okay, pumpkin?” he rasped, his voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, frowning a little in confusion. Mommy squeezed your breasts, pinching your nipples between her fingers. You flinched and looked back at her.

“I think we owe her another orgasm,” she whispered, looking past you at Daddy. “A real one...”

Before you could question what she meant by that, you felt Daddy's hands under your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed into his chest, your legs spread wide as he held you up with your feet swinging about. You grabbed his forearms, a squeak escaping you as you squirmed against him. Mommy stepped between your wide open thighs, rubbing her hands along them.

“Calm down, mi amor, this is all for you,” she whispered, giving you a wink as she licked her lips. And then she buried her face in your crotch, her warm mouth pressed to your slit, her tongue dipping deep.

You cried out in surprise and confusion and hesitation, overcome with the biggest wave of shame yet, writhing in Daddy's arms. He cooed into your ear, shushing you. “It's alright, baby girl, let it happen.”

But you couldn't quite enjoy it as you felt Mommy's tongue lapping at your core, teasing into your hole before prodding against your clit. It felt wrong, the way Daddy held you open, how you couldn't escape, how she sucked and licked at your cunt as if... as if you were the dessert she had been waiting for for so long. Oh.

Another “Oh” escaped you as she teased her tongue deeper into you, your walls clenching at the unfamiliar intrusion. You gasped, twitching in Daddy's arms, Mommy's mouth so warm and intense against your sensitive skin. She kept licking and lapping, suckling and nibbling, grazing her teeth against your labia before she closed her lips around your clit and sucked hard. You thrashed your head into Daddy's shoulder and shrieked, your hips jerking against her face.

She kept going, her hands reaching up to support your rear, long fingers curling around your ass, digging into your soft flesh as she continued eating you out with vigor. You whined and wailed as pleasure built in your lower stomach, the tension almost painful. Daddy tried soothing you, his lips brushing against your temple, his low voice vibrating in your ear.

“Such a good girl,” he cooed. “You're doing great, baby, look at Mommy go. She loves eating that sweet cunt, doesn't she? Can't wait to taste it myself, you know?”

His words only added to the heat gathering in your core, your body already shuddering deeply, thighs twitching against his hands, hips stuttering against Mommy's mouth, as her tongue lapped at your wetness, teasing your clit, prodding at your cunt, tasting every inch of you. You dug your fingers into Daddy's arms, holding on for dear life, as the tension grew and grew, the heat burning you from the inside out, all your nerves tingling badly.

And then you came, with a low cry, tears falling from your lashes as you squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body convulsing uncontrollably. Pleasure was all around you, tinged with a bit of pain that glowed red behind your eyelids. Little sobs and whines slipped from your tight throat as you succumbed to the sensations. Mommy kept licking at your drenched slit, prolonging the bliss gripping at your soul.

You felt like floating again, but it was dark, and you could barely breathe. Your body wasn't your own anymore, it was theirs, all the touches and kisses and praises sank into you, vanishing into the void.

Your eyes fluttered open and you found yourself sitting on a counter, your feet dangling in the air, your torso wrapped in a soft towel, another towel turban holding your hair up. You were breathing deeply, your body tingling. Mommy stood in front of you, smiling warmly. Her hands reached out and cupped your face. You blinked in confusion.

“Hey, sweet girl,” she whispered, leaning in to brush her lips against yours. “Bit overwhelming, hm?” You didn't understand. “Don't worry. You'll get used to it. This is just the beginning,” she added with a soft chuckle, leaning in again to kiss you properly, deeper this time, her tongue pushing into your mouth. You were too far gone to wonder if her words were a threat or a promise.

“Give her some air,” you then heard Daddy's low voice behind Mommy. “Can't believe you made her faint...”

Mommy gave you another peck, then leaned away and turned her head to the tall man behind her. “That's a first for me too, you know? I had no idea our little girl was this sensitive,” she said softly, looking back at you, her thumbs rubbing over the corners of your mouth. “Aren't you the cutest little thing? We're so lucky, Noah.”

You felt a sudden wave of warmth flooding your cheeks, but the sight only made Mommy chuckle more, her lips back on yours. Another hand came forth, and you felt her moving away with a sigh, before Daddy slipped into your line of sight, your vision still blurry for some reason. He cradled your head in his large hands, resting his forehead against yours.

“You'll be fine, pumpkin,” he whispered, smiling at you. Your lips twitched a little. “Was a long day, wasn't it?”

You swallowed, unable to nod even though you wanted to. You felt boneless and too tired to do anything. Luckily, you didn't have to do anything. Daddy wrapped his arms around you and lifted you off the counter, gently setting you on your feet, one hand still on your arm to hold you steady as he loosened the towels from around your torso and your hair. With your wet tresses falling over your shoulders, he scooped you up again, cradling you against his warm chest.

He was still naked, or again, you weren't sure. Didn't matter. You closed your eyes and let it happen. He carried you into another room, you were put down onto a soft bed (you assumed), before the mattress dipped around you, two more bodies slipping in beside you. Daddy pulled your back against his hard chest, your rear pressed to his groin, while Mommy squished her breasts against yours, as they sandwiched you yet again.

It was warm and comfortable, hands and arms tangled around you, soft breaths in your nape and against your forehead, gentle kisses and whispered words washing over you. You felt so sleepy, so heavy and so light at the same time. Exhaling loudly you drifted off into the void again, the better one this time.

“Good night, baby girl,” you heard both Mommy and Daddy coo into your ear before you slipped away fully.

Chapter 10 🔷️ Chapter 11 🔷️ Chapter 12

End notes: Head empty, just smut. That was the chapter. We'll go back to the plot in the next one, don't worry.

Thank you for reading! New chapter every Saturday!

Up next: You wake up in bed with Mommy and Daddy, and things continue...

MASTERLIST 🔷️ AO3 🔷️ ORIGINAL WORKS

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 6: CUP YOUR MOUTH & WHISPER YOUR SECRETS

synopsis: you confess something to charles, but you don't know how he'll take the truth.

word count: 2.6k

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

notes: sorry for how short it is but the chap kinda wrapped up on its own lul

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @its-yummi , @fatherbangboo , @shackspossum , @swedesfics , @literallyrousseau , @xprloki , @pedifero (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

One hard truth is staring you dead in the face: you don’t know how to survive on your own.

Bronya’s – your new horse (newly stolen, but who cares?) – saddlebags were filled with cured meat and other foodstuffs, but when that runs out, you’ll have to return to the gang. You’re embarrassed by your outburst… or was it a tantrum? You’re not sure how to classify it, but looking back at your actions makes you cringe.

You’re not sure why. It was a long time coming. And, honestly? Arthur Morgan could go fuck a cactus, for all you cared. You once hoped that his next cigarette would be laced with fent, then immediately scolded yourself for doing too much. You don’t even know if fentanyl exists yet.

But you do know nature exists. You know you exist. The river before you exists, and the pebbles in your hand exist. Bronya exists, and she’s grazing on grass that exists, too.

You throw a pebble into the water and immediately feel bad. It spent decades, maybe even centuries, getting to shore. And then you come along and toss it back in. A big, fat ‘fuck you’ to years of hard work.

The rest of the pebbles fall from your hand and you collapse onto the rocky shore. You’re a grown adult, but you want nothing more than to wail and kick and scream like a kid that didn’t get their way. No one pities you as you wish to be pitied.

Would I even accept their care? You ask yourself. No. I’d need an excuse. Maybe if I was sick… If I was sick, I’d be petted and comforted and doted on. But I’m not. I’m a grown adult – practically a parent to Sere. And I haven’t seen her in so long…

Your eyes burn with tears and there’s no one around to stop them or to shame you into finding an excuse for them. They flow down your face freely as you let out ugly, hiccuped sobs. You pull your knees up to your chest and grit your teeth and try to stay quiet.

You can’t catch your breath. You feel like you’re suffocating.

You were so angry yesterday. So angry and so, so violent. And what scares you the most is that it felt good.

You’re pretty sure you gauged that guy’s eye out while he had you in a headlock. If you didn’t, you sure as hell hurt him pretty bad. There was so much blood running down his face… And the man you hit with a chair? What if he’s paralyzed? That’s something you learned pretty damn early – never hit someone in the back unless you want to be sued.

Your own words echo in your head: “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Yeah!”

You feel horrible. You were suffocating that man. You put him in a sleeper hold – yeah, a pretty boomer move when it comes to WWE, but fucking deadly in a street fight. You could’ve killed him.

That truth makes you want to throw up. But you don’t have the time to wallow in your own misery. You can’t afford to throw a little pity party because you’re a grown adult with grown adult responsibilities. You owe it to the gang to at least try.

But trying is so fucking hard, you think. Can’t I lay face-down in this puddle and pretend I’m drowning in an ocean for a little longer?

You’re startled by someone calling your name. You stand quickly, wiping your face before you turn around.

Charles is sitting atop Taima, one hand on the reins and a worried look on his face.

“Charles.” You clear your throat of the phlegm that comes with crying. “What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he says. “Arthur said you just stormed off yesterday. Everyone’s worried sick.”

“Everyone?” You echo, then laugh. “I doubt that.”

Charles sighs through his nose and looks over at Bronya. “Whose horse is that?”

“Mine,” you say. “I just… stole her, I guess. Her name is Bronya.”

“Bronya?” He repeats back.

You click your tongue twice and Bronya trots over to you. You hold your hand out and she sniffs at it.

“Bronya, yeah,” you say. “It’s Russian – short for Bronislava. But Bronislava’s kinda long, so…”

“I’m not even sure I know where Russia is,” Charles says.

You laugh softly. “It’s a big country, on the other side of Europe. I’ve never been, but everything I’ve read says it’s very cold.”

Charles dismounts and takes a tiny little sugar cube from Tiama’s saddlebag. He moves over to Bronya and holds it out on a flat hand. She eagerly eats it up, licking and sniffing at his hand for more.

You smile and pat her neck. “Hey, she’s my horse. Don’t steal her from me.”

“I’m not trying to.” He smiles and scratches the corner of Bronya’s jaw.

A nice silence falls. Bronya seems to be very content with all the attention she’s getting from you and Charles. Hopefully you can give her a better life than the man you stole her from gave her.

Charles breaks the quiet with a simple question. “How’re you holding up?”

A rush of new emotion floods your system and you look away, biting the inside of your lip to keep it from trembling. You let out a shaky sigh.

“Honestly?” You laugh wetly. “I’m so confused. I don’t know what’s going on.”

He looks over at you. “How do you mean?”

You think for a moment, then hold out your pinkie. “You need to pinkie promise not to tell anyone else.”

Charles looks at you weirdly, then holds out his pinkie. You hook it with his and hold it.

“I think…” You swallow thickly.

Tell him! Your mind yells at you. Tell him. If he doesn’t believe you, you’ll have an excuse not to try anymore. If he says you’re a liar, you can give up and lay on the ground and let whatever powers that may be take you.

You say the words before you can stop yourself. “I think I’m from the future.”

Charles stares at you. He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t unhook his pinkie from yours.

You break the connection and step back. ��Or – or maybe I had a… a dream. A really realistic dream. I think, maybe – I ate something bad. Something rotted, with… with mold.”

“No. Stop.” Charles holds up a hand.

“No, it was stupid!” You force a laugh. “A… stupid prank. I got you good! You should’ve seen your face.”

Charles says your name with a sternness you haven’t heard from him before. It makes you stop and snap your jaw shut before you dig yourself deeper into this hole of… you don’t even know what to call it.

“Are you telling me the truth?”

Your face starts to turn hot, but you still nod. “I am. I – I thought this was a… dream, or a coma, or something. But I think it’s more than that.”

Charles thinks for a moment. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I, um…” You pat your pockets. “I have things from the future. If you wanna see them.”

He nods, and you pull out your wallet. You open it and pull out a card.

“This is a credit card,” you say. “It has a wireless connection to my bank account. When I buy something, it automatically… gives money to whoever I’m buying something from. I don’t know – it’s way more complicated than that, but I don’t really get how it works.”

Charles gingerly takes your credit card and looks it over. He reads your name on the front, then flips it over and looks at the back and the string of numbers decorating it.

“It’s made out of plastic,” you say. “Just… in case you’re wondering. I don’t think it’s been invented yet.”

Charles looks up at you through his long eyelashes. “Do you want to go back?”

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come to you. Do you want to go back to the future? For all your fantasizing and hoping and wishing, you’re not so sure.

“I… don’t know,” you admit. “I love my family, and they’re in the future, but… it’s so chaotic. Everything’s concrete – which is just a boring grey rock. I hate it. But here, it’s so… beautiful. There’s so much nature.”

“There’s violence everywhere – Natives are being herded onto reservations, and every colorphobic makes it well-known that they hate Blacks,” he says. “How can the future be worse than what’s happening right now?”

You huff out a sarcastic-sounding laugh. “First, the planet’s on fire. There’s people going into schools and shooting children for… a fucking thrill, I guess. You have to take on debt to survive. Slavery’s back, but they just call it a prison system. And colorphobia is still just as rampant as it is back today –  though it’s just called racism now. Do you really need to hear more?”

Charles’ lip curls back just the slightest bit in disgust. “The future sounds horrible.”

“It is,” you say. “Trust me, it is.”

You pause for a moment, then say softly: “You can’t even see the stars.”

An indescribable sadness washes over you. It’s as strong as a tidal wave and as potent as a toxin. You can’t even see the stars.

The intrinsic human right of being able to look up at the sky and wonder had been stripped of you. And you didn’t even know how bad it was until you were granted that right, wholly and freely. The right to see the night sky, beautiful and unabashed. A million silver nails driven into dark blue velvet…

“Here…” You blink back a fresh wave of tears. “Here, the night sky is so clear. It’s like I could reach out and grab a handful of stars. Maybe I could keep them in a jar like fireflies.”

“Why can’t you see them in the future?” Charles asks.

“A ton of things,” you say. “Smog, too many lights… you might just not have the time to look. There’s so much shit going on that you can’t even catch your breath.”

You swallow whatever sorrow is in your throat and push on like nothing’s wrong. “But it’s over a hundred years in the future. You don’t need to worry about that. Or, hopefully you don’t, because… well, it’s sounding like I hope you die, but, uh… I don’t want that. I don’t think anyone wants that.”

You let out a nervous laugh and glance over at Charles. He’s unaffected.

“I, uh… seriously.” You reach out and put a hand on his upper arm. Even through the fabric of his shirt, his bicep is big and warm. “Don’t die. You’re… I don’t know how to say it. You tell it how it is. And… and I appreciate you. Life with the rest of the gang would be… well, it’d be a lot harder without you.”

You pat his upper arm awkwardly, then pull away. You handled that with all the finesse of a parent giving “the birds and the bees” talk. Hopefully Charles thinks it’s endearing and not weird.

“Have you found anything out about Sean?” You ask, if only to dissipate the awkward air you’ve created.

“Trelawny was telling the truth,” Charles says. “Sean’s being held on a boat somewhere in Blackwater. He and Javier are following leads, trying to find it.”

“It sounds like they’ve narrowed it down.” You stroke Bronya’s mane absentmindedly. “That’s good.”

You glance over at Charles to see him still staring at your credit card. You suppose that’s a reasonable response to seeing something that you have no understanding of.

“Are you gonna tell anyone?” You ask quietly.

“You asked me not to,” Charles says. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “I feel like I’m lying by omission. But there’s also, um…”

You suddenly feel really worried, like you just know something bad is going to happen. You feel like you’re a twenty-watt bulb next to the lights of Broadway. Small, insignificant – maybe there’s something even wrong with you.

“But there’s what?” Charles prompts.

“Do you – do you believe in, like… I don’t know.” You let out a nervous laugh. “Do you believe in God? Or reincarnation?”

“I’m not sure,” he says. “Do you?”

“I don’t know either,” you say. “But I know I’m not from here. And if I’m not from here, how am I physically here? Well… I think, maybe…”

You swallow thickly. “I think I’m someone else. I’m not myself, but I’m not them, either. I’ve never worked for Happy Trails Caravan, but I remember going to Zion Canyon and meeting with the tribes. I have memories of leading my mules down into the canyon… but I didn’t do that. Someone else did. It’s…”

You look over at Charles. He’s looking at you expectantly.

You whisper: “It’s like I’m inhabiting their body. Like a ghost. And I’m leeching off their memories – continuing a life that isn’t mine.”

A hot feeling of something between shame and anger overwhelms you the moment you finish speaking. It catches in your throat and makes it hard to breathe.

“But i-it doesn’t make sense,” you manage. “Because I look the same, and I have my wallet. I had the clothes I was wearing when I was… I was shot, and then I woke up in that cabin in the Grizzlies.”

You sigh heavily, like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. As far as you’re concerned, you do. Grappling between what you know and what you can only speculate on is tough and time-consuming and might just lead you to spiral.

“Maybe going for a ride will get your mind off things,” Charles says. He hands you your card and gives your shoulder a single pat. “Mount up.”

You do as he says. Again, it’s easy, even though you only mounted a horse for the first time yesterday. That other person is bleeding into the now with all these little reminders, and it might just drive you crazy.

Charles spurs Taima, and you spur Bronya to match her pace. The air is clear, the sky is devoid of clouds, and the breeze is strong but not overpowering.

You’re not sure where you’re riding to – you’re just following Charles. But you don’t really pay any mind to that. The grasses around you are native and grow tall. The trees tower above you, the branches untamed and the leaves catching every bit of sunlight they can. The sound of the abundant wildlife is both alarming and soothing. You can hear coyotes yipping, but it’s far away. The sound of birdsong is much closer and clearer.

“You know,” you say after a while of silence. “There’s one thing I miss. Besides my family, I mean.”

“What’s that?” Charles asks.

“Music,” you say. “There was so much music everywhere. People played it while traveling, in their houses, in restaurants… And people even invented new instruments, like drum kits and electric guitars. But it’s so quiet here.”

“Sounds loud,” he says.

“I guess, yeah,” you say softly. “I still miss it, though.”

The conversation comes and goes, and you don’t feel like putting in more effort. Another nice quiet falls. The only sounds are Bronya and Taima’s hooves hitting the ground, the breeze through the leaves, and the chatter of animals hiding in the grasses.

Maybe Charles was right. The future is pretty horrible. This entire riding trail could be a parking lot a hundred years from now. And it’s not like you did anything to refute it – you just added on and talked about the atrocities that come with modernization.

Maybe you could put off trying to get back for a little while more. It’s not like the future’s going anywhere. Is it?

[honeyvalleyflowers]

Sketches of you

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader Summary: Arthur hasn't been able to get you off of his mind, and his hands act accordingly Warnings: A little self deprecation on Arthur's part, way too many uses of the word God Notes: Male Reader! Arthur is losing it, someone save his journal from his abuse. Also, this is my first fic and I didn't really proof read it, hope it's enjoyable nonetheless!

His hands were gripping the pencil again. By now, Arthur figured it was a nervous habit, judging by how clammy they felt. It was a wonder he didn’t drop or break the utensil in its entirety. Focused on the pages - he didn’t dare look up. There was a reason he was scribbling furiously.

And he hated it.

Well, maybe not hate, but it was frustrating. Frustrating and embarrassing and it made his heart beat too hard and oh no, he looked up. There you were, chopping wood for the campfire. Much more useful than he was - or has been the last couple of weeks. Each swing of the axe made Arthur’s eyes follow, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to curse at that. He was distracted. And unfortunately he revelled in it. His breathing became shallower as he stared unabashedly, trying to follow the rhythm of your huffs. A sudden grunt of yours made him swallow and abruptly snap out of it, his gaze flying downwards once more. Now the curses came, stuttery and under his breath. God, he had to control his breathing, his heart. Close your eyes, Arthur. One breath in, hold it, one breath out. Don’t think about him, don’t think about him, don’t think about- Goddamnit. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with yet another drawing of you that he didn’t even realize he created. Fine brush strokes to accentuate your muscles, the almost sheer glistening of your sweat-slicked skin. Those captivating eyes. The sound of Arthur’s mad pencil scratches cut through his thoughts once more, desperate to get rid of his lovesick evidence. What if someone saw? Saw him doodling you over and over again. Every angle, every expression. God, he’s embarrassed just thinking about it. One palm over his face, Arthur tried to calm his frenzied thoughts of doom and you. God, you. He had to distract himself. Why was it that today there was no job for him to do? Curse you, Dutch! Make him work! Please! Please. Another deep breath, though not as deep as the first, and Arthur tapped his pencil against the page. Resigned to his fate of longing like a fool, he racked his brain for a minute. Maybe he could write a little, or draw something else. There were those flowers he picked for a collector in Saint Denis, what were they called again? Exotic. White and so delicate. Orchids, he thinks… Yes, they were orchids, the collector told him so. He remembers now, and his hand follows his memory on the page. Beautiful and so rare, it was a shame to pluck them off of their stems. They should stay in nature where they belong, prosper on their own, and maybe in the future, there would be more of them to behold. But that was a futile hope. They were picked now, and made into whatever this weird man wanted to have them for. Maybe he should have declined, despite the monetary reward.

Arthur could have shown you the orchids. A sea of them, even. Surprised you and you would have probably loved them. Or maybe not. He barely knew what you liked. What a moron he was, why did he think he’d know you? Stupid, stupid Morgan. What do you even know about beauty, you ugly bastard? Beauty… Well, he knew one thing that was beautiful, for sure. Eyes flicking up from a drawing that would leave him dissatisfied the next time he’d open his journal, he dared sneak another peak at you. And the sight that greeted him stole his breath away. Beautiful, beautiful, no this was more than beautiful. You, without your shirt this time, the sweat soaked garment discarded to the ground. God, you. Just you. Arthur didn’t know if he was still breathing. Or if he was still holding his pencil and journal. Or if maybe his heart was even beating at all anymore. Blood rushes through his system and leaves him dizzy, but this time he can’t blame the summer heat. Neither can he do so for the flush on his cheeks, nor the sweat gathering in his palms. Tugging his hat even lower than it usually was, the man desperately tried to hide. Not even he was sure if it was from you, the rest of camp, or himself and his feelings. But Arthur knew one thing for certain. Those sketches of you wouldn’t stop for a while now.

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘sunlight on the mountain’

wc: 960

tags: fluff and angst, mentions of sex and death

author note: after this i promise it’ll be nothing my sunshine’s and fluff i’ve js been so angsty lately.. also can technically be a PT2 to my last fic! ‘to remember by’ :)

Arthur Morgan has an unspoken, passionate fire for art. You’d say his passion is one of the many things you loved about your lover. Even in the rough prints of his fingers, the harsh sculpture of his palms melded to mash heads in with the bony structure of his fist, once dried of blood they spindled and crafted such delicate pieces of art. Though his ability with a pencil was as beautiful as a photograph, you’d argue that his way with words was neglected by praise and grandeur.

Quite shy with words before the two of you began to become a pair, when he had become yours he had wasted no time in spoiling you with praise.

A trace of fire in his fingertips, he pulls a strand of hair behind your ear and tucks it beneath the shell, his gaze melting into the skin of your body as he takes in the curve of your neck. Your flesh was still sticky with the afterglow of sex. “Damn..” He murmurs to himself, half assuming you won’t hear. But you do.

“What?” You pick your face up from where you peered down into a book, a fondness lining the teeth of your smile. A lazy, muscular arm laced in vein and webbed with scarring wrapped around your waist, thumb and finger toying with the heated texture between rough pads.

“Like a goddamn painting..” He shifts in the cot, large presence tilting the thin plush of the bed roll under the two of you, hand coming to drape hair over your shoulder and back down your spine. “Must’ve taken ages to spin you from the lord’s thread.” Arthur wasn’t a religious man. Didn’t know a damn thing about even holding a scripture, but lord did he believe in a god at the sight of you. Pure proof of divine creation.

“Darling, you’re the air that fills my lungs.” He says harshly, rugged inhales through his mouth, tongue wet with liquor. Alcohol thick in his blood, yet he sings his praises for you like a damn canary.

“Sweet angel, you know you’re not too smart for my misdeeds.” He’d say almost scolding.

“Gorgeous girl, what flower did you bloom from?” Rough and thick voice was cut with his cooing, affectionate ramble.

You’ve learned to laugh at his praises, the sickly sweet songs of his affection tightening your breath. Sometimes, you believed he was playing it up purely for a reaction. The way he’d pull away from kisses and passionate connection just to flush in your presence. In your light. He’d coo into your ear, a vulnerable sound from the burly, unshaken man. Letters written in deep black ink, tucked into the pockets of your aprons and sometimes sun hats.

“Leaving you so early in the dawn never sits right in my soul. I carry a piece of you everywhere, and you travel the devastating terrain beautifully in every sunrise and sunset. I look to you to guide me in the dark purge of night and it is your warmth I feel when the sweet music of morning comes.”

He means every word of praise he sings, even if you don’t believe it.

He knew he didn’t have to prove it to you directly. He knew it, because he felt that praise deep in his bones as he dragged himself to that mountain ledge.

His body had burned like fire growing off wood, splintering his body painfully as the bruises blossomed over his eye and face. No use in fussing, for it will be over soon.

Arthur’s mind panics anyways, frantic for cold air in his lungs or the weightless relief of sun on his back. He’s scared. Instead, he finds the last amount of strength to turn himself over, the sun beginning to cascade down his face.

There, in the illuminating, devastating glory of the sun, the overbearing rays blanket the thick forest and dense pale mountains in sick, unbridled tenderness. In Arthur’s reflective moments, the panic in his heart only flashes in a hot, painful realization of the rising dawn, that the sun was so mercifully warm. His back had relaxed, hearing the vibrant sound of your laughter that he gorged himself on, the first beginning chords of his favorite song. In the last bit of mercy he is graciously allowed to bathe in, he feels the blood on his hands peel from his fingernails when he catches the sun rising above the crown of trees. As he squints, struggling to pull in those last breaths, he feels the warmth of your lips kiss the trail between his brows, the sunlight sprinkling over his head. ‘What a fool I’ve become,’ the fading sensations almost elicit a humorless chuckle from his dry mouth. He knew it would take an army of men to pry you off of his body once you found him, the emotional thing you were. Sensitive. The image does nothing but make his eyes prickle in tears, yet it’s an image he holds guiltily close to him as his breath escapes his chest. To be loved so dearly is a painful blessing. He believed he had truly lost it all and yet won everything. Aching. Then, nothing but peace.

You and Charles had recovered the disintegrated body, only remains of a soldier lost in the ashes of war. Despite the lack of color on his skin and the marbling of his barely intact flesh, the sight only ripping sobs from your chest, he turned to face where the rising sun would’ve come to greet him. You couldn’t help but believe Arthur’s words about the sunrises and dusk beckoning dawn, for you know in the last moments of his blazing glory, he has immortalized an image of you. And he wasn’t too scared when he welcomed the light in.

[hihomeghere]

Nightmare | Arthur Morgan x f!reader x Charles Smith

Summary : Arthur has a recurring nightmare. Part of the series Baptized by Fire

Word count : 3k

Warnings/tags : Mention of death, slight panic attack for Arthur, talk of dead child (Isaac), feelings of inadequacy, poly relationship, Arthur morgan x reader x Charles smith, reader has female gentalia and menstruates, talk of children and pregnancy, talk of natural contraception

this will be the last chapter in Spring! This is my favorite that I've written for these three so far, so if you enjoyed it please let me know!

divider by @saradika

Arthur knew this trail by heart, the map in his satchel long forgotten as he led Boadicea along it. The sun peeked through the trees, golden rays guiding him through the spotlights from above. He tipped his hat a little lower on his face, shielding his eyes from the rays. 

Birds raised their melodious voices into a natural chorus, accompanied by Boadicea’s hooves clopping along the dirt path. A breeze rustled through the leaves, pulling his attention away from the path for only a moment. Arthur’s heart felt light, as though whatever weight had been pulling him down was lifted. A sense of anticipation built in him the longer he rode. He wanted to set his heels in Boadicea’s side, urging the horse into a sprint, but he refrained. Letting her easy trot take him along. He emerged from the canopy of trees, leaving his sanctuary from the blistering heat. 

Still, he would endure whatever Mother Nature sent his way. There was nothing that could damper his spirits today. He was going to see them today. The thought sent a flutter through his stomach, his hands tightening around the reins. The worn leathering creaking under his hands. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, dryer than ever under the smoldering sun. 

The fauna felt it too, the further he ventured the more barren it became. The wildflowers and ferns, wilted and yellowed against the harsh conditions. Arthur felt sweat run down his temple, wiping the salty streak away from his face.

Jesus, it was hot. 

That trickle had now turned into rivulets, pouring off of him the longer he rode. He raised his eyes, catching the waves of heat as they danced on the horizon. Turning the sky and earth into a watercolor, the two bleeding into each other. 

He pulled out his handkerchief, wiping it haphazardly across his face. Boadicea’s hooves crushed the scorched dirt beneath them, although all Arthur cared about was in front of them. 

His life was ahead, in that tiny house. Those tiny fingers and toes, that mop of sandy brown hair much like his own. Her warm and welcoming smile, never changing no matter how long his sorry ass had been gone. 

He had made up his mind, the pack on Boadicea’s rump confirming it. This time, this time, he was staying. 

No more running, no more being a damn coward. He was gonna own up to his actions, not mistakes, never a mistake. The ruby ring weighing down his pocket, never straying far from his mind. He would do it right, after being wrong for this many goddamn years he could do right by her. He could be happy with her.

Despite the sweltering heat, damn near stealing the breath out of his lungs with every breath, he smiled.

And finally, finally, the house came into view. He couldn’t help himself, digging his heel into her side with a resounding ‘hyah’, they raced towards the house. 

Only they didn’t make it far before he saw the graves.

His stomach sank like a rock, the world fading away as his eyes fell upon the two crosses. He urged her to go faster, as though that would clear the image like a mirage. He slung his legs over her back, his knees almost buckling as he hit the ground. 

He smacked his lips together, all the moisture sucked out of his body, he didn’t know if it was from the sun or… this. Two graves. 

He raced towards the small house, tears clouding his vision. He hastily wiped them away, swallowing past the growing lump in his throat. 

But this wasn’t right. It wasn’t like before, the graves… they weren’t packed with dirt. They were open, and instead of Eliza and Isaac’s bodies buried deep in the ground, it was you and Charles. 

“No.” He whispered, his voice shaking as he dropped to his knees. “No- no, no, no.” He repeated as though his words could turn back time. Could undo what monstrosity had been done to the two of you. His heart thudded against his ribs as he jumped into one of the graves. He gathered you in his arms. “C’mon sweetheart- c’mon wake up. Open- open those pretty eyes f’me.” He babbled, pleading for you to look up at him. His hand gripped your hip, feeling the ice cold flesh under your blue dress, now stained with dirt. It was one of his favorites. He held your lifeless body, his hand brushing against your stomach. It was like he was shot, the air knocked out of his lungs as he felt what was obviously a bump. Your stomach rounded with a child, their child. He drug himself out of the grave, pulling you with him. He laid you down on the ground, his body pulled towards Charles, his body much heavier and bulkier than yours, but he still managed. His eyes moved from you to Charles, bile held behind his clamped jaws until he couldn’t hold it back anymore. Bracing himself on his knees as he emptied his stomach onto the grass. Tears streamed down his face, his nose running like a spigot. How damn pathetic he looked was the last thing on his mind. 

You looked so peaceful, like you were only sleeping. His angels, just sleeping, that’s all. 

But the cold chill of your bodies brought him back to reality. He clasped Charles hand in his own, pressing kisses to his palm as he dragged you into his lap.

He had failed again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“ He cried, his chest constricting painfully with each ragged breath. “I love you, I’m sorry!”

Arthur woke with a start, his heart pounding as he sat up in bed. He hadn’t had that dream in a while. Charles' warm back radiated heat to one side of him, while you slept curled up on the other. He panted, running his hand down his face as he tried to gain control over his sporadic breathing. He didn’t need to wrack his brain to figure out why his subconscious had pulled it forward.

You were late. It wasn’t something that didn’t need to be spoken out loud to be known. You were quite regular with your monthlies, sometimes they were a day later or perhaps a day earlier. But never for three days.

They were always prepared. Extra sheets set out on the trunk at the end of the bed. In case the red devil came when you were sleeping. Charles would have tea ready to be brewed once the cramps started in your lower belly. The cloths you used were cleaned and laid out, ready for use, along with your sanitary belt. 

But you hadn’t needed any of them yet. 

He supposed he shouldn’t have been so surprised, him and Charles were always spilling into you. But only on the so called ‘safe’ days. Arthur still didn’t quite understand how there were days of the month you weren’t ‘fertile’. Although he wasn’t well versed in the way women’s bodies worked despite having gotten Eliza pregnant all those years ago.

But it didn’t matter to him, you said you couldn’t get pregnant on certain days, so he believed you. So why the hell were you late?

Sure, you and Charles had times where Arthur didn’t join you. It didn’t matter, he trusted the two of you. There were times when it was just him and Charles, or just him and you.

But he didn’t believe that you’d go behind his back trying to get pregnant without at least talking to him about it first. 

It was moments like this that the little bug began to whisper in Arthur’s ear. Telling him he didn’t belong with the two of you, that he was only bringing you two down, that you’d both be better off without him, that you didn’t need him.

Normally a kiss from Charles or your arms wrapped around his waist would silence this little bug, but this one couldn’t seem to be quieted. 

He groaned, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. You shifted, seemingly disturbed by the noise. You swung your leg up onto his hip, pressing yourself against him. Instinctively he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. He felt something against his thigh as you cuddled up against him. Something wet.

Arthur nudged Charles, pushing the bigger man’s shoulder. 

“Hm?” Charles mumbled, looking over his shoulder at Arthur. His eyes squinted in the low light of the dawn. 

“Reckon, we're gonna need to change the sheets.” He said softly, looking back down at you. Charles nodded, immediately getting out of bed. Arthur shook your shoulder, gently rousing you from your sleep.

“C’mon sweetheart, let’s get you up.” He said softly, rising from the middle of the bed. Charles was lighting the oil lamp on the bedside table, casting a golden glow over the three of you.

You quickly realized what was happening. A low sigh leaving your lips as you started to strip out of your blood stained nightgown and bloomers. Arthur went into the main room, grabbing a wash rag from the kitchen. He wet the cloth in the basin before returning to the bedroom. Charles pressed a kiss to your crown as he moved to the other side of the bed, collecting the sheets. Arthur handed you the rag, letting you clean your thighs off before you put on your sanitary belt.

He headed back into the main room, working on getting the fire going before you eventually made your way out to join him. 

As he added the logs to the hearth, he couldn’t get the image of you and Charles’ lifeless bodies out of his head. The almost waxy look of your skin, the unmistakable bump under your dress… He shook his head, trying to clear the image as he sat down in his chair.

You shuffled out of the bedroom, Charles poncho falling to your thighs. You curled up on his lap, resting your head on his chest. He wrapped his arm around your waist, feeling your body heat under his fingertips. So unlike his nightmare, you were alive, both you and Charles were alive. 

The only sound was the gentle creak of the rocking chair and the light crackle from the fire. But it wasn’t tense or awkward, just comfortable.

Charles came out of the bedroom, laying the sheets in the basin to soak. He sat down on the identical rocking chair, rubbing his eyes as he let out a yawn.

“What woke you up?” He asked, looking over at Arthur. Of course he would ask that.

“Nothing.” He mumbled, brushing his fingers through your hair. He knew he had given himself away almost immediately. You stiffened just slightly before you lifted your head off his chest, sparing a glance at Charles. 

He understood what you meant now. When you had first come to live with him and Charles you would complain about the ‘silent’ conversations that were had. Arthur was now on the outside of one of these conversations. 

“Arthur, are you alright honey?” You asked looking back at him.

God damn that sweet honeyed voice, how could he ever lie to you? Not that he was the best liar anyway, not when you and Charles could read him like a damn book. 

“You know how I was almost married before.” He asked, his fingers running over the ruby ring resting on your finger. 

“To Mary.” You nodded, furrowing your brows as you tried to figure out where he was going with this. 

“After she… after she called it off there was another girl. She- she was young and I was a fool.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I got her pregnant.” He didn’t miss the way your eyebrows shot up. “She had Isaac my- my boy. I’d visit when I could but each time I was gone it just- just felt like an eternity. Christ, he’d go from sitting to walking, babbling to talking. But I had the gang and I’d send her money, not that that counted for much.” He knew he was rattling on but he couldn’t help himself. “I was such a fool back then, still am in some ways I suppose. I was so focused on the gang, on Dutch…” He trailed off, anger and guilt burning deep in his belly, only cooled by the gentle touch of your palm on his chest. “One day I rode out there and-“ He cut himself off, the lump in his throat growing too large to speak.

“Oh Arthur,” You said softly, running your thumb over his cheek. “I’m so sorry.” He didn’t deserve to be comforted, but he couldn’t bear to push you away.

“All over a few dollars.” He shook his head, “I didn’t know the first thing about being a father and- I doubt I’d be any better now.” He muttered, looking into the low burning flames. 

“Did you know?” You asked Charles, raising your head to look at him. He nodded, moving his gaze back to the fire.

“I… I used to dream of them, finding the graves…” His voice broke as he fought to speak, “But this time it- wasn’t them. It- it was you n’ Charles.” He saw Charles wince out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh honey.” You sighed, his words tugging at your heart strings, “Honey it’s okay, it’s okay.” You said cupping his cheek, running your thumb over his cheekbone. Brushing away any stray tears. “What happened was a tragedy, but it wasn’t your fault-“

“If I had been there-“ He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, “I could’ve saved them. If I would’ve done right by them they’d still be alive.” He choked back a sob. 

“Arthur-“ Charles sighed looking over at the two of you.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling his head to your breast. He melted in your embrace, holding onto you like you would disappear into thin air if he let go. He listened to the thump of your heart against his ear, his tears slowly drying as he took in a few shuddering breaths.

How the hell did he manage to find two of the most understanding people in the world, and how did he make them both fall in love with someone like him?

The awful part was he was disappointed when you started to bleed. He wanted it. He wanted to see you grow round with Charles and his baby. To feel the babe shift and kick under your skin. To watch as you grew into a mother, he knew you’d be perfect. To see Charles be a father. To have a second chance at what he missed with Eliza and Isaac, to make them proud.

But he didn’t deserve it.

“We’ll be careful Arthur.” You said, petting his hair, “We’ll just keep track of the days and if you’re really worried we don’t have to-“

“I don’t want to be careful.” He huffed, pulling away from you. He got to his feet, pacing in front of the fireplace. “I don’t want to be careful I want-“ He ran a hand through his hair, knowing he probably looked like a fool. “I want- I want…” He trailed off, biting his lip as he shook his head.

“Arthur?” Charles asked, his deep timbre voice setting his blood ablaze.

“I’m making a damn fool of myself.” He grumbled, running his hand down his face.

“Arthur.” You stopped him, grabbing the hand that had been clenched into a fist at his side. “If… if having a- a family- is something you want,” You started slowly, looking over at Charles before you continued, “We want it too.” You said, running your thumb over his knuckles.

“You mean it?” He asked breathlessly, looking from you to Charles.

“Yeah.” Charles nodded, an easy smile on his plump lips. Arthur looked between the two of you, seemingly stunned for a few moments before he pulled you towards him. His hand grasped at Charles' shirt before he too was pulled into Arthur's embrace. 

“Yer serious?” Arthur asked, his voice slightly muffled as he pressed his face into Charles' neck.

“We’re serious honey.” You said wrapping your arms around the two of them. “I mean, it ain’t no secret that Charles has wanted to see me in that way.” You giggled. Charles let out an amused huff, shaking his head. “Just didn’t know you wanted it too.” You hummed, moving back to kiss his cheek.

“I’m a lucky son of a bitch.” Arthur said, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he looked from you to Charles. The loves of his life, here in his arms, agreeing to start a family.

“We’re pretty lucky too, cowboy.” Charles chuckled, squeezing your waist before pressing his lips to Arthur’s, “Now I’m going back to bed, and I think you all should join me.” He said with a yawn.

“What do you say honey?” You asked, leaning your head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Let’s go to bed.” He nodded, letting you and Charles walk him back to bed.

Arthur fell asleep, tucked in between you and Charles.

He dreamt of Boadicea, riding her along the dirt road. His heart in his throat as he watched the door open, Isaac’s sandy brown hair flying in the wind as he raced towards him. Arthur jumped down from her back, his arms flung wide as he caught him in his embrace. Through tearful eyes he looked up towards the house. Eliza stood on the porch, her warm gaze finding him. From the inside of the house you and Charles walk out, his arm around your waist. That pretty little blue dress hugging your figure as Charles cups your belly.

“C’mon pa!” Isaac said in that sweet boyish voice, tugging on his hand as he led Arthur to the house.

He never had that dream again.

Tag list :

@photo1030 , @emerald-ranch @highlandhour , @buffkirby2020 , @esquilone , @cyb3rsx , @whalecage , @idekraeven , @calcarius445 , @heloixe , @heron-feathers , @bluebxrrxl , @youngwhisperstree , @snoorio , @punctatum

[elli3williams]

characters will be rawdogging it for 10 chapters and authors will still tag unplanned pregnancy

[tinawantstobeadoll]

every time I read smut I can only remember that one teacher from 10 things I hate about you

[shoot1ngst4r]

going out of your way to search up [insert character] ANGST and all you get is smut

[ruerecs]

PSA! you don't have to have smut in your fic to make it good.

for all the butthurt people in my reblogs, i’m literally a writer too. that’s literally why i made this post, never said you shouldn’t. just said you don’t have to? (all the people complaining about this post just know i’m laughing at your replies🙂‍↕️)

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Normal people love their weekends because they have some time off; I love weekends because I can finally enjoy my sweet moots incredible works!! And this here, was the perfect sweet and delicious treat I desperately needed!!

From the first word, I was conquered.

The length of Arthur’s absences varied like the frequency of rumbles during a storm. Dark clouds hung heavy over every departure, and your tears threatened to drop like rain down a window. “I’ll be back soon,” he always promised while kissing the top of your head and squeezing you tight. Some trips were short cracks of thunder, ending just as fast as they began; others would roll on for days, the heavy rain flooding the rushing river that was your anxiety.

The metaphor is so perfect, on top of being absolutely beautiful. I'm in love already, and this is the FIRST paragraph.

I loved how you perfectly blended the right amount of angst with his long absence, the Reader refusing to forgive him right away even if we can still understand how happy she is to be with him again, to be home again. It was really well-paced and made the situation even more real, as usual with your incredible writing!

All the possibilities of his absence spun in your brain in a demonic sacrificial waltz.

I don't know why but this part made me LOL, it's so meaningful and gave me the best images in my head; like hell yes anxious thoughts clearly does that (for me at least 😂)

He wore a familiar cattleman revolver on his hip and long silky locs of hair rested over broad shoulders like always–though more tame this time. And despite their vibrant colors, the wildflowers in his hands dulled in comparison to the bright white, freshly pressed shirt he wore.

I love this. I love how his return is nuanced and how you perfectly transcribed it with those details. He brought those flowers with vibrant colors but he wore a fresh shirt, suggesting he took care of himself first, which totally cancels out the effect of the flowers and even makes them dull. He's back but he has been (or we thought he has been) selfish. This is peak subtext here!!!!

Once again the "The king has returned" line made me laughed, I could picture it so neatly in my brain, sarcastic bitter tone and all. Also adored how she rightfully reproached him that he looks like it was his birthday, very real and well written! I think the bath line also made a strong impression for everyone, and indeed it was brilliant!! Your dialogues are always on point, and I'm very admirative of that. I'm forever taking notes while reading you ✍️✍️

And then, as you make us long and wait and make his hard for him to fix things, you deliver the perfect resolution, I was so happy when I read what he had prepared in the room 😭😭 It's so good that you made this crescendo!

Warm light burst out as you crossed into the room. Lit candles lined the fireplace mantle, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. A brand new day dress draped across the chair, a decorative hair comb resting atop it. “Saw it in a window.” His words poured out smoothly like aged whisky, the sudden sound causing you to jump but prompting the skin on your arms to prick up all the same. And you were embracing each other without another thought—your fingers intertwining behind his neck, his hands settling on your hips.

Yes yes yes my heart healed!! I also adored how they instantly jumped on each other, a perfect burst of joy after the cold stillness of the situation! And after that, Arthur explaining everything like the adorable puppy he is, justifying himself and all was just so cute I wanted to KISS HIM ALL OVER

“I can do that thing ya’ like.” he offered, his chipped tooth smile brightening his face.

I died.

(no like really, that line with the chipped tooth smile??? God I would have fainted.)

“You know, I never stop thinking ’bout you when I’m away.” You fluttered around his fingers, and your hips arched a little higher off the bed, “always thinkin’ ’bout you like this, all pretty and spread open for me.” His thumb started fast circles on your clit, and you braced yourself for another tidal wave as his passionate speech continued. “Next time y’miss me, get on that cot, spread these pretty thighs, think about what I’m doing t’ya, and use those fingers to getcherself off, can you do that for me?” Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open, but only sounds of absolute ecstasy came out of you. “Whatd’ya say, darlin’?”

Jesus, the smut part to end this sweet little treat, just like the cream on top of a cake 🫠 The dirty taaaaalk omg, I am WEAK, I am on my KNEES, I'm feeling my body tingling everywhere just reading it again to copy/paste the paragraph 😂. But seriously though, absolutely perfect ending to continue with the crescendo thing. I don't know why exactly, but I also love that you cut directly to the SECOND orgasm? It was powerful and reinforced the intensity of their reconciliation 😏 The last paragraph was FIRE too, how you described their love making, comparing it to being home when tangled with the other, no matter the time spent away... Phew!! Loved loved loved.

Absolutely amazing from the first word to the last. I know I'm having the best time when reading you, Zae and I'm never ever disappointed.

Love ya!! Thank you for sharing this delicious sweatest treat with us, definitely needed it! 😌 (thanks to Kenny for requesting this scenario too eheh!)

Your Piney 💞

Peregrine

Summary: Arthur misses your birthday. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,124 Tags: angst, smut, high honor Arthur, oral, pnv, fingering Warnings: 18+ MDNI

an: A request fulfilment for my dear Kenny @emerald-ranch. I kinda added in the birthday thing, I hope that was alright! It became clear to me as I was writing this that I 1000% have a thing for Arthur on his knees...XD anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Peregrine: having a tendency to wander

The length of Arthur’s absences varied like the frequency of rumbles during a storm. Dark clouds hung heavy over every departure, and your tears threatened to drop like rain down a window.

“I’ll be back soon,” he always promised while kissing the top of your head and squeezing you tight. Some trips were short cracks of thunder, ending just as fast as they began; others would roll on for days, the heavy rain flooding the rushing river that was your anxiety. 

But in time, he’d arrive with blood, dirt, and sweat staining his shirt and the scar on his chin covered by his overgrown beard. Outstretched arms would warm you like the afternoon sun. You’d breathe him in, sighing contentedly despite scents of gunpowder and musk clinging to him.

This time was different.

The sun fell below the horizon for the fourth time since he’d departed. Glass bottles clinked as camp buzzed with the lively energy of celebration—a celebration for your birthday. You tried everything to enjoy yourself, forcing air through your vocal cords to mimic a laugh, stretching your lips and showing your teeth to fake a smile, all while trying not to panic.

All the possibilities of his absence spun in your brain in a demonic sacrificial waltz. Was he still alive? Did he get arrested? Was he captured by Pinkertons and tortured while the rest of you partied the night away? Or worse, was he out there, perfectly content with being away knowing you were desperately waiting? To keep yourself sane, you rationalized. He was out finding food and making money. He had mouths to feed and people to take care of. Survival was more important than a birthday.

Whether they were too drunk to notice or respectfully giving you space, nobody protested when you slipped away to Arthur’s tent for the night. Tears spilled down your face and onto his pillow as the last hours of your birthday ticked by.

The stench of dread infiltrated your dreams and ruminated even in your waking hours. Nothing you did could free you from the pain of missing him. At high noon, heavy footsteps prompted you to look up from the growing line of yarn in your lap. You’d memorized the sound of Arthur’s walk like your favorite song, yet the man standing before you felt like an imposter. He wore a familiar cattleman revolver on his hip and long silky locs of hair rested over broad shoulders like always–though more tame this time. And despite their vibrant colors, the wildflowers in his hands dulled in comparison to the bright white, freshly pressed shirt he wore.

And your heart plummeted like a stone in a lake; while you were crying yourself to sleep on your birthday, he saw to himself instead of you. Privy to your dismay, the cowboy’s features lowered into a frown. 

“Darlin,” he started, quiet and hesitant. “I–I ain’t got an excuse.”

You huffed, losing your stitch count and refusing to meet his eyes. “The king has returned.”

Leaves and twigs cracked under his uncomfortable shuffle as he faltered, “thought we could go for a ride, to–”

And you didn’t let him finish. “M’busy, Arthur.” 

Silence hung in the air while he thought of a response. “M’sorry.” He said, then continued when you didn’t acknowledge him. “I’m sorry, and that should’ve been the first thing outta my mouth.”

“Yeah, it should’ve,” you agreed grudgingly. The threads of intertwined yarn were jumbled and lopsided now, a tangled reflection of this whole week. You threw the needles and yarn down into the grass beside you and finally brought yourself to face him. He wanted to smile finally seeing you, but instead, something like a sigh of relief rolled out with his words.

“Time just…got away from me,” he admitted. “I’m a self-serving idiot bastard, and I’m just…sorry. Just lemme make it up to ya’.” 

You thought for a moment, then glanced over your shoulder at Grimshaw, trying to find an out.

” But I got chores,” you told him.   

“Don’tchu’ worry ’bout that.” He extended his free hand out to you, and dammit, yours was in it faster than you could deny yourself.  The outlaw lifted you up from your seat with one arm and locked yours and his together as he drew you away from camp. And you had to give credit where credit was due because he pulled out all the stops: a ride in a stolen stagecoach, wine, dinner, and a room. He spoiled you in the only ways he knew how, but still, you couldn’t rid yourself of the uninvited guest, unadulterated hurt, that squatted in your bones.

“How was the party?” He’d asked.

“Fine.” You replied, pushing food around on your plate.

“Charles told me the girls managed to get you a cake.”

“They did.”

And the conversation trailed off like it had so often tonight. Every time you glanced at him, the hair, and especially the shirt, hate-filled magma churned within, and you couldn’t hold it any longer, your words spewing out like lava. 

“S’a fancy shirt.” 

His chin touched his chest as he fiddled with the top button. He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off for the second time tonight.

“Glad you had time to stop and pamper yourself. Nice shave, fancy hair, new shirt. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was your birthday.”

You didn’t mean to sound so crass, but now that the pot had boiled over, stopping the overflow felt damn near impossible. 

“I thought–”

“Thought?” A curt laugh halted his attempt to explain himself. “It’s hard to imagine you doing any of that.”

And he hung his head, an old dog with his tail between his legs–shameful that he’d disappointed the one he loved the most.

“And you paid for a bath too. Tell me, was it twenty-five cents or fifty?”

Your chair screeched against the floor, and you jerked back before he could answer, fleeing to anywhere but that table with him. The room key Arthur gave you in the stagecoach burned a hole in your pocket. You trotted up the stairs, searching for 2C and ignoring his calls from behind you. The least you deserved was a night behind closed doors, locked away from everything, even if it meant locking him out in the process.

Warm light burst out as you crossed into the room. Lit candles lined the fireplace mantle, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. A brand new day dress draped across the chair, a decorative hair comb resting atop it.

“Saw it in a window.” His words poured out smoothly like aged whisky, the sudden sound causing you to jump but prompting the skin on your arms to prick up all the same. And you were embracing each other without another thought—your fingers intertwining behind his neck, his hands settling on your hips.

“M’sorry, sweetheart. Ain’t ever gonna forgive m’self for lettin’ you down.” 

And you listened patiently while he devolved into his long-winded explanation.

“Was hoping to make a quick house call. Get in n’ out in one night, quick and easy. And I did, but some goddamn bounty hunters found my trail on the way back. Spent a day hiding out, and knew I wouldn’t make it back in time. Figured I oughta bring something nice back with me, you deserved that much.”

Your eyes drifted to the buttons of the shirt again, and he tilted your chin to look back up at him. 

“I saw the dress in a window, and let the man sell me the shirt too. Wanted to be at least a little presentable–somebody you’d wanna look at. Ain’t much I can do about my face, but...” 

Chuckling under his breath, he snaked a hand into yours and flicked your stuck-out lip. “Then I saw a sign outside the barber. Buy some pomade and get a free comb for your lady,” he touched his hair and rubbed the grease between his fingers.

“Then I got the key, laid everything out nice, stopped for some flowers, and thought I was prince charmin’ off to sweep you away to the ball–well, the room, more like.” He scratched his neck nervously and shook his head. “I thought you’d think a stagecoach fancy enough to make you forget how much I screwed up. No magic pumpkins ’round here though,” he shrugged. “Just an idiot, head-over-heels, hoping you can find it in you to forgive him.”

And frankly, you’d forgiven him the second you stepped foot into the room. Trying to fight your smile was a losing battle.

“You’re right about the idiot part.”

The gunslinger let out a breathy, almost laugh, before taking your hands in his and ushering you to the bed. Relief ran through you. After four long nights, you could finally submerge yourself in those eyes, blue and gold-like specks of sunlight reflecting on the sea.

“Please, forgive me, darlin’, I’m beggin’.”

Rough pads of his fingers traced over your knuckles as he waited patiently for your response. You crossed your legs and bounced your foot playfully. 

“I don’t know, I seen dogs beg for scraps better than that, Arthur Morgan.” 

And while your words were harsh, both of you were smiling now. He grunted, a sure sound of him swallowing his pride, then sunk to one knee, then another.

“Sweetheart,” the pet name came out thick and rich like honey, “M’sorry. Lemme fix it.”

His hands gripped both your knees, squeezing them lovingly, his touch so reassuringly familiar. He scooted in closer, guiding your legs apart and settling them on either side of his shoulders.

“I can do that thing ya’ like.” he offered, his chipped tooth smile brightening his face.

You ran one hand through his hair and brought him in by the collar with the other, pecking his lips once, then twice. On the third, you slowed down, lingering with your mouth against his, savoring the all too fleeting feeling of home. Soft giggles slipping between your lips interrupted the moment. Arthur stared up at you with nothing but devotion in his eyes, that laugh like the sweetest medicine, healing his diseased heart long riddled by self-loathing and loss. His right hand had started slow circles on your thigh, reminding you of his proposition.

“Thing I like? Don’t know what you mean, Mr. Morgan.” 

But you were shimmying yourself back onto the bed, and he was grabbing at your bloomers at the same time. He lifted his brow knowingly, and hummed a “mhm,” while you lifted your hips, helping him take the garment off and toss it to the floor.

You bunched up your skirts around your waist and looked down at your lover as he lay on his stomach between your legs. His beard grazed your inner thigh, sending thousands of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Squeezing your eyes shut, you sighed in relief, releasing four nights of pent-up anxiety as his lips found your center.

And minutes later, just after letting you come down from the first one, he got to work on another climax, fingers pistoning steadily while he whispered all the things he loved about you in your ear. He was on his side next to you now, his own arousal nudging your thigh. The gruffness in his voice sent another surge of pleasure through you.

“You know, I never stop thinking ’bout you when I’m away.” You fluttered around his fingers, and your hips arched a little higher off the bed, “always thinkin’ ’bout you like this, all pretty and spread open for me.”

His thumb started fast circles on your clit, and you braced yourself for another tidal wave as his passionate speech continued.

“Next time y’miss me, get on that cot, spread these pretty thighs, think about what I’m doing t’ya, and use those fingers to getcherself off, can you do that for me?”

Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open, but only sounds of absolute ecstasy came out of you.

“Whatd’ya say, darlin’?”

And with that last question, the dam broke, your orgasm busting out around his fingers. Your sounds were the most divine opera, rising in pitch with every “Yes, Arthur,” as you melted. 

And he wasn’t done with you yet. Despite being miles away from camp, both of you made a home with each other. Home was the trail of raised skin that followed his touch and pairs of eyes meeting in love-filled exchanges. Home was the first few flutters of your pussy as he sheathed himself deep inside you. One night or even a week’s journey wouldn’t deter him, for he’d claw his way through the fiery depths of perdition to get back home to you.

[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

[myladyship]

"After everything you have done. How will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."