#micah bell x f!reader

[grugruel]

Saint, or Sinner.

Parings: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: You've had feelings for Arthur for quite some time now, but little did you know. That he has them for you, too.

After a rowdy night in Valentine, the group flees lawmen and end up in Strawberrys hotel. Whatever will occur?

Word count: 8.9 k

Warnings: Micha being Micah, bar fight/violence, plot with smut, mutual pining, soft Arthur, pinv sex, passionate sex, oral sex (f recieving), praise, pet names (girl, sweetheart), choking, fingering, handjob, creampie, mentioned masturbation.

AN: The words ran away from me, holy shit. It's so much longer than I intended.

Muffled voices argued in the night, soon growing into angry shouts. Rousing me from my sleep, confused, I put my gown on in a hurry. Sleep ridden eyes in a dark tent were not doing me any favors. I pulled the flap to the side and stumbled out of the tent, the voices creating one hell of a commotion.

Just as I did, most of the camp had awoken and joined in on the argument, gladly contributing their own heated opinions on the matter. All except Duch and Arthur, much to my dismay.

My eyes adjusted to the scene before me, the assailants quickly becoming clear. Standing around the campfire, was Micah of course, the center of attention as usual. Stood half shouting at John, who's pot seemed to be boiling over.

Soon after, John unleashed a rant on Micahs stupitidy, throwing in every word he could manage in his steaming anger.

I rolled my eyes, what could that damned fool possibly have done now?

'You piss ridden, moldy rat bastard.' John shouts, seamingly leaving Micah lost for words.

Bill bursts out laughing, slapping his knee at the insult, 'You big fuckin nuthead Micah. . .' He sighs, catching his breath.

Even Hosea snickers, 'Hes right, and that's coming from Bill of all folk.'

I cover my mouth as a giggle leaves my lips, seeing Micah so dumbfounded really sobered my mood. The rest of the girls have a simular reaction.

Micahs eyes narrow on me, 'What are ya' laughing at sweetheart. I ought to teach ya' a lesson.' He snarls, greasy hair hanging over his face.

The camp falls silent, none too appreciative of his choice of words. My mood turn sour again and a chill runs up my spine. The first to call him out was Sadie, 'Someone hold me back.' She spits, Sean stepping in to fo judt that.

Second was Miss Grimshaw, 'The money and now you threathen the girl, have you gone and lost your mind Micah Bell?' disgust evident on her face.

The money? What money?

John took a threatening step toward him, very displeased with Micahs comment, hands forming into fists at his sides. Hosea too, gave him a a bemused look.

'Try anything Bell, and I'll cut your fucking balls off.' I spit, glaring at him, feeling incredible joy in the way his face falls.

Muffled chuckles surround me, 'Thats my Girl.' Sadie laughs, along with a low, approving whistle from Javier.

'Whats goin' on here?' A gruff voice cuts in, looking between me and Micah.

Arthur, flanked by Dutch.

Arthur, shirtless. Flanked by Dutch.

In all my anger, my eyes cant help but sneak a hasty glance at his broad chest. Then quickly averting it, afraid he'd notice. I clear my throat, trying to keep my thoughts in check, 'He threatened me.'

That was enough for Arthur, not doubting me for a second. Fixed himself straight up with murder in his eyes, then walked at the man, readying his fists for a beating.

Butterflies fluttered within me.

Unsurprisingly, Micah cowered. Taking quick cautionary steps backward before Dutch could jump in, throwing his arm in front of Arthur and stopping him in his tracks. John looks at the two men, directing an accusing finger on Micah, 'Not only that, this blasted idiot took our money.'

The moment of joy from Micahs humiliation disappear, turning into anger once again. The camp giving him a mutual glower.

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, 'I ought to kill you.' He speaks, gritting his teeth, and takes another firm step forward. Pushing the limits of Dutch's patience, who strengthens the hold on Arthur.

'Surely, there must be a reasonable explanation for this?' Dutchs says, forcing a smile and shooting Micah an expectant look. Giving him an undeserved chance at explaining himself. Although he didn't show it, he too, was bemused.

'Well- I wanted to invest it, make it grow. I just wanted to help the camp.' Micah preached, his voice sleazy and confident. Telling the sure as shit, bull of an excuse as if he was the one to feel sorry for. Despite the circumstances.

Sighing, 'He god damned gamled it all away.' John reveals, looking ready to kill the man himself. The camp erupts into a loud argument once again, everyone getting a piece in.

I sneak a glance at Arthur, his chest rising and falling in big breaths, trying his hardest to stay calm. 'Bastard.' He mutters under his breath, Dutch giving him a quick warning glance.

'Shut!–' a hoarse voice calls out, '–Up!' Dutch yells, and obediently, we all fall silent. 'Theres no use, standin' around screamin'. You fools are attracting unwanted attention.' Dutch says, hands on his hips, 'Who won the funds.'

'Some rich bastard up in Strawberry.' Micahs sly voice cut through the night.

Dutch rubs his forehead in thought, 'Then he can do without it, go back there and grab it.' An exasperated sigh leaving him, 'Arthur, John, Bill, Charles.' He rounds the men up, 'You go there with him.' He turns to go back to his tent, but pauses and shouts, 'And no!–' dragging the words out, '–Deaths!' He looks at Micah, knowing damn well he'd otherwise murder the mans entire family in cold blood, then points to Arthur, 'That means you too, Arthur.' He says, a tired tone to his words. Clearly insinuating that he wanted Micah alive.

Everyone scatters, going back to bed on edge. But I linger, tucked away behind the tentflap. I watch Arthur come back out of his tent, in full get up. Silently praying that'd they'd be alright, that he would be. I did not care what happened to Micah, I hoped the man would get shot right between the eyes. I would personally love to see to it, I hoped Arthurs hatred for the man would get the better of him. Dutch always went way to easy on Micah, I didn't understand it, but something wasn't quite right with it.

Abigail kisses John goodbye, it made me happy to see them back together and all made up. I watch Arthur leave his tent in full get up, then stride past my tent. He gets on his horse with the rest of them, and ride past the treeline of Horseshoe overlook. No doubt berating Micah all the way to Strawberry.

I laid down in my bed, trying my damndest to sleep. But worry was keeping me up, eating away at me. Something didn't feel right.

He'd heard his words to her, him threatening her. Horrifying images cloud his mind, filling him with rage all over again. No doubt things he'd done before. He glanced a glare at the man, ugly mut.

Had Dutch not been there to stop him, Micah would've found his face beaten bloody and Arthur grinning on top of him. Had he not been loyal to the camp, to his people, to Dutch. Micah wouldn't be returning from this trip. He would conveniently get a bullet to his head, or found on the bottom of a valley, beaten unrecognizable before the fall had caused the killing blow.

He didnt want any harm coming to her. He'd never felt this for a woman, not ever. He'd steal glances, admire her when she wasn't looking. Damn well kill for her. She was the light he had needed for so long, her charming smile could shine brighter than any star he'd ever seen.

'You taken a likin' to her, Morgan?'

John raised his head at that, paying closer attention to the conversation, to Arthur. Knowing the possibility of him flying off the handle.

'Shut up if you know what's good for you Micah.' Charles scolded.

He scoffed, 'The day I listen to–' Micha looks Charles up and down, lingering on the color of his skin, 'The likes of you,' he continues, 'Will be my last.' Muttering the last words.

Ignoring him, Charles didn't do as much as raise an eyebrow. Micah did not deserve a reaction.

Micah was black rot, down to his core. Destorying everything he touched. We all knew it, but all aren't so keen to admit it. Dutch was the first person to come to mind, I couldn't understand for the life of me why he was so defensive of the man.

'I can see why.' Micah spoke again, 'Pretty little thing, isn't she?' He looked at Arthur, 'Got a big mouth on her too.'

John looked between the two men, noting the way Arthur fisted his reins, no doubt knuckles turning white under his gloves. Along with the way he kept his head straight ahead, focused on not killing the man, 'Micah, keep her off your tongue.' John warned, 'I don't care for you, but I don't want the heat from Dutch when you're found dead.' His raspy voice referring to him and Arthur.

Charles looked at the men in silent agreement, he preferred staying out of camp conflicts. But she was a woman dear to the camp, touching her would bode ill for any man.

And ad usual, the big idiot doesn't listen, 'Wouldn't mind takin' her for a ride one of these nights.' He said, the self-righteous smile he bore evident even in his tone. There was no need to look at him to know it.

Bill had been staying out of it, but he could feel the anger radiating off of Arthur. Enough to switch sides, hanging back, then stearing his horse up next to Arthur instead of Micah. Just in case a bullet would come flying.

And wouldn't you know it, Arthur reached into his holster and pulled his finest revolver, aiming it at the sorry excuse of a man. All in one quick motion, he'd been labeled as a dangerous for a reason. John sighed, now he'd done it.

Micah, dropped his reins. Raising his hands in the air, keeping a smug expression on his face. But beneath, he was scared witless.

'Strawberry up ahead.' Charles called, not caring much for the action behind him. Killing Micah would only do the camp good, but a gunshot would give their location away.

'Not another word of her.' Arthur began, 'Touch 'er–' He warns, 'And I'll let her kill ya'.' His voice gravelly and threatening, but Micah scoffed at the notion.

The familiar click off a safety lever sounds out, and the color drains from Micahs face.

'House is just up ahead.' Charles cut in, 'I'd suggest you wait wait with this til we got the funds.'

With a final glare, he holsters his gun and rides up to Charles. Clearing a hill, the house comes into view. Arthur sighs, 'Damn it Micah, you didnt tell us this feller had security.'

'You scared of a little fightin' pretty boy?' Micah mocked.

With a scoff from Arthur, they hitch their horses and pull up their bandanas, setting about proving the rumors of the infamouse Van Der Linde gang.

I anxiously checked my father's old pocket watch. It had been a few hours now. I put it down, tried to think of other things, and then picked it up again. Another 5 minutes had passed. Christ. I couldn't bear losing Arthur, John or Charles, god forbid all three of them. Bill could be sweet, but only when he needed something. I couldn't even dare imagine John leaving Abigail and Jack behind. What would they do? Stay with the gang, of course, but. . . Goodness, what about Arthur? My thoughts were racing ahead of me.

A few more minutes pass, then I hear hoofbeats, relief flods through me. It's hard to count, but theres at least three horses. God, let it be the right three. I emerge from my tent, along with Miss Grimshaw, Abigail, the rest of the girls, and Dutch. I race up to Abigail, holding eachothers hands as we watch the treeline in silence. Relying on each other for support.

Eventually, they break through. All five horses returning with their men on top of them, secretly I curse. One of the could've gotten lost and the world would've been a better place for it. I stroke Abigails back while John sees to his horse, then walks up to us, taking her in his arms and spinning her in a circle. They laugh, and a tinge of jealousy spark inside me. Yet I'm more than happy for them.

I observe the rest of them, they seem to be unharmed. All except. . . Arthur, his white shirt covered in blood. The terror must've been evident on my face, because–

'Hes fine.' John spoke, 'Most of it aint even his.' He said in an effort to calm me.

I nodded, smiling faintly 'Thank you John.' And sqeezed his arm.

'Well–' Dutch called out, 'How'd it go?' He looked at them, expecting nothing but grandeur.

'We got more than we bargained for. . ' John said, grinning. But there was something else his tone.

Bill unloaded his horse and came carrying several saddlebags, throwing them at our feet, money spilling out 'We got what we came for—' He paused, then pulled out two more bags from vehind his back, 'And more!' He burst out in a self-satisfied laugh.

I had to say, they made the best out of a bad situation. And on top of it all, Micah had barely made a sound, he was strangely quiet.

Dutch patted Bill and John on the back, 'Good work, wake the rest. Let us celebrate!' He clapped his hands together, no doubt imagining Tahiti.

I searched for him in the crowd of people as the camp was waking up, and found him talking to Charles and Sadie at the edge of the camp, clutching his side. Worry gnawed at me. They joined us by the campfire while Arthur headed into his tent, not saying much of nothing to anyone else.

The festivities carried out throughout the night, Arthurs lamp remained turned on. Eventually, I just had to check up on him.

I snuck away from the folk, Abigail and John had already turned in, as had Dutch and Molly. Seemed like the singles were the only ones left drinking, and Micah had disappeared to sulk somewhere. Lucky us.

I left them to it and approached his tent, 'Arthur?' I called, but didn't get an answer. I just heard some huffing from the inside.

I risked his reaction and pulled the flap to the side, 'Arth-' I began, but got cut off by the sight. In front of me was Arthur Morgan, shirt pushed up over his stumache, cowboy hat on, stitching up his own wound. Sitting on a stool, his pants were unbuttoned and folded down by the hip, revealing that beautiful "V" shape along with a happy trail of hair leading down toward, well. . . A new cut stretched from his hip to his abdomen, blood covered his hands and side, groaning as he pulled a needle through his skin. Something set off inside me, a yearning that made my body ache. He scarcely even noticed me, not until I gasped.

He looked up, eyes widening, 'You need somethin' Girl?' He blurted out, taken off guard. His state of undress did not help.

'Arthur Morgan. . .' I sighed, slightly offended, 'You shouldve fetched me, you know im good at stitchin' wounds.'

'I know, I know. 'm sorry sweetheart.' smiling faintly, 'Didnt wanna bother you.' He drawled.

I also noticed a mostly empty bottle of whiskey next to him, hoping he used most of it to disinfect the wound. I put my hands on my hips, 'Will you let me help?'

He nodded and handed me the needle, fingers brushing against eachother as I grabbed it.

Our eyes met, briefly. Sharing a glance that was ment to be stolen.

He leaned back against his dresser, the muscle of his upper body changing and rippling with his movements.

I cleared my throat and stepped closer, 'May I?' I asked, pointing at his shirt.

'You may.' He smirked.

I leaned closer to him, unbuttoning from top to bottom. Then pushing the shirt over his shoulder so it'd stay clear from his wound. I kneeled in front of him, his legs spread so I could get closer to the cut, then resting my elbows on his strong thigh to steady my arms.

I tried to focus on the wound, but it proved hard as I was so close to his crotch and how closely he was observing me.

'Might I ask what happened?' I bit my lip in focus, threading the needle through his skin.

'More men than expected.' He answered with a grunt, looking at my lips. Blood rushing somewhere it ought not to, 'One jumped out on me.' He continued, his voice husky and strained.

'He live to tell the tale?' I asked, searching his gaze. Hoping he'd be sincere.

'He did. . .' He groaned, as I finished another stitch. Making the aching settle in my core, a pulse running through me. Every now and then, when I believed him not to be looking. My eyes roamed his chest, studying his strong pecks and biceps.

'You know anything about Micahs sudden tongue-tie?' I ask, locking eyes with him. He lowers his head with a chuckle, a smirk poking out from under his hat.

'I might've. . . Given him something to think about.' He shrugs, the corner of his lip tugging.

Sighing, a smile spreads over my lips 'Youre a good man, Arthur Morgan.' I told him earnestly, 'Better than most.' I finished the last stitch and looked at him, 'All d-' I began, but he cut me off.

His lips greeting mine in a passionate kiss, lasting a whole second. But it was the best second I'd had in years. He pulled back, a horrified look on his face. Immidietly regretting it.

Surprised, I did not quite know what to say. 'Arthur, Im- You- You're drunk. .' I blurted, thinking it was the alcohol taking action. Nothing else.

'I'm–' He looked at me, searching for words 'You're right, I- I probably am. Apologies miss.' He managed.

I cursed myself, why'd he have to be drunk? He'd never remember that this even happened tomorrow.

'No- no. That's fine, don't worry. I didnt-' I tried, I didn't mind it. In fact I loved it, is that so hard to say? 'I should, uhm- let you sleep, you need to rest.' Idiot.

'I s'pouse so.' Was all he said, shock and regret still lingering between us.

'Well, good night. . . Mr Morgan.' I said, and he winced. Quickly, I took my leave.

'Night ma'am.' He called after me.

It felt like fleeing the scene of a crime. Bashing myself for the the formal good night, we were way past such pleasantires. It felt like a blow to even utter the words, even though I usually call him Mr Morgan. But it's always in a teasing way. Never formal and distant like this was.

Goodness gracious, what had I done?

I tucked myself under the covers in my own tent, thoughts circling my mind. I could not tear myself away from the smell of him, his musk, his broad build. Or the way sweetheart sounded as it rolled of his tongue, the way his tongue felt against my own. A hand snaked between my thighs, relieving myself of the ache he'd caused. Then slowly, I drifted off to sleep. With nothing but him on my mind.

You god damned fool Arthur, why'd you have scare her away? Old bastard, he thought to himself. Seeing her by his tent had startled him, but her gentle touch and sweet voice was all the comfort he'd needed. It took the sting right out of the needle. He'd used the bottle to clean the wound, but letting her think he was drunk was easier than the truth.

He'd took a liking to her from the moment he laid eyes on her, but she would never feel the same way. She'd called him Mr Morgan, as if the last year of building a relation with her had disintigrated within a second. It stung, real bad. Worse than a knife ever would. Yet that kiss made it all worth it her soft lips against his, her sweet taste. Feeling her breath on his skin as she undid his buttons, and seein' you like that? Kneeling between his legs, so close to him. It was a memory he would cherish through thick and thin, a memory that would keep him up at night. A memory that made him hard in an instant, he let out a frustrated groan. Silenty taking care of it, pretty images of her occupying his mind as he did. Finally, he began drifting off to sleep. And he only had one thing on his mind. She'd called him a good man, that's all that mattered to him.

A week passed, and we'd had a few shallow interactions. Nothing serious, but resembling the akwardness we experienced in his tent, it made my heart sore. I always found a reason to talk to him, to be near him. So when to opportunity arrived once again, I jumped on it. We'd had a full day of chores, but needed to head into Valentine for a supply run, to stock up on things like ammo and vegetables. And just generally take a look around town, see what else we could find. But I don't have a horse of my own, and since Lenny and Sean were taking the wagon.

I found myself in need of a ride.

The sun had begun its final stretch before setting, meaning the light was golden and beautiful. The warm spring air was gradually turning chilly, but in the most soothing way. I joined the crew by the horses, 'Who's willin' to give a lady a ride.' I asked coyly.

Arthurs mouth fell open, as if he was about to speak, but quickly closed it again. 'I always got space for you, girl.' Sadie winked.

'Stop that. . You ol' charmer.' I smile shyly. Arthur couldn't help but smile, nothing but admiration I'm his eyes for you.

'Well-' Micah began, and I immediately rolled my eyes. Arthur glaring daggers at him.

'Shut it, and shave that overgrown squirell off your face.' Sadie interrupted him, Sean erupting into laughter at the comment.

'Why are we even bringin' him? We don't need that kind of trouble today.' I pointed out.

'Cause I say so, sweetheart.' He leers, smugness radiating off of him.

My stumache churns, my dinner almost catching its second wind, 'Dont call me that.' I turn serious.

Micah laughs, about to respond-

'You heard her.' Arthur stops him, making him reconsider opening his mouth again. Instead he opts to mutter under his breath, no doubt the most vile and cruel things too.

John joins us to help get the wagon in order, then sen dus off. Changing the subject back, 'Arthur got the most space.' John points out, 'I'm sure he wouldn't mind.' He winks at me subtly, and I blush. John Marston, you godsend.

'That okay with you Arthur?' I ask, looking up at him with big eyes.

'Course, c'mon sweetheart.' He jumps out of the saddle, grabs me by the waist, and helps me onto his tall, dark shire.

I yelp, unprepared for his strength. He gets back on, placing himself behind me, then grabs the reins on either side of me, capturing me in his big frame. I can honestly say, that I've never felt safer. A content smile covers my lips.

Sadie chuckles at the two of us, the chuckle turning into pure laughter when she sees Micahs expression. Gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, glaring at us, probably furious by my blatant approval of Arthurs use of sweetheart.

And with that, we begin our journey into town. Lenny and Sean were singing behind us, Sadie leading the way ahead of us. And Micah? I didn't bother finding out where he was.

Feeling Arthurs warmth behind me was all I cared about, his chest and thighs rubbing up against me with every step of his horse. It was doing something to me.

As the sun dove deeper, the cool in the air grew. Involuntary shivers took ahold of my body, 'You cold, girl?' He asked.

I shook my head, 'No, I'll be fine. Thank you though, Arthur.' My voice hackig as a particularly violent shiver shook my body, making my teeth clattered against eachother.

'Dont you lie to me, you're freezin'.' He says, worry lacing his tone, 'Take the reins.' That was an order.

I did and his hands slid between us, unbuttoning his jacket. Knuckles brushing against my back, all the way along my spine, ending at the arch of my back. Sending shivers in waves all over my body. 'Scooch down.' He orders again. Slightly hesitant, I slide backward. My ass tucked neatly again his crotch and my back flush again his chest. With his jacket still on, he wraps it around my sides, nearly covering my entire upper body. Sharing eachothers heat, trapping it between us.

'Arthur. .' I breathe, lust coursing through me. But it must've sounded as a protest because-

'-Dont start.' He said, 'My jacket is big enough for the both of us. Now hand me the reins, darlin.'

Oh you wonderful, oblivious man.

I gave them back to him and tugged his jacket closer around me, leaning impossibly closer to him. Gradually, my shivers disappeared, all thanks to the large, warm bear of a man behind me.

'See? Told ya'.' His body shook gently with a silent chuckle.

'You're somethin' else Mr Morgan.' I sighed and this time, the words felt right.

He smiled, she didnt see it, thankfully. Everything she did, made him smile. She was so close to him, and he had indirectly caressed her back. He could've leaned back and given her space, but he craved her. It was intimate and special. He'd not felt so peaceful since she stitched him up last week. Everything he did was at her service. Now she sat between his legs, grinding up against him. Not to her knowledge though, she just moved her hips to the step of the horse, riding like a woman should. But unbeknownst to her, she was feeding a hunger he fought hard to contain. Head in the lions mouth and all.

'Whats on that mind of yours Arthur?' She asked, 'I can feel you thinkin' from 'ere.' Shuddering against him, is she still cold?

If she only knew, what was goin' through his mind. How he thought of you every waking moment, a sentiment she would never return.

'Nothin' special, you still feelin' cold? I can feel you shiverin' Girl.'

She froze for a second before she spoke, chuckling under her breath, 'No I ain't cold, but thank you again.' He could hear the smile on her lips.

What was it then?

'Is the cut heelin' good?' She asked, concern and something else lingering in her voice. The memory resurfaced in his mind, his blood setting about rushing places. He shut his eyes, trying to clean his mind before he answered. Clearing his throat first, 'Good, 'is gonna be a nice 'n clean scar.' His voice lightly strained.

'Well, I'm glad. You got enough of em' for my liking.' She huffed, annoyed at the notion of him always hurting himself.

He risked it, and leaned his head forward, almost touching her shoulder but not quite. Breathing in that sweet scent of hers. Telling himself that it wasn't such a strange thing to do. 'I'll survive, I always do. With your fine stitchin' It's impossibly not to.'

She blushed, turning her face away from his, a bit shy at his compliment. He loved the way her cheeks turned rosy, 'Thank you.' She said proudly, another shudder against him.

Damn it, wad she still cold or not?

He opted out of asking again. She'd just tell him no. So he took matters into his own hands, quite literally. He moved the reins into one hand and circled the other around her waist, pulling her closer. Figuring he could blame it on rough terrain, that he didn't want her to hurt her pretty self.

But she didn't protest, on the contrary. She made a sound, almost like she exhaled a moan under her breath. Then grabbed his thigh, rough terrain too, perhaps? 'Arthur. . .' She breathed.

'I apologise miss, I shouldn't ha–' He began.

'No, no. You should've.' Firm in her words. 'You, remember much from last week?' She asked.

'I do.' He breathed, a nervous shake to his voice.

'You werent drunk?'

'No ma'am.' He answered truthfully, 'I lied.'

'Why?' There was hurt in her voice, and something broke inside of him.

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, afraid he'd hurt her more, 'Thought maybe it'd be best, since I stepped over a line.'

She scoffed, 'You didn't step over anything, Mr Morgan.'

'Well I. . .' He paused, 'You didnt seem to like it, thats all. Didnt want you to think I was takin' advantages.' He rambled an explanation.

'I didn't want to take advantage of you Mr Morgan.' She sounded annoyed, annoyed by this whole missunderstanding, 'Didnt want you kissin' me drunk, if it was, just cause you were drunk.' She explained, 'I thought you were drunk. . .' sighing.

Puzzle pieces were finally falling into place for the both of them.

'We're here!' Sadie called from the front.

Dissapointed, I sighed. Yet, relieved, I smiled.

Arthur jumped off, grabbed my waist and helped me down. His touch lingering as our eyes met, searching eachothers gazes for answers. Wondering, where to go from here. We were finally on the same page, and knowing he kissed me from his own free will put a sping in my step.

The group broke up, I headed with Sadie as the men got about their business. We looked at the guns first and foremost, then headed for the general store. I looked for Arthur as we walked from building to building, and saw him heading into the stables. I wondered if he was gonna treat himself to a new saddle. He deserved it.

We went about our list of things to buy, then gathered by the wagon. Collectively, we decided on a bar run before we rode back to camp. Lenny and Sean were particularly excited about the idea.

We ordered whiskey, drank and laughed. Sadie and Lenny stood between me and Arthur, resulting in a whole lot of meaningful glances. Just wishing we could talk some more.

At some point a woman had approached Arthur, laying her hand on his bicep, clearly flirting. And my blood ran cold.

I stood talking with Sean, who noticed my change in demeanour and looked over at them. 'Dont worry yourself girl.' He laughed, and I furrowed my brows. Not sure what he ment.

'You gonna buy a lady a drink?' The woman asked, her voice sultry. Now, my blood boiled.

Arthur chuckeled, 'I didnt know I was talking to a lady.' And glanced at her hand, which she immediately retracted upon noticing.

She scoffed, 'Aint that a nice way to treat a woman. You taken cowboy?' She asked, her eyes narrowing on him.

'Well. . .' He huffed, 'You could say that.'

My heart swelled at his comment.

'Told ye so.' Sean smirked, and I playfully hit him on the shoulder.

The night went on, and as most nights go in a saloon, a fight was bound to happen. Arthur must've been watching me, because within the next half minute. A man had walked up next to me, and was about to touch what wasnt his to touch. But Arthur appeared out of nowhere, his outlaw instics mustve been on high alert. The man did in fact look sleezy enough to attempt such a thing, Arthur grabbed the mans wrist in a bone breaking grib. 'You keep your hands to yourself mister.' He said, his voice low and threatening.

'Or what?' The man spit, and Arthur let go of him. Lowering his head, chuckling. That shouldve been the mans warning, but he didn't know Arthur like we did.

Backing me up, Sean whispered 'Get ready.' to Sadie, Lenny and me. Nodding to a table of thugs in the corner, they were staring at our group intently, watching the scene unfold.

Arthur jerked his head to the side and smirked under his hat, then in flash he gave the man a lethal right hook. Sending him flying backward. The thugs sprung up, heading for us with firm steps.

Holy shit. A full on brawl broke out, everyone lunged themselves on everyone. I delivered a right hook of my own as two guys were ganging up on Lenny. Another man tried getting handsy with me, he snuck up behind me and grabbed me around the waist. So I elbowed him hard in the side and threw my head back. Headbutting him, I turned around and pushed him off me. Taking great joy in the way his nose was gushing blood, I grabbed him by the shoulders and kneed him in the crotch. With a whine, the man fell to the ground.

Even Micah joined in on the action, he'd been sitting still enjoying his whiskey beside us. Until he decided he wanted some fun too, apparently only he could be inappropriate with me. He smashed the glass over the head on the closest man, although im pretty sure he wasn't even apart of the brawl.

As the dust was settling and the lawmen had been called, we flew the coup. Arthur grabbed my hand and rushed us to our horses, not willing to risk leading the law back to camp, we rode hard and fast for Strawberry. Arthur was making a fuss about me on the ride there, asking if I was ok, and I assured him I was. 'Well. . . You got one hell of a hook girl.' He said, and I beamed with pride.

The gang had to act casual as we arrived to Strawberry, which proved futile with cuts and bruises as we asked for hotel rooms. But we ended up conning our way into possession of the last three hotel rooms. Bribing the clerk that is.

Arthur grabbed a key of his own, which nobody disputed. He gave me a meaningful look at and headed upstairs. Sadie grabbed a key and dragged me along with her. Leaving the last three men to argue about sharing a room, 'Shut up Micah, you're sleeping in the hall.' Sean shouted behind us. Turning around, I saw Micah slamming the doors open and storming out.

'I'll find a woman to warm me, dont ya' worry.' He shouted back, muttering under his breath.

We burst out laughing and ran to our room, but before we headed in, I grabbed her arm 'I'm just gonna go check on Arthur real quick.' I said, not thinking much of it.

'I'll not see you til the morning then.' She laughed, our stolen glances had apparently not been so stolen after all.

I rolled my eyes, 'We'll see.' And knocked on his door.

Lenny and Sean walked by, a low whistle accompanied by chuckles as they saw me standing there. But they quickly turned quiet when Arthur opened the door, standing in only his shirt and pants 'May I come in?' I asked, giving him my best puppy eyes.

'Course.' He smirked, and opened the door wider, stepping out of my way. My side brushing against him as I entered. His vest and jacket lay discarded on the bed, along with his hat.

'About before-' I began, my back turned to him. Suddenly feeling his hands slide onto my waist, pulling me into him. I gasped, not expecting it. He leaned into my shoulder, lips gracing my neck, all the way up to my ear. The warmth of his breath fanning over my skin, making me boil on the inside. It made it difficult to think.

'I want you darlin', all of ya'.' He whisperes, 'If you'll have me–' pausing to place a gentle kiss between my ear and jaw, '–'M tired off missunderstandin's.'

In a haze, I turn around and lay my hands on his chest, having to crane my neck upward to meet his eyes. I reach one hand to caress his cheek, brushing at his stubble 'So am I.'

He leans into my delicate touch, nuzzling my hand and placing a soft peck on my palm.

One of his hands sinks its fingertips into the flesh at my hip as the other grabs my arm softly, sliding his hand up to my wrist, gently holding it as he places another kiss there, right on my pulse point. His lips linger, feeling my rapid heartbeat. Gently, he experiments. Sucking and pecking the spot.

A deep ache settles in my bones, fortifying with every kiss he places, deepening with every beat of my heart. And for a second, he feels it too. Meeting my eyes with a smirk, he pulls my sleeve up to cover more ground. Immidietly I feel that my clothes are weighing me down, 'Arthur.' I whisper.

'Hmm?' He hums, focused on kissing what skin he has access to.

Clearing my throat, 'Will you–' I breathe, 'Help me unbutton?'

His eyes meet mine again, searching my gaze for certainty. 'I'll spend the rest of my days doin' your biddin' if it makes you happy girl.'

'It would–' I say, and his hands move to my ribcage, pulling me into his frame. His face an inch from mine as his hands snake around my back, making quick work of each button without batting an eye. 'Oh—' I gasp, surprised by his practiced fingers. 'Should I be jealous?' I ask under my breath.

'No ma'am, none could compete with you.' He assures me.

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks, and in the same moment, he finishes with the last button. Stroking his knuckles over the bare skin along my spine, and sighs. Content. As a shuddering breath leaves me.

Arthur wonders for but a second if shes cold again, until he realises.

'You werent cold, were ya'?'

Immedietly getting what hes reffering to, 'In the begginin' I was.' I tell him truthfully, 'Youre wonderfully clueless sometimes, especially for such a experienced man.'

He chuckles, 'You tellin' me you were all hot 'n bothered for me?'

'You were rubbin' against me, pullin' me close. How could I not be?'

'I wasnt–' He protests, '–You were on me if anythin'.'

'Oh so youre tellin' me you were all hot 'n bothered then?' I throw his words back at him, smirking happily while doing it.

Arthurs mouth opens and closes, unable to think of a comeback.

'Thats what I thought.'

He scoffs a smile, pushing my blouse off of me, leaving me in my undergarments.

His hands move to my arms, sliding upwards, leaving prickled skin in their abscence. He trails them over my collarbones and neck, his eyes following every inch of movement.

I lay my hands on his hips, holding onto him as my knees grow weeker by the second.

Forming his hands into loose fists, he caresses my cheeks with the backs if his fingers. Gently brushing the knuckles over my cheekbones, pushing strands of hair from my face in the same motion. He flattens his hands and cup my face, big hands draping around the sides of my head. Pulling me closer, he leans into my space. Meeting in the middle, his lips ghost over mine.

My breath hitches when he kisses me softly, his thumbs stroking my temples in soothing motions.

I grab onto his shirt, fisting and lightly pulling on the fabric. Arousal taking the reins completley, making it hard to think. I look at him with hazy eyes, admiration clouding every sense I have. '. . 'S your turn mister.' I breathe.

Smiling, he continues kissing me, 'At your pleasure ma'am.'

With a pleased hum, I trace my hands up his abdomen and over his chest, and Arthur groans in response. The aching pulse in my body stiffens at the sound, becoming more compressed. More focused in my core. Kissing him, I easily unbutton his shirt, making quick work of it, and slide it over his shoulders. Now hooked on his arm folds, it hangs around the small of his back. I sigh happily, what a sight it was.

'You expercied taking men's shirt's off?' He jokes, laughing. Then moves his hands to my waist, clawing softly at my skin.

I slide my arms around his neck, up into his hair. Scrathing his scalp tenderly, 'Well–' I begin, but he bites my lip suddenly, warning me. I yelp, accidently pulling on his hair, and a whine escapes him. My core dripping at the sound as I release a shuddering breath, '. .'M a woman Arthur, I have needs.'

'Yeah?' He questions, 'You needin' right now, woman?' The gruffness in his voice making my fingers curl.

'I am. .' Whining, my kisses turn needy, 'I need you Arthur, always.' I moan.

At that he wraps his arms around me, pulling me tightly into his embrace, his fingers digging into my flesh. He kissed me, hard. Hard like he might just die if let's me go.

'Skirt. . .' mumbling against me, 'Needs to go.' He manages. Without another word, I snake my hands behind my back, untying my skirt a let it fall to the floor. Arthur walks forward, forcing me back until my chins hit the bed and we fall onto it. He puts his weight on me, although supported by his forearms. 'Pants.' He orders, but I was already one step ahead. My hands already moving quickly to undo the buttons on his pants as hes kissing his way down my jaw and neck. Focusing on my sweet spot, hes sucks bruises, turning me into a moaning mess under every breath. Meanwhile, I shove my hand into his boxers. He grunts and shoves his forehead into the crook of my neck as I palm him, overwhelmed by my long lusted for touches. His member was already harder than a rock, and leaking juices. I bring my thump to his tip, stroking his seed in circles. He groans breathely into my neck, his warm breath causing further heat to pool in core. He leans onto one arm, sliding the other along the curves of my body. Cupping my breast through my brasier, 'I want to look at you sweetheart.' He groans and unfolds his arm so that hes above me to meet my eyes, 'Can I look at ya'?' He asks, voice pleading.

I nod, '. . 'Course.'.

Waisting no time, he snakes one hand under my back and lifts me up. I gasp, always surprised by his strength. 'Please, ma'am.' He begs, and I take the hint. My hand leaves his his member and move around my back, undoing the brasier. Throwing it on the floor, he sighs in relief, 'Wanted to see ya' for so long.' He breathes, lowering me back onto the bed and himself onto of me. Immidietly taking one breast into his mouth, and palms the other. Squeezing them, playing with my nipples, using teeth, tounge and fingers. Automatically, my back arches. Pushing my abdomen against his, and accidentally making my mound rub against his crotch. He hums under his breath, his hand leaving my breast and slowly slides down my body, then pulls his mouth off of my breast with a pop. 'Now.' He whispers, kissing his way up to my jaw, then leveling his head with mine, 'Wanna se all of ya'.' his free hand cups my cunt. I gasp from the sudden touch, there's no friction, no movement, yet the aching grows stronger from the warmth of his palm alone. I shut my eyes, trying to come up with an answer. But the presence of him takes up my entire mind, all I can manage is a nod.

Not satisfied, he pushes his palm firmly against my core. 'Look at me girl.' He orders, sliding his middle finger over my slit, undergarments creating a barrier. Making my wetness soak into them, and he chuckles when he feels it. Whimpering, I open my eyes to look at him, and he smirks, 'Good girl.' And plants a kiss on my jaw, 'Use your words this time.' He pecks my lips, then slides his finger over my clit. Lately circling it through the fabric, I swallow hard. Jolts of pleasure surge through my body as something finally gives. 'Want. . . You.' I manage.

'Yeah?' He breathes, and I nod. To which he raises his brows, and pushes two fingers against my core in warning.

Another jolt, '!Mmm, meanin'. . .' Humming a stutter, 'Yes–' I pause, '–Please Arthur. I- I want you.'

'Atta girl.' He praises, then begins trailing kisses down my chest, over my nipple and abdomen, ending at my mound, right above my clit.

My back arches, 'Please. .' I whisper, pleading with him. He pushes back, shakes his already half off shirt completley off, and his pants follow. My eyes go wide at the size of him, hello cowboy.

His hands slide up my thighs, giving reassuring squeezes until he gets ahold of my undergarments. Hooking his fingers under them, he gently slides them off, and the both of us gasp. 'Beautiful.' He murmurs, admiring me. Then bends down, kissing his way up my inner thigh. Winding his arms under my legs and grabbing my waist, then hovers over my cunt, giving me one last look before diving in.

He licks one long stripe up my folds, gathering my wetness on his tongue. Then attaches himself to my clit, generously sucking and circling his tongue around it. I'd been on edge since the night in the tent, hyper sensitive from always wanting him, and finally feeling him on me? It's purely magical, I have to bite my cheek to keep from screaming when he shoves two fingers inside me. Thrusting in and out, curling with every withdrawal. I was already close, 'Arthur, 'm so close.' I moan.

He nods, furthering the movement of his tongue, 'Tell me what ya' needin' girl.' He mumbles against my folds, the vibrations of his voice deepness have me gripping my sheets, clawing it them like a wild animal.

'Need you, need you in me.' I blurt out.

He laughs, 'Im already in you sweetheart.' Causing my back to arch again, oh sweet, sweet vibrations. I throw my head back into the pillow, and his hand slides from my hip to my lower abdomen, 'Be good and lay still now.' Then pushing down with his palm. That combined with his fingers, were– were enough. . .

Blinding pleasure surges through me as I come on his fingers, walls clenching, fluids flowing. I breathe heavily as he laps it up, 'In me Arthur, please.' I whine.

'Youre gonna have to be clearer girl.'

I loose my patience, 'Christ, Arthur! I need you cock in me.'

He smirks, 'Well why didnt you just say so?' His hands push my legs over his shoulders and he climbs on top of me, face to face, he kisses me passionately. Tasting of salt.

His tip graces my entrance, 'You sure, aint you?' He asks, kissing my jaw.

I bury my hand in his hair, 'Mmh, 'm sure.' And with that, pushes inside me. A breathy moan leaves our mouths simultaneously.

'Feelin' just as sweet as you taste sweetheart.' He whispers against my jaw, nuzzling his nose into my cheek and forehead against temple. The pulls out, to the tip, and shoves himself back in. Hard and passionate, he sets perfect pace. Rocking our bodies with every thrust, going deeper than I ever thought to be possible.

'Christ.' I groan, he's hitting that spot inside me with every motion. One hand moves though his back, scratching at it loosely, pulling on hip to get him even deeper. He grunts, in my ear. Might aswell be music, wouldnt be able to tell a difference. He snakes one hand up my torso, grabbing my throat gently and squeezing just enough. Brushing his thumb over my my jugular. Outlaw indeed.

I pull on his hair, to level his face with mine, I wanted his lips, his tongue. 'Kiss me cowboy.' I order, and he follows.

Kissing me deeply, in rhythm with his thrusts, In rhythm with the aching that was finally dulling in my body. Finally, I had I'm. Truly had him. Bliss flows through me as the knot in my stumache tightens, on the verge of my second orgasm. And telling by Arthurs thrusts, he wasn't far away either. In a few more thrusts we both topple over with a breathy moans, Arthur whispering, 'Good girl.' Over and over as his seed was filling me to the brim, seeping out around his member as he collapses on me. My legs falling to the bed. We gather our breaths in a comfortable silence, just enjoying the closeness of the other.

He lays and arm around me, pulling me close as we fall asleep. Both thinking of the other, just not having to imagine what holding the other would feel like anymore.

At some point during the night, Arthur had rolled me off of his arm and snuck out. I was to tired to think much of it, especially since he returned shortly after. By morning I had all but forgotten it, brushing it off as a dream.

As we got dressed and ready the next day, I handed Arthur his hat. He took it, but looked at me, 'Put it on, wanna see you in something of mine.' He says, smiling.

'Gladly.' I chirp, and put it on.

His smile slants, turning into a smirk, 'Now, girl. You know what that means don't you?'

'Why'd you think I was glad to put it on. If not just to tell Micah to shove it.' I chuckle.

'It suits ya' He ruffles my hair with the hat.

We walked out and fetch our horses, the grup giving us mixed looks as the spot us. Arthurs hat declaring to the public of his intentions, that I was his and that we would have a busy night. Sadie smirked knowingly, winking at me. While Sean and Lenny looked happy for us, Micah was the only one who glowered.

'I got a surprise.' He says as he saddles his shire.

'Yeah, whats that?' I tilt my head.

He nods to Sean who runs off, I quirk my eyebrow at Arthur, 'Whats all this?' I ask.

'You'll see, keep your eyes peeled sweetheart.'

Eventually, Sean comes back into view, leading a horse I don't recognize. A beautiful mustang, tan coat, and white forhead. I don't connect the dots at first, 'Sean got a new horse?' I ask, confused.

'Now why would I surprise you with a new horse for Sean?' He asks, chuckling. And the pieces snap into place.

'For me?' I ask, dumbfounded. A million questions circling my head.

'Got her yesterday, had Sean ride and get her earlier this morning. Since I was. . . Occupied.' He smirks.

'That's why you snuck out in the night, then?'

He hums, 'Mhm.'

'Well I'll be. . Arthur Morgan, thank you.' I smile, hugging him. He wraps his arm around me, holding me tightly, afraid I'd otherwise slip away.

'. .'S nothing.' He pecks my cheek, 'Go meet her.'

As we arrived back to camp, we got busy. Late into the night we spent in Arthurs tent, defining the meaning of cowgirl.

The next few hours we rode next to eachother on our way back to camp, flirting and laughing as Saint and I got used to eachother.

[photo1030]

Oh my goodness! I like the grittiness of this one. I love the “shadow” reference, super sweet

The Longest Night (Arthur x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Someone is missing. One less horse than there should be. Your gut twists when you realize Arthur never returned after Dutch met with Colm O'Driscoll. Arthur has protected you his whole life and now it was time for you to return the favor, even if that means you meet a violent end. Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader: in which you’re the only one who cares about Arthur’s disappearance. (No use of Y/N) Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, swearing, reader almost dies. Word count: 3,786 Note: I haven’t had tumblr for like… 5 years and now I can’t remember how to format anything correctly or how to add images to text posts. Please bear with me. :’) If it doesn’t work right I also published it on AO3 here! ____ The moment you heard Micah was involved your stomach fell and your blood ran cold. Nothing good would come of this. Meeting Colm O'Driscoll all the while Micah was whispering into Dutch’s ear, talking all sorts of nonsense that happened to be worded in just the right way to tickle Dutch’s brain. “I don’t know about this one, let me come with you.” You grabbed your rifle to join the others as they mounted their horses.

“Eh… I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t want you gettin’ hurt.” Arthur slung his leg over his saddle and pulled himself up before peering down at you with crinkled eyes dancing with fondness and something fearsome. Perhaps it was simply just fear? “Someone will get hurt knowing them. I rather it not be you.”

“I’m more than capable, Arthur-”

Keep reading

[josephquinnswhore]

the devil is real and he’s a besotted outlaw - micah bell x female reader

summary: Micah bell can be a twisted man, and you’re complacent in his actions.

word count: 1.7k

content warning: micah bell, LOL. micah uses a gun to get reader off, p in v, raw sex, creampie, f and m orgasm. use of degrading words. Karen slander (just for the plot I swear I love her.)

At this time in the evening, generally everyone around camp had retired to their tents, the sun had set many hours ago. But the orange hue from the fire burning around the empty campfire still flicks embers into the sky, you watch them disappear.

Your boyfriend had been stoking the fire every so often before tossing the stick with his usual carelessness beside the seat he had leaned backward in to find a comfortable position. As comfortable as he could with you sitting on his lap, cradling the warm metal mug in your cold palms, sipping occasionally.

“Shouldn’t be drinkin’ that right before bed,” he chastises softly, but there's no real scolding behind his words.

“It don't seem like you're gonna head to bed anytime soon.”

Not now that he’d picked up one of his twin revolvers. The custom piece featured a unique dark grey steel frame, one that had been polished only the evening prior. The grip was also custom created, black skulls engraved and delicately painted contrast against the red grip.

He pours some gun oil onto a cloth, and wraps his arms around your hips to your front as he begins his chore of cleaning the weapon, movements precise and meticulous. After a few moments, he feels a strain in his neck trying to gaze over you, so he simply rests his chin on your shoulder, stopping the task for but a moment to press a delicate kiss to the exposed skin.

A small hum escapes you, and he gets back to his task at hand. One thing you liked about him, he didn’t favour small talk, he preferred these moments of tranquility with you where there were no peering eyes and stout whispers.

When you finish your cup of coffee, your attempt to stand was intercepted by Micah’s hands gripping onto your hips. “Where do you think you're going? Weren't you stayin’ up with me?”

“I am, just going to Pearson’s wagon to clean my mug and I’ll be back.”

You let out a noise of surprise when he pulls you back down onto his lap, taking the mug out of your much smaller hands to set it carefully on the ground beside him. It was sweet, seeing how he cared for your things with a delicacy that he held private for the things most important to him.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere without me, an’ I ain't ready to get up yet.” His tone is quiet, but you know better than to disobey what he asks when it's not reasonable. The mug could just be cleaned later on.

A small yawn escapes you, regardless of the mug of caffeine you’d finished moments before, and Micah sets aside his guns at the noise. “Tired?” The soft murmur against your skin created a demand for goosebumps on your neck. Coarse hairs of his moustache tickle your neck as he begins to kiss the raised skin.

“Partially,” you reply in a quiet murmur.

“Well, I best wake you up, hm?” Pulling away from your neck, all of your attention is now drawn to his large hands on the skirt of your dress as he bunches it at your waist to expose your legs underneath. “Now ain’t that a sight?”

“Micah–” a soft protesting whine is about to deny him, and he interrupts.

His hands trail upward, making you forget what you were about to scold him for, fingers trailing up your thighs over the sheer material of those pretty drawers you always wore. His thick digits were moving the piece to the side delicately to get where he wanted without much resistance from you, to his delight.

“Christ, girl, ain’t fair keeping this all to yourself.”

A protestful noise escapes your throat when his hands pull away from your need, causing you to rut your hips in search of his thick fingers. “Tsk, so impatient,” he chastises.

But it's not his hand that returns to caress your swollen clit, it's cold, and you flinch backwards against his chest. When you look down to see what it was that he was using on you–a part of you stills, perhaps in curiosity, fear or need. You weren’t entirely sure what you felt.

Before you could say anything he runs the already oiled up clean gun against your sensitive nub, causing your back to arch further, head resting on his shoulder behind you. “Oh.. Micah..” you trail off, unable to deny the pleasure from the crude act. “This.. is so twisted.”

His chuckle is deep and causes another demand of goosebumps to rise against your hot skin, rubbing the sleek barrel of his revolver agasint your clitorus at an agonisingly slow pace. “I don’t see you pulling away from it, girl.”

The sensation is incredible, ending up in you resorting to seeking more friction by rutting against the weapon sloppily, the increased pace makes your thighs tremble against his own. “Seems like my desperate girl is just as twisted as I supposedly am.”

Unable to control yourself, selfishly ravishing his weapon for your own sake, the orgasm you experience has you crying out softly into the still air of the evening, a smirk plastered on Micah’s face as you tremble against him. Your hips finally still from your greedy seeking ruts.

Micah partially lifts you off his lap, unzipping his cream coloured jeans before lowering you back down onto his hard cock. Your hole was perfect, the kind of pleasure that a man would seek salvation in. His hands are guiding you in a repetitive motion, a low groan coming from Micah that only allows his cock to slide easier into you.

“Micah..” there's not much more you can think to utter other than his name. Completely unable to make any sense after that absurd orgasm he caused moments before.

There's one thing about him, his impatience, the need for you. In his greed, he tires of slowly guiding you down onto him, and prospers to drill into you harshly as he raises his hips to thrust into you. No coherent words leave your lips, merely the strangled sounds of pleasure as you struggle to catch your breath against his cock pummelling into you. Hands sliding underneath the bodice of your gown to grasp roughly onto one of your breasts.

With a few harsh and desperate deep, sloppy thrusts he is spilling into you, pulling you closer to him as he bites down into your neck. His breathing is uneven and hot against your shoulder, giving your breast one last squeeze he removes his hand, and a wince of overstimulation he pulls his cock out of you.

Offering one of his hands, he helps you to stand, fixing your dress and helping smooth it out at the bodice. You're still in a daze, confused and your entire body feeling the aftermath of the explosive intimate encounter.

You didn't say anything as Micah led you to his tent, a hand resting on your lower back to guide you, but you didn't need to. “You did good, girl. Real good.” At his praise, your skin warms, flushing with your entire body at the sweet sentiment.

Of course you're having troubles the next morning, because why did you think that no one heard your performance with Micah last night? Karen is the only one with enough gall to confront you, the look of pure disgust she gave you, and the way she tried to stand over you like she was trying to intimidate you. “You’re disgusting, Micah of all people. You must really be some desperate kind of whore.”

This infuriates you, they didn't know micah like you did, how sweet and consolable and caring he really could be. “No, I guess you don't understand, do you? You’re being sour toward me because you know no man wants you at all!”

The blonde woman saunters closer to you, with a tone of threat. “What did you just say?”

Micah hears the commotion and intercepts, changing his course as he starts walking towards the scene.

“Oh look, it's the sack of shit himself.” Karen gestures towards Micah and you sneer at her.

You’re quick to lash back to defend Micah. “Get back on the bottle, you miserable cow.”

Things are heating up between the two of you, Micah standing tall beside you.

“Back off you drunken wench,” Micah snarls, finally stepping in front of you.

But Karen does not allow this to deter her rampage directed at you, looking past Micah to spit drunken insults. “I mean seriously, sleeping with Micah Bell? You’re making a damn fool of yourself. Micah is the last person you should trust. He’s no better off than the devil, you’d do best to stay away if you had any mind!”

“I didn't ask for your goddamn opinion, now shut the hell up!”

“You stupid little girl,” she spits, pointing a finger at you. “You think you're safe with the likes of him?”

But this had gone on long enough and Micah had finally had enough of Karen and her drunken tirade against you. “Enough outta you.” Glowering down at Karen, “say another word that insults her, and I promise I’ll make use outta that gun I cleaned last night, y’hear me?”

“Now back off.” He threatens, standing tall in front of you, creating a barrier between the women as he protects you from any further in slew of insults.

Finally, karen gets the message, albeit muttering as she walks away from the scene she had created.

“You alright? She didn't touch ya, did she?” He murmurs softly as he glances at you, inspecting you to make sure you are unharmed.

“I’m fine. I.. I mean I’m not hurt.” You correct yourself.

He grips onto your chin softly. “Don’t listen to her nonsense, y’hear me? I ain’t about t’let her get in your head.” A frown forms on his face at your silence. “It don't matter what she, or any other folk think about us. You trust me, don’cha?”

“Course I trust you,” you utter in promise.

“Good.” His murmur is soft, meant for only your ears. As is his gentle caress as he runs his thumb over your cheek, his frown fading into a more neutral expression. “Then don't you pay no mind to what folk say about me, especially when it comes to my involvement with you. They don't know the first damn thing about me, none of ‘em.”

His words sink in, and a crack of a smile finally reaches your lips, to which his expression mirrors your own. “There's my pretty girl.”

Yeah, it was worth it.

[margowritesthings]

The Greatest Gift A Cowgirl Could Ask For

a @rdrevents Valentines gift exchange for @cowboydisaster

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 4,400 words warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, sexual themes, vaginal sex, mentions of death, unprotected sex, throwing up (TW EMETOPHOBIA), very brief mention of SA in the past, unexpected pregnancy, mentions of Micah Bell a/n: am I britney spears in her 2000 grammy award winning song??? because oops, i did it again. i don't know how I managed to get Bea as my recipient for a SECOND time, but it only felt right to carry on building this universe I've made for her and lying to her about it all week. Whoops.

Bea, my beloved, Happy Valentines Day. You deserve the world and Im so glad I could dedicate this fic to you. Honestly I probably couldn't have gotten the motivation to get back on my feet and write again if it wasn't for you. Thanks for everything you do bby and I hope this lives up to your 'if by some miracle you get me for your gift exchange disregard my prompts and write a TGG prequel' (yes she actually said that) idea. Love you lots xxx

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @luvliewriting @mrsarthurmorgan7 @photo1030 @snobbybastard

My Darling Wife,

I’m writing to you from up near Tempest Rim. I’ve tracked this bounty all over the goddamn Grizzlies and I’m ready to come home to you. I miss you so much and I’m real sorry I can’t be home in time for St. Valentines. Hopefully I can catch this bastard soon and make it up to ya. We’ll go to the theatre and sit right at the back, how’s that sound? I’ll move heaven and Earth to be beside you soon, you know I will.

I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can be with enough money to take you out on the town. Won’t be long, I promise. 

All my love, Arthur

All my love, Arthur

All my love, Arthur

Your finger runs over his looped script, over and over as if it will somehow will your husband out of the crumpled paper and into your bed. It’s been 2 months since the letter arrived, 2 months of the agony of not knowing if he’s dead or alive robbing you of sleep each and every night. You miss him, more than you could ever imagine one person could miss another and you honestly don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t come home. 

It’s a 600 dollar bounty, it’s sure to be a tough job you constantly reassure yourself, unable to focus on anything but the absence of half of your very soul in every waking moment. 

The day he comes home starts like any other. Time's arrow marches on, the sun rises and sets over your makeshift family as they work and plan and rob and hunt. You busy yourself planning a job with Karen, cushioned into your schedule between menial tasks so that it’s just that bit easier to not think about him. As usual, your efforts are in vain, but at least the chores are done, your steed Diesel is happy, and, all being well, you and Karen will have about 30 dollars to split between you when the week is out. 

An hour before he comes home, everyone retires to bed, save for John (who’s on watch tonight) and you’re left alone by the campfire. It crackles and pops, embers swirling the air around you. It feels like you stare at the twisting flames until your eyes blur and burn and you can’t tell which are tears of irritation to your senses and which are your heart breaking once more.

Moments before you’re reunited with the second half of your heart, you hear John yelling. It’s instinct that drives your hand into your holster, still resting against your hip despite the late hour, and you perk up like a startled deer, straining to decipher Marston’s words.

“Who is it?!” “Arthur, you dumbass!”

Arthur.

Arthur?

“Arthur?!” It’s a breathless shout, barely heard over the rushing blood in your ears as your feet take you to your husband before your mind can even fathom that he’s here. 

But sure enough, when you reach the edge of camp, heart racing, you see Arthur Morgan riding his chestnut mare straight towards you, spurring her into a gallop as soon as he lays his eye on his waiting wife. Marston probably makes some remark about who ‘decided to show up’, but to you, there is nothing but you and Arthur, two magnets parted by an unnatural force finally reaching each other again with a deafening crash. 

And it is. A crash, that is, when Arthur all but throws himself off his saddle and your bodies collide, great big arms wrapping around your frame. It is then that the tears fall down your cheek, soaking into Arthur’s coat that smells so much like him it truly feels like a dream.

You thought he was dead.

Only when you’re safely in his arms, when he’s pressing frantic kisses to your head, whispering your name over and over into your hair do you allow yourself to admit that fact. You thought he was never coming back, and yet here he is. Words fail you, the overwhelming emotion settling right in your throat.

“Oh, god… oh, darlin’ I-I missed you so much…” 

You feel two large hands cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that holds everything and anything the past 3 months could have been had you not spent it apart. But everything fits back into place, the world starts spinning again and you’re whole the second Arthur Morgan’s lips meet yours. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts a fraction of a second. You want to stop time, keep Arthur in your arms forever and never again have to go through the torture of being away from each other. The two of you only part to throw near identical scowls at John, who is amusing himself by telling you to get a room.

Unfortunately, as Ms. Grimshaw so often reminds you all, the Van der Linde Camp is not a hotel, so tonight you will not be afforded the luxury of a private suite as John so kindly suggested. There is only your tent, hitched against the gang’s weapons wagon, the old canvas pulled around to offer a little privacy when you and Arthur first started… well, needing the seclusion.

Calloused fingers intertwine with your own digits, Arthur’s other hand flipping John off before his weight pulls you towards your little corner of camp. There's so much purpose in his stride, the need to have you all to himself, not even share you with the lord above or wildlife below, driving him forward. Driving him home. 

When you’re finally, truly alone, the tears welling in your eyes glistening in the candlelight, no words are needed. Soon enough, you’ll talk for hours on end, catching each other up on every little detail of the last few months. But for now, all that there is and all that could matter is right this very second, when Arthur reaches for you, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks on your left cheek. His eyes, looking almost emerald in the dark of night, roam over each and every detail of you with such an intensity in him that you think he’s trying to remember this moment for the rest of time. You’re sure it’s one you could never possibly forget. 

Arthur snakes both arms around your waist, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees gently hit the cot and you lay back onto it. He covers the full length of you and then some, making you feel so fragile and small. It’s nice to feel breakable for once, to let go of the need to be the strongest in the room, lest you be ridiculed for being too sensitive or too weak or too womanly. Arthur knows just how strong you are, you need to prove nothing to him, so you can submit to his embrace, allow yourself to just breathe for once knowing you can break and there’s re will always be somebody to put you back together.

He lowers himself to your lips, pressing a kiss to them that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Arthur then kisses your nose, then your cheeks and chin, before trailing down to the crook of your neck. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, so starved for the man you cannot live without that now he’s finally here everything feels that much more intense. The tiniest scrape of Arthur’s teeth against your flesh shoots through every single nerve in your body and you moan right into his ear. You can actually feel him harden against your thigh at the sweet melody of your pleasure. 

Pushing Arthur’s hat off to the side, your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp encouragingly as he nibbles at your skin.

“Oh, Arthur… Oh, I missed you so much…” You breathlessly whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat when he pauses his movements to glance at you from under impossibly long eyelashes, jade green eyes glistening up at you.

“I missed you too, sweetheart. So so much.” His voice is soft, as if he’s handling the peacefulness around you so delicately and it causes the overwhelming emotion to well in your chest and choke up your throat. Arthur sees this, trying not to be too taken with his own surprising amount of emotion himself, and relieves you of your job of a response by directing his attention to the buttons of your shirt. You don’t remember him pushing your jacket off your shoulders, but there it lies on the floor beside the entrance to your tent, so he must have.

Despite the juxtaposition of such dainty buttonholes and such large fingers, Arthur expertly undresses your top half until you’re bare to him. He takes no time at all to take one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking at it with a hunger you feel right in your toes. You moan loudly, unable to stop yourself after yearning for this very feeling for so long. 

Arthur coos and shushes you and it vibrates across your skin, not helping you stay quiet in the slightest. The hand not tugging on his dirty blonde locks reaches between your two longing bodies to begin to unbuckle his belt. You can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs, your coil growing tighter and tighter by the second. It’s been almost 3 months since your bodies have joined like this, and yet you’re not sure you can wait another minute. 

You’re purring for Arthur, twitching and grinding as your hand fumbles desperately at the belt. His absence from your skin is agony the second he pulls his hips back to sit up straight. Spotting your downright bratty expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout, Arthur chuckles lowly, “Patience, baby… I gotta get these damn clothes off us.” He gestures to his belt, still very much buckled around his waist. Definitely not your fault. He was being far too distracting.

He’s quick, you’ll give him that, shedding his clothes without taking his eyes off you. You burn under his stare, even more so when he crawls back on top of you to slide your boots off one by one and peel your pants and undergarments down your legs.

The heat radiates off his huge body, his cock pulsing with need. The way he’s putting his weight into his arms to stop from crushing you with his weight adds a definition to his already beautifully sculpted body. Reaching down, you brush the tip of your finger oh so gently over his rosy head, finding a bead of cum already leaking, and you snap. You can’t wait a second longer, scratching and gripping at him like he’s the air you need to breathe.

“Please, Arthur, please I need you. S-So long, it’s been so long-” “Shh, I know, princess, I know. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Gonna take care of your pretty little cunt, I promise.” He soothes you, though his own voice is shaky from the very effort of restraining himself, maintaining his control to not drive into you and ruin you. While he whispers to you, he lines himself up at your entrance and you quiver in anticipation.

In all your years before you met Arthur, you never really saw sex as anything but something to give, or worse, something to be taken from you. You never truly understood, not until you met Arthur, who taught you it’s something to share, to experience. With Arthur, it’s different. It is connection and pleasure and it’s wonderful and god damn it, it’s addictive. So when Arthur slides into you, letting out a visceral, guttural groan as he does, everything is right in the world.

You feel so full, especially when Arthur pushes all the way to the hilt, connecting you completely at the pelvis. The moan that escapes your lips is downright obscene and Arthur crashes down into your mouth to swallow it. 

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been so long, or the emotion of it all, but you swear you can feel everything. Every vein and ridge, every twitch and movement of his perfect cock as Arthur slowly starts to move in and out of you. 

“Fuck… s-so good, darlin. So tight- y’feel so fucking good, princess…”

You’ve never hurtled so close towards a climax so quickly in your life. His torturously slow, deep thrusts drag into your sweet spot every fucking time and trying to hold back brings a blur into your vision. Your own hips grind against his, Arthur gripping into your flesh to guide you perfectly in time with him.

“I-I’m so close already, Arthur… fuck…” You breathe out, your breath tickling Arthur’s ear and sending a visible shudder down his spine. He looks proud at your admission.

“You missed me that much, huh? Gonna cum for me already, darlin’?” 

He gives you no time to respond, pressing a thumb to your clit and rubbing in time with everything else. You implode, pulling Arthur down to catch the scream you’re about to wake everybody up with. It has never felt so intense, and with every thrust Arthur fucks into you it only grows and grows, shattering you to pieces for Arthur to fix back together again. 

When you return, a rhythmic thudding in your ears, the first thing you see is Arthur, of course. His jaw is fluttering madly, a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead but the candlelight makes him look ethereal. You still can’t believe he’s here, alive.

Tears start to glisten in your eyes. You’ve never cried during sex before, not for anything positive, at least, but somehow this doesn’t feel wrong. Arthur slows again, watching you, and you spot an extra shine to his own jade orbs. He knows. He feels it too. 

He’s right there with you. As he always is.

He brushes a piece of hair stuck to your forehead away, and the gesture is enough to send the tears falling down the same worn path on your cheeks as before.

“I love you, Mr. Morgan…” “I love you, Mrs. Morgan…” 

It seems to become too much for Arthur to stay still, and you’re glad for it. You’re desperate for the friction, already flying towards another orgasm. He’s really fucking into you this time, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. He’s groaning and growling and you decide in that moment that it’s your favourite sound in all the world. 

“I… I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby…”

“C-Cum in me…” “Huh?” He slows, shuddering at the exertion required to control his movements, “I-”

But you’re not listening to his protests, your nails digging into the skin of his back and ass and anywhere else you can reach to urge him forwards again.

“Please Arthur, I-I need you… I need you to cum with me, I need you with me…” you plead with him, not truly understanding your need but honouring it. You’ve been without him for so long, you deserve him with you now.

He appears to consider you for just a moment, before diving down to lock your lips with his. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting every bit of you and he starts to pump into you unreservedly. His body grinds against yours and the friction is perfect and you’re so fucking full and before you can even try to hold back, you’re cumming again, stars scattering your vision, heart pounding out of your chest to find release from it’s mortal, physical cage. Your inner walls twitch around Arthur’s length and this time, he doesn’t hold back either. 

His eyes fly open and lock onto yours as you both climax together. It’s vulnerable and strange, but perhaps more connected than you ever thought possible for two people to be. 

Arthur’s cock twitches inside you, pumping out his spend as he groans viscerally, completely losing control of his rhythm as he thrusts into you one last time, harsh and deep. You’ve never experienced this before, with Arthur or any other man, normally erring on the side of caution when it came to such matters, but even as you come down you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Whatever you and Arthur just experienced together felt spiritual, and worth much more than a little risk.

Arthur collapses, even as depleted as he is still considerate enough to collapse onto his elbows and not crush you. He slides out of you, earning a little wince, and rolls to the side so you can rest your head on his chest. It’s like a locket that’s been ripped apart, finally fixed together with the most satisfying click. 

═══════☆═══════

Two months later, life has returned to its equilibrium. You and Arthur are perhaps clingier, still in a sort of second honeymoon phase where you just can’t seem to keep your hands off each other, more so than usual. It’s a side effect of prolonged solitude, you’re sure.

The first time it happens, you blame Pearson and think nothing of it. It’s pretty early in the morning and you’re sitting with Tilly and Abigail, peeling potatoes for the stew tonight. Abigail is venting her frustrations about when John did this and John said that, and everything feels so normal. Pearson arrives, throwing a rather large, rather dead fish onto the table you’re leaning against and you feel the thud from the weight of it vibrate against your back. 

It isn’t until the smell invades your senses that everything starts to feel off. It smells exactly like all the other fish Pearson has ever slammed onto that poor table, which doesn’t explain why you immediately lurch forwards, grabbing an empty bucket and throwing up your breakfast. The fish stench is suffocating and all you can do is get the hell away from it, not noticing when Abigail’s brows knit together almost… knowingly?

You skip the stew that night. 

―

The second time it happens, you try not to think about it. You’re riding Diesel and almost don’t make it off him in time. There is nothing to set you off, no horse shit or rotting animal at the side of the road, and yet in an instant your stomach feels like it has been flipped upside down. 

The sheer volume of your retching catches Arthur’s attention and he tugs on the leather reins in his hands to steady his mare. 

“Darlin’? Y’alright?” 

His concern is evident in his tone and in the tight line between his brows, which deepens when he finds you unable to respond in anything but a frantic nod. He dismounts, spurs clicking against the dusty ground when he approaches you. 

“Oh, sweetheart… that’s it, easy, easy… you’re okay…”

You feel gentle circles rubbed into the tense muscles of your back as you try to get through this again. It’s not lost on you that Arthur is speaking to you like a spooked horse, but it actually really does help. (You decide to prioritise peace of mind and not psychoanalyse why that is). Eventually, it relents and you regain your composure, albeit somewhat less gracefully than you’d have liked. 

“Sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me, maybe I ate somethin’.”

Your apology for something you can’t help earns you a sad smile from your husband, who places a loving kiss on the top of your head before reaching for your discarded hat and putting it back on for you.

“Y’don’t gotta apologise. I gotcha, darlin’.”

You know he does.

He always does.

―

The third time it happens, the luxury of denial is stolen from you. It’s early enough that your view while you sit with Abigail drinking coffee involves glorious hues of orange and pink scattered around the rising sun. It’s peaceful, tranquil. The warmth of the little metal mug in your hands and Arthur’s jacket around your shoulders is enough to ward off the fresh morning chill in the air.

There is absolutely no warning when it hits, when it happens again. You’re so goddamn sick (no pun intended) of hurling. Your eyes water and your throat hurts a little and you curse under your breath when it’s over. Abi is beside you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. She waits until it’s over before speaking hesitantly.

“Uh, can I ask you somethin’?” 

You nod, eyes still red and glistening as you swirl coffee around your mouth to take away from the awful, acidic taste lingering. 

“When did you last bleed?”

“What, like an injury? Uh, I cut my hand couple days back, but I don’t see what-“

… Oh fuck. 

═══════☆═══════

The anxiety bounces around your body and you decide that you’ve become far too acquainted with the concept of nausea. You can actually tell the difference between nerves  twisting your stomach and… well, let’s say it as it is:  morning sickness. This is the former, you deduce, spinning both your engagement and wedding ring around your finger to give your hands something better to do than carve fingernail-shaped moons into your palm. He should be home any minute now. Any minute now and it will all change forever.

It’s quite late, but the poker game Arthur was scoping out for potential jobs is known to last a while. You’re the only one still awake, poking the embers of the campfire to keep yourself as comfortable as possible. 

You hear hooves hitting dry dirt first, and it seems to trigger your fight or flight response. God, you’d love to run away from this, but that is pretty much impossible, so fight it is. It’ll be the greatest fight of your life, you’ll soon learn, one you’re privileged to be a part of. But right now, it feels like an all-consuming unknown. 

Arthur can tell something is wrong the second he sees you. You’re terrible at hiding things, especially from him. He always reads you as though you have a poster advertising your feelings printed on your forehead. Arthur dismounts, kissing you tenderly on the temple and wrapping his arms around you.

“What’re you still doin’ up, darlin’? Is everything alright?” You can feel his worry vibrating in his chest as you nuzzle into his embrace. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Can we talk? I kept the fire goin’.” You say it into his shirt, reluctant to move from this hold.

“Of course…” there’s something in his voice, a tense apprehension that really doesn’t help the knot contorting itself in your gut. 

While you’re more than capable of keeping a fire going, Arthur is an expert, and has it healthily burning within seconds of you sitting down on the overturned log the gang has fashioned into a bench. You’re back to spinning your beautiful gold bands around your finger, trying to remember to breathe in and out every so often.

“What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” His voice is so soft, so kind that it makes you want to cry. But you promised yourself you wouldn’t until you’d told him, because this might just be the most important conversation you’ve ever had, and you definitely won’t get through it if you’re a blubbering mess.

“I, uh… I… somethin’s happened.”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat and Arthur leans towards you, completely enveloping your hands in his. They’re sandwiched in now and you can’t fiddle with your rings anymore.

“What? What happened? Was it Micah? If he’s said somethin’ to you, I’ll kill him, the rat bastard-”

“No, no, it’s… as much as I’d love to see that, it’s not him.” 

The tension releases. Just a little bit.

“I’m pregnant.” 

Oh wait, there it is. 

The silence is deafening, even though you’re almost certain it isn’t actually silent out here right now. There's a fire going and crickets are just metres away, you’re just shutting down with nerves. 

The normally so often tense, fluttering jaw of Arthur Morgan is slack, his eyes wide and gaping at you, occasionally flicking down to your so far bump-less belly. (You should know- you’ve been obsessively looking in a mirror any chance you get for some sort of sign that this is really happening). 

Say something. Please say something. Please don’t be angry. Oh, God please don’t hate me. 

“I-I… You’re pregnant?” He repeats, reassuring you that you haven’t actually gone deaf, though his tone holds no indication of anything but shock. That’s probably fair…

You nod, hands instinctively reaching over your belly. It feels… weird. Holding your hands over your baby. Yours and Arthur’s baby. 

“It happened a couple months back, when you got back from The Grizzlies, I think… I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I shoulda’ been more careful and-and…” You’re rambling, filling a silence that probably should just be allowed to be a silence.

“There… There’s gonna be a baby?”

There. Right there, adorning Arthur’s beautiful features, is the pull of a smile. It chokes you up instantly, so far deep in nightmares of arguments and unhappiness that you hadn’t even considered the good. You start to nod, a little bit of your fringe falling in your face.

“Yeah… There’s gonna be a baby. Our baby…”

“Our baby…” He repeats, his arm raising to brush the hair away from your eyes in such a natural manner it feels like it’s just his instinct to care for you. It is his instinct to care for you, Arthur has shown you that in every minute of every day of your marriage, and suddenly you’re not sure why you’ve been so scared. 

“I’m gonna be a dad?” He still seems in disbelief, but that’s normal. It’s taken you a few days to come to terms with it, and even then the fingernail marks in your palms are still red raw. 

“You’re gonna be a dad.”

It hits him. Really hits him and he all but throws himself into you, scooping you up and spinning you around as he laughs unreservedly.

“Well goddamn, I’m gonna be a Daddy!” 

You laugh with him, worries and anxiety a distant memory as your feet swing around in the air. You’re probably waking the camp up, but you don’t care all that much. Right now, you’re the happiest girl in the world.

A baby. There’s gonna be a baby. Arthur’s baby.

Really, it’s the greatest gift a cowgirl could ask for.

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes. 

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight. 

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight. 

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky. 

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily. 

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat. 

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions. 

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet. 

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin. 

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name. 

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it. 

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal. 

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind. 

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that. 

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child. 

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith. 

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly. 

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass. 

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago. 

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women. 

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure. 

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse. 

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm. 

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?” 

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste. 

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.” 

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots. 

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.” 

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning. 

His smile widens. 

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?” 

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.” 

“So that’s how I get you to talk.” 

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive. 

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel. 

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue. 

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.” 

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?” 

“Jealous she ain’t with you.” 

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air. 

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you. 

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads. 

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth. 

It’s quiet again. 

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember. 

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work. 

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily. 

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss. 

Abigail’s raised him well. 

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.” 

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.” 

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?” 

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.” 

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.” 

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile. 

“So you are worried.” 

“Whatd’ya mean?” 

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.” 

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose. 

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.” 

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.” 

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile. 

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles. 

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking. 

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted. 

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals. 

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers. 

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling. 

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp  looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart. 

You help Tilly with the laundry. 

Karen and you care for spare guns. 

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love. 

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.  

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it. 

You don’t blame her. You used to too. 

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning. 

Javier and Bill from a home robbery. 

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis. 

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand. 

But no Arthur. 

It’s a bit disheartening.  Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then? 

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave. 

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet. 

You thank him with a glance. 

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week. 

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide. 

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out. 

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for. 

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return. 

“Yer mutterin’.” 

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore. 

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.” 

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you. 

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most. 

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing. 

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now. 

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning. 

“Yer mad.” 

“I am not mad.” 

“Sure ya are.” 

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct. 

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you. 

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello.  Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike. 

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning. 

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message. 

For a second, you think he doesn’t. 

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry. 

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants. 

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze. 

You’re sure he wishes. 

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines. 

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning. 

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.” 

You look up, raising a brow. 

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words. 

The only way he failed Hosea. 

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again. 

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.” 

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better. 

And you look up, less angry this time. 

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills. 

Finally, you acquiesce. 

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat. 

“Your hair’s gotten long.” 

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does. 

“Want me to cut it?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles. 

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?” 

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.” 

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly. 

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too. 

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks. 

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained. 

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder. 

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like. 

But you don’t. You never would. 

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. 

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another. 

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out. 

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return. 

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you. 

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead. 

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other. 

That was you. 

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people. 

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together. 

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie. 

“You’re not gonna ride?” 

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you. 

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.” 

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?” 

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking. 

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.” 

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.” 

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang. 

They make Arthur laugh. 

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.” 

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“You would if there was money in it.” 

“Is there?” 

“I’ll say no for my own sake.” 

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch. 

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame. 

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge. 

“You gotta get out more.” 

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.” 

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.” 

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.” 

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh. 

“What do you mean I’m not?” 

“You hate Saint Denis.” 

“I know but-“ 

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.” 

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.” 

“Mhm, sure.” 

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder. 

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do. 

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way. 

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room. 

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself: 

Talk to Dutch. 

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen. 

Help with any last minute chores. 

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too. 

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard. 

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization. 

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched. 

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times. 

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper. 

It’s strange when he gets like this. 

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head. 

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse. 

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan. 

“Are you serious?”  But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees. 

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there. 

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again. 

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar. 

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything. 

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.” 

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it. 

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly. 

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.” 

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.” 

“Sure.” 

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“ 

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.” 

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated. 

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul. 

But you let go, and turn away. 

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten. 

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before. 

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair. 

He’ll need a wash tomorrow. 

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade. 

Obviously, you wake before him. 

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams. 

His soft snores ensue. You drift away. 

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted. 

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee. 

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze. 

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard. 

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it. 

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back. 

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically. 

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue. 

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once. 

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all. 

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always. 

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?” 

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him. 

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been. 

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family. 

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron. 

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?” 

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other. 

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery. 

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts. 

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.” 

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?” 

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power. 

In hatred. In violence. 

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land. 

It had confused you. Hurt you even. 

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die? 

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you: 

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.” 

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too. 

You stare at Dutch. 

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch. 

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked. 

“Read it.” 

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?” 

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?” 

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense. 

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.” 

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?” 

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking. 

“And how often is that?” 

“More than I’d like.” 

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” 

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains. 

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye. 

And it’s all very domestic. 

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary. 

When dreams rule the plain of existence. 

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months. 

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret. 

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it. 

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have. 

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay. 

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile. 

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.” 

“He does, doesn’t he?” 

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?” 

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.” 

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!” 

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket. 

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.” 

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.” 

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.” 

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks. 

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.” 

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?” 

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.” 

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt. 

Little brown capped soldiers. 

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?” 

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.” 

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?” 

“It was before you were born.” You add gently. 

“Ohhh. Was it scary?” 

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?” 

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.” 

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is. 

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says, 

“There she is.” 

Micah’s back. 

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside. 

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated. 

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?” 

A sock is hung up, next a union suit. 

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?” 

You’re running short on clothespins. 

“You gettin’ tired of him?” 

There’s still enough for now. 

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?” 

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung. 

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.” 

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins. 

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.” 

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly. 

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean. 

Washed away of filth and stress. 

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over. 

“Good afternoon,” you say. 

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers. 

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?” 

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.” 

“We could rent a room.” 

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide. 

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.” 

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.” 

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate. 

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly. 

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page. 

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words. 

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what. 

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more. 

Not until night falls. 

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night. 

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out. 

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave. 

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped. 

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?” 

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.” 

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose. 

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.” 

“Was he angry?” 

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.” 

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars. 

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight. 

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves. 

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out. 

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.” 

“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts. 

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?” 

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together. 

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed�� let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him. 

Only him. 

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something. 

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light. 

He’s struck gold. 

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche. 

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers. 

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers. 

The gift of walls. 

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets. 

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties. 

Not since Mary. 

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered. 

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent. 

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to. 

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name. 

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too. 

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started. 

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. 

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts. 

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second. 

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache. 

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily. 

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good. 

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop. 

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress. 

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does. 

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea. 

You’re a woman, of course you have. 

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer. 

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint. 

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch. 

It’s intoxicating.  

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple. 

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier. 

You all but melt. 

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly. 

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated. 

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance. 

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants. 

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.” 

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant. 

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper. 

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do. 

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off. 

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm. 

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset. 

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further. 

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him. 

And finally, you slide onto his length. 

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely. 

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist. 

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again. 

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you. 

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being). 

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder. 

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else. 

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck. 

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach. 

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown. 

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him. 

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out. 

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful. 

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress. 

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves. 

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does. 

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress. 

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg. 

“Please, what?” 

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours. 

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum. 

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set. 

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen. 

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy. 

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot. 

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation. 

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would. 

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant. 

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly. 

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck. 

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself. 

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over. 

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock. 

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties. 

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated. 

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders. 

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is. 

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name. 

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss. 

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like. 

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.” 

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say. 

“No it ain’t.” 

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.” 

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created. 

“Okay.” 

[wisteriadumster]

Gamble ❥ Micah Bell

 MICAH BELL X FEMALE READER

CW➻❥ ⋆ gambling ⋆ smoking ⋆ drinking ⋆ handjob ⋆ p in v ⋆ light choking ⋆ a lot of aggression ⋆ f! and m! orgasm ⋆

WC➻❥1389➻❥ this isn't well proof read so any mistakes or odd things are purely accidental

Summary➻❥ it’s just you and Micah at the end of the poker game and you bet yourself. You win and Micah pays for the hotel room, where you have the roughest sex you’ve ever had

A/N ➻❥ I know it’s Micah Bell, but some people actually wanted a fic so I’m providing. I may have also slightly enjoyed this

Do Not Steal Or Translate My Work!

Shags

You sat at the table, waiting for the bet of the remaining gambler, Micah Bell. “Two bucks,” he tossed the cash into the pot. “Two bucks and if I win, well, you take me out.” Micah looked up at your bet, “take me out to that hotel in Valentine.” You pushed your money to the pot, your eyes watching Micah look you all over. “That’s a damn good bet woman,” his voice rasped.

You flipped the final card of the round, you looked back at your cards and held back a smile, a straight flush was in your hands. You looked up at Micah, waiting for him to reveal his hand. “Full house,” he laid the five cards out. Keeping a straight face you set down your cards, “straight flush.” You saw his eyes widen, “you a little cheater ain’t ya?” He looked back down at his cards, “are you upset that I won?” You fake pouted, you knew that Micah was begging to lose while playing. “Ready your horse woman.” He tilted back the final sips of his whiskey and left the table, going to Baylock.

You left camp shortly after Micah, trying not to raise suspicion for the other gang members1, not that they cared who had sex. You hitched your horse and entered the hotel, “how may I help you ma’am?” The hotel owner greeted you, “I’m meeting someone, should’ve rented a room from you not more than an hour ago.” You replied, “ah yes he’ll be upstairs, farthest room to your right.” The man cleared his throat and dismissed you as you went upstairs

You laid a gentle knock on the door, Micah opened it a crack before opening it to allow you in. “You’re serious about this?” Micah was surprised of all people, you wanted to sleep with him. “I’m here aren’t I?” You laugh, “damn right you are.” His eyes stare down your cleavage that you had begun exposing as you walked up the stairs.

Micah watched you as you moved, taking the singular wooden chair and moving it against the window, parallel to the fireplace that was blazing. “Sit,” you moved to the side of the chair, inviting him for your activities. Micah obliged, watching as you went to the door and locked it, then watched as you spun back and went towards him.

You looked down at the seated outlaw, your eyes staring with a certain dominance that Micah wasn’t used to. You lowered down, your legs spreading as your knees bent. Now you’re looking at him with a hint of submission, it made him all the more pleased to see a hint of prey in your eyes. You pulled the buckle of his gun belt loose, allowing yourself to the button of his pants. Micah lets you work, his attention going to the cigarettes in his pocket, which he pulled out and lit. His eyes shut as he began to inhale the tobacco and, as you finally exposed his hard cock. You sucked your cheeks for a moment to accumulate some spit, that you gently put into the palm of your hand. You wrapped your hand around Micah, allowing him to adjust to the sudden touch, you began to follow the length of his cock.

You looked up at him, his head was tilting back as you continued, the cigarette leaving his mouth as he blew out. You loved his vulnerability as you touched him, you never imagined him to be so as, he was so cruel and demented.

“Stop,” he crushed the cigarette ember with his fingers. “I don’t want just this.” You stood up as he did. He was quick to grab hold of you, his rough hands pulling you against him. His lips were anything but romantic, they were hungry and impatient. Micah wanted you, he wanted you bad. His hard cock was pressed against you as you both stumbled around the room, smashing against the dresser. You leaned yourself against it, your hands unsure of where to go, they tugged in his hair, his hat falling to the ground from your aggression. “I've been waitin’ to have you.” He mumbled against your lips before his tongue slipped into your mouth. His tongue explored and tasted you, his body grinding against you.

The room was hot, you were already sweating from his dominance and force. Micah was devouring your lips with his, he pulled back, panting. He began unbuttoning his shirt, which signaled to you to begin removing your own clothes. Thankfully you had worn a simple dress, which you quickly scrunched in your hands and pulled over your body, nothing underneath to protect you. Micah stared at your bare skin, a lustful smirk of his face, ready to have full control over you.

Micah left his shirt on, his stomach free. He grabbed hold of your hips, pulling you against him. His cock was itching and teasing your inner thigh as he kissed your jaw. He kept you against him as he pulled you to the bed, he pushed your shoulders, letting you fall down onto the bed. Your mouth tasted of the whiskey and cigarettes he had before this, before he was kissing down your body. He was ravenous, his tongue swirled around a nipple before he continued down.

Micah pulled himself up, hovering over you before he looked down. Looking down he aligned himself with you. You heard a light exhale come from Micah before his cock pushed into you. You couldn’t resist a moan as he pushed all the way in, making you two even closer together. You looked at Micah, his eyes had a stare, it was one he had when he felt in control. “You like that huh?” He tilted, smirking as he watched your expression.

“Mmmh,” you hummed as he thrusted. Micah was loud, groaning as he pushed in you, “damn you feel good.” He mumbled, a hand going to your right breast, gripping it hard. His thumb ran over and traced your nipple, watching you tense as the sensation.

Micah’s hand traveled up your body, slightly wrapping around your neck. He smirked at how preyful your eyes had become. His breath was hot with tobacco and rugged with whiskey, breathing against your neck as his pace increased. His thrusts; making you clash together, making moans escape you, making groans shoot out of him.

“You feel good, fuck.” His words crawl down you, your body beginning to tense as your orgasm was almost to its peak. A leg was slung over his shoulder, the skin rubbing against his shirt. The bed was shifting and scratching the floor, it was no secret what you two were doing. Your skin smacked each other, adding to the sound of the room that was beginning to overflow with sounds.

“God!” You practically screamed as his tip hit the “itch.” He let out a low laugh and continued to thrust in the direction, making you scream out each time he hit it. As Micah’s own climax rose, the grip around your throat tightened. It felt oddly pleasant, his hand releasing just before it truly began cutting air flow.

Your own climax followed behind by the sudden fulfillment of his cum. Your body relaxed from its tense state, you were loudly panting for air. Micah let your leg fall off him, he was just on top of you, in the same state. “God damn, woman.” He whispered, “you do that better than I had thought.” Micah was no longer denying his past of dirty thoughts of you, not that it had even bothered you at this point.

“Get dressed,” he pulled out his cock, which was still throbbing. “I’ll stay here tonight, you go back to camp.” Micah began to button his shirt as you sat up, “don’t want them knowing I did this.” You were surprised he was embarrassed this happened but you didn’t give it much thought. You grabbed your dress and pulled it over yourself, supporting your weak body against the dresser.

You left the general store, a pack of cigarettes and matches in hand. You mounted your horse and began to Horseshoe Overlook, a newly lit cigarette in your mouth, Micah on your mind.

“Where have you been?” Mary-Beth came up to you as you got off your horse, “I was out.”

[amrass]

3/8 oneshot requests filled

This is a little update on my reader-request-darkfic-project on Ao3, Barbwired Tumbleweed, this time intended for the Micah fans. Three of eight fills are now done, and I'll begin filling the other five requests.

(Undead!Abigail x soon-to-be-undead!John smut is next in line!!!)

Below are links with info on the three fics. One is Gen, one is M/F and one is M/M, but remember, these stories are intentionally disturbing.

1. Bear Trap: Micah Bell & Bill Williamson. While running from an O'Driscoll, Micah gets his foot stuck in a bear trap. He is then saved by a bear.

2. Night Swimming: Micah Bell/Jenny Kirk. Jenny is out swimming one late evening, reaching the outskirts of camp, where she spots a familiar figure.

3. Barbwired Tumbleweed: Micah Bell/Sam Freeman. After committing crimes in Tumbleweed, Micah trades sexual favors against water with the sheriff.

These three all include varying degrees of graphic violence. Number 2 and 3 deserve a rape/non-con warning. All (of my fics ever) have ambiguous endings that might be considered bad endings by some.

I had a lot of fun writing these!!!

Thanks to those that shared their ideas with me :D

[westernhar3]

The Coyotes Call (Charles Smith x Reader)

Charles x Reader - F/M explicit

The silence of the Heartlands was almost addicting, out here in the empty plains broken only by the rock formations and equally rocky hills. You hadn’t meant to stay away so long; you had travelled away from Clemens Point to find some kind of job. Anything would do just enough to bring in the cash that Dutch was begging for, yet somehow you hadn’t found anything apart from wanted posters and dust. Some how that summarised your life these days. You were pretty sure that the whole ordeal with the Grays and the Braithwaites was going to bite the lot of you on the ass. You couldn’t say that though, so you just leave for a job away from Rhodes. You lost track of the days between riding out to Valentine or to Emerald Ranch, your days were full of petty robberies and hunting. In all you were turning up a fair bit of cash but nothing life changing. So, you stay away and keeping moving to different camps.

For a while you though about setting up in Horseshoe Overlook but that place seemed haunted. No one had died there, no life lost but without the gang it seemed barren. There was nothing there but the ruins of an old wagon and a mass of bottles and cans; to you they appeared like ancient sacred markers now rotting away. So, you moved on and went back to the overflow. Here you settled tucked away from people and the elements, it was a good spot that seemed almost carved out for you.

Still, you did not know how much time has passed since you left but you guessed it had been a while. For some reason you were not too bothered by it, you missed the bustle but that was all you had joined after Micah and Charles. You had been running alone for a while and before that you were just another dance hall girl selling yourself just to make ends meet. This life was harder, but it never felt like you were being used.

You waited now on a hill, body pressed flat against the ground hidden away in the buffalo grass. In front of you sat your rifle it looked out into the expanse of the plains. Every now and again you moved your head to stare into the scope before moving away again and then back. You did this five times before setting your chin against your arm and just listening. All you could really hear was the soft chews of your horse and the bird song. At some point you had begun to zone out, the world washing away from around you as you tried your hardest not to drift away.

“Here you are -” the words fell into the air like the tolling of a bell, you hadn’t expected to be approached and it snapped something in you like a tripwire.

Moving quickly, you stood and turned, knife gripped tight to turn on the stranger in as much defence as the actions of a mountain lion. Quick and surefooted you move toward the stranger almost blindly; before you could cause any damage the face of the stranger came into focus his hand coming up to grip you tightly stopping your mid slash. He leant back slightly just away from the point of the knife and smiled. It was a beautiful and familiar smile the type you liked to think he only ever gave you.

“Charles,” you smile back at him lowering your knife and easing your body, you slipped the weapon back into your boot and stepped forward a little looking him over. “I was sent to look for you by Dutch,” he says that deep almost monotone voice sent shivers down your spine as he looked you over “it’s been almost two weeks y/n.”

Had it really been so long it felt like it had only been at most a week since you left. You pondered for a second looking at Taima and the way she moved over to your own horse and had begun to gently nip his shoulder.

“Has it really been that long?” “Yes. What have you been doing out here for so long?” “I was looking for a job and I guess I ended up living the life of a hunter and trapper,” this makes you laugh for a moment. A legal and somewhat safe way of life that was never an option before you had met Charles and he had kindly instructed you on how to hunt and track. “There are worst things I suppose.”

You smiled at him again, he had never really been one for words. As if words were too much for him to bother with, instead he stood a silent strong figure that stirred something within you. He was sent out often with Arthur to make even the bravest men speak, he was endowed with such a fierce look to him only intensified by his stillness. He reminded you of a wolf resting on a ledge just watching the world in preparation to strike. He was the opposite of Sean who never shut up or stayed still and was only terrifying when holding a fire bottle.

“So, you going to come back to -” “It’s late, I have some venison left and I like it here.” “Okay, just come back soon.”

Perhaps it was the way he moved, the way his muscles flexed under his body as he swung himself up into the saddle, but you couldn’t let him leave. You catch up with him but find yourself tripping slightly on the uneven ground. You take hold of the reigns to right yourself with one hand resting on his thigh fingers lightly touching the inside. You pull your hands away just as quickly as you had placed them on him bringing them up close to your chest as you both just stand looking at each other.

“You change your mind?” “No – I – Do you want to stay the night?”

He looks back at you with questioning eyes no words falling from his lips and yet he seemed to gesture for you to lead the way or at least you hoped that was the case. You felt for a moment like Orpheus as if looking back at Charles would cause him to disappear. Instead, you pick up the rifle swinging it over your shoulder and taking hold of the wooden horn on your saddle pull yourself up and begin riding toward the Overflow. You count the sound of hooves.

[tahitianmangoes]

Pairing(s): F!Reader x Micah Bell

Summary:  You had always liked rougher men. Bad men. The wrong men.

Tags/triggers: NSFW Word Count: 1750

We All Like a Bad Boy, Don’t We? (Not A Fucking Outlaw Though, Chris)

After a lucrative morning in Valentine, you returned triumphant to the camp, your pockets heavy with money and items swiped from unsuspecting townsfolk. You made a show of putting what you’d earned into the camp’s donations box.

Dutch of course didn’t let it go unnoticed, always with one eye on the box he came over when he saw you filling in the ledger. 

“Three pocket watches, two wedding rings and $68! That’s my girl. Everyone needs to take a leaf out of your book, my dear.” He said loudly so that everyone took notice. 

Arthur was standing by the campfire and turned to Dutch’s booming voice. You’d been running with the Van Der Linde gang for the best part of a year now and you’d be lying if you didn’t say that you didn’t think that Arthur was probably the most handsome man you had ever met. He was gruff but kind, rugged and handsome but damn, did he not have a clue. He didn’t notice how women and men alike would stop to gawk at him - he was statuesque in his beauty.

“That’s a lotta money for a little lady,” he said teasingly, “where’d you get all that?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” you replied with a wry smile. 

“Were you followed?” Arthur asked, he still smiled but he looked at you in earnest.

You rolled your eyes at him, “what do you take me for?”

“Good girl.”

You left Dutch and Arthur, heading to the treeline at the edge of the camp for some peace and quiet for a little while, maybe you could even take a nap before someone came to find you to ask something else of you…

You sat down initially, looking out over the Dakota River. The camp boasted some of the best vistas you had ever seen. It was then that you heard a rustling in the bushes behind you and you jumped back to your feet. 

It was Micah Bell. He leaned against a large oak tree just behind you. You hadn’t noticed him but it didn’t surprise you to see him there, he often spent a lot of his downtime on the outskirts of the camp. 

Micah’s ice blue eyes peered out at you beneath the brim of his off white hat, his face framed by this dirty blond hair.

Micah hadn’t caught your attention at first when you had joined the gang. Not even second but he grew on you, slowly and steadily like moss on a rock.

You understood exactly why everyone else resented him - he was past gruff, he was rude and often chauvinistic and sometimes downright repugnant. 

Why in the hell did that get you so hot?

There was something about the way Micah Bell sneered and smirked so smugly. There was something about the way he leered at you when you leant forwards sometimes to reach something to get a better look down your blouse - it sickened you but simultaneously, it was exciting.

You had always liked rougher men. Bad men. The wrong men. You weren’t one for romance; you liked to see and feel it for yourself. Raw passion meant more than followers or empty words. 

Even the notorious Dutch Van der Linde was too tame for you. Micah on the other hand… He sure was untameable. 

“Is that what you like?” He scoffed, “the likes of Morgan pattin’ you on the head like a little dog an’ callin’ you a good girl?”

You squared up to him, not missing that his eyes were sparkling as he held you in his gaze.

“Surely you know me better than that, Mr Bell. I ain’t no one’s pet.”

“What a shame…” Micah breathed and you shivered. 

Maybe he saw that and saw how your cheeks were flushed now because his smirk only darkened. “I don’t think we’d be missed for a short bit, would we?” You found yourself shaking your head. “Why don’t you come here and tell me what you do like?”

You went to him as if possessed by him, bewitched by his suggestion. Before you knew it you stood before him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him on this warm, spring afternoon. 

You couldn’t deny that you had thought about this more than maybe you should have. Sure, you’d imagined what most of the people in camp would be like to lie with - Arthur would be tender, Javier intense and Charles… well let’s just say you’d seen him bathing once before and wouldn’t mind trying out what he was hiding under those clothes...

But you always returned to thinking about Micah; you knew he’d fuck fast and reckless. He’d talk dirty and have you in positions that would make a whore blush. 

And god did you want to live that fantasy…

“Cat got your tongue?” Micah asked you, voice low and borderline seductive, “come tell me what you want.”

As soon as you inched closer to him, the pair of you were kissing hard. You wondered whether Micah had thought about you was much as much as you had him. 

His kiss was rough and left you breathless, his beard scratched against your soft skin and he wasted no time in pawing at you through your blouse, fingers deceptively swift at undoing the fastenings so that he could free your breasts and  knead them. You trembled into his touch, the hardened skin of his fingers dragged over your already erect nipples and you had to stifle a whimper. 

He chuckled into your mouth. He was enjoying this.

Bastard.

You felt him shift, pushing his thigh between your legs and your whimper turned into a groan, your eyes fluttering shut at that delicious pressure he had introduced.

“You like it, huh?” He said breathlessly letting you ride his thigh while he stooped to let his tongue swirl your nipple and bite playfully at your breasts.

The material from your skirt and drawers was preventing you from feeling everything as you rutted against him. You let out a sound of frustration and pulled away, panting, sweat starting to pool at the base of your neck. Swiftly you removed your drawers, letting them fall into the mud at your feet. Micah clicked his tongue at the sight of your naked pussy. You would have been embarrassed had you not been so wet and uncomfortable - you could see where your juices had left trails on his beige pants. He didn’t seem to care. 

He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back to him with ease and with one hand, he reached down and let his fingers dip inside your slick folds.

You gasped at the feel and he growled, fingers knowing exactly what to do- circling your clit so you bucked in his grip and whimpered his name.

“Tell me what you want, little miss,” Micah whispered, his hands on your were hot but his breath was hotter as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck, “You know what you want, you just don’t know how to ask for it. Don’t be shy.”

“F-fuck me, Micah.”

“I thought you’d never ask, darlin’.” 

He flipped you around so that you faced the tree he had been leaning against and hitched your skirt up. You heard a rumble from his chest, his fingers traced the slit of your pussy and circled your asshole making you squeak. You could hear the material of his pants being undone. “So pretty and wet, just for me...”

He pushed into you without warning, eliciting a low groan from you at the sensation of being filled. You rocked back against him instinctively, needed the motion and the friction but Micah thrust slowly, almost lazily until you whined at him

“Micah… Please…” It wasn't fast enough to to relieve you; you needed it faster, needed him to ram into you and fuck you senseless.

Micah chuckled again. That damn laugh of his. You could imagine the look on his face now, vainglorious. 

“What would Morgan say about his good girl now?” Micah cooed,  “Takin’ cock so nicely and beggin’ for more… If someone were to look over they'd see you and what you really are…”

You cared not one bit if Morgan or the whole camp saw you. The pit of your stomach was coiled and you needed him to move, needed to feel that release.

You pushed back again harder and he growled, hands reaching around to cup your breasts. You pushed back once more desperately, you could feel his breath on your skin. 

“Mmm, that’s right sweetheart. Why don’t you do the hard work for me?”

You pushed back then brought yourself forward in his cock repeatedly, slow at first so you could feel the length of him. You picked up the pace once comfortable, could feel his cock brush up against your sweet spot but knew you couldn't come like this so your hand dipped between your legs to give you some relief as you rubbed your clit.

Micah's chest rumbled at the sight and he placed his hands back on your hips so he could continue to plough into you.

Your breaths filled the clearing: your stifled moans and Micah panting.  You clung to the tree, the bark under your nails and your head foggy with lust. 

Micah wrenched your head back, one hand on the tree trunk to anchor him and the other around your throat. He squeezed ever so slightly but that was enough to make your eyes roll back, your tongue go slack in your mouth and your legs tremble as you came. You could feel yourself soaking him but couldn’t stop. Micah didn’t stop either, pounding into you at a faster pace now, the sound of squelching and skin slapping against each other seemed louder than gunshots but you were spent, leaning into him and moaning at each new thrust, pushing you ever the edge  until he cussed and grunted.

You felt warmth seeping down between your thighs as Micah let your skirt back down. The pair of you caught your breath, Micah tucked himself back into his pants and you buttoned your blouse back up. 

Micah offered a cigarette to you and lit it for you. 

“Don’t worry,” he said to you, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, “I won’t tell Morgan.”

[kaziklubaby]

LOVE LOVE LOVE your micah x readers. Maybe do one where reader has feelings for micah--possibly upset about it cause hes just a dick to everyone including the reader--and he catches the reader touching herself while calling his name and he has to punish her for it.... I am such a Micah Hoe.... love the kinks (choking, hand spanking, hair pulling, and biting--sometimes to bleed--and love the "good girl" stuff) 🤤🤤🤤🤤 sorry for I have sinned

Hi, anon! I’m so happy to receive an ask right now! yaay~

And thank you so much for your compliment, I’m just a humble bitch trying to write something nice.

I hope this small smut meets your expectations

Title: Swamp Nights

Words: 1.6k

Pairings: Micah Bell x f!reader

Warnings: (+18)

     It was a hot sultry night on Shady Belle, the air so thick and warm that your skin felt sticky. You’ve been trying to hide away from the others to try and relax since it had been a terrible day. Maybe it was because of the moon that was turning full or maybe a general coincidence, but Micah had been particularly nasty that day. He didn’t show you any mercy, provoking you from time to time - and he perfectly knew how to press all the right buttons.

     It seemed as if he felt a dark satisfaction in making you angry, trying to extract the worst from you.

    “You could wash my clothes today, MC, they’re just a bit dirty” - he would say while dumping rags and shirts with his dry cum on them - “That’s what you do right? Wash it clean. Maybe you’ll get an idea of how a man should smell”.

     And you couldn’t control yourself.

     “Why don’t you wash it with your tongue, you bastard! Lick it and shove it up your ass!” - you screamed near the river, getting on your feet as quickly as your temper made you to.

     Micah would laugh.

     “Getting bothered, doll? Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from” - his crooked smile made your blood boil under your skin - “If you is good, I may even give you some…If you deserve it”.

     You hated the way he touched his pelvis as he said that, as an invitation. 

     “You’re fuckin’ disgusting! A worm! Not even your mother you take you back into her womb!”

     “Is that a compliment?” - he never seemed offended, but rather enjoying your rage, like he was always preparing the final act for later. Micah’s smile reminded you of a crocodile, all teeth and no true laugh, cynical, the way he waited for the proper time to take you down.

     Now alone in the dark, you felt that rage traveling throughout your body, burning you slowly, but never completely fading. But, if you hated his guts, you hated yourself more. He was the last of the men, and yet, when you thought of him, you couldn’t help to feel wet. So wet, almost as if you peed yourself.

     You had kept one of his shirts for that night. A red one. His scent was heavy on the fabric, filling your nostrils with his bittersweet smell. Your hand traveled inside your pants, your fingers easily finding the source of your desperation - secret cave, empty dwelling in feverish heat, in wanting of something to fill your desire.

     With the other hand, you kept his shirt against your face as you played with your soft skin. Two or three fingers, it wasn’t enough, even if you stretched the small space, it felt as if you were trying to put out a fire with a cup of water.

     “Micah… you son of a bitch… I hate you so much…” - you said and kept saying between whimpers and moans. 

     You hated him so much that the feeling of your fingernails ripping against his face was a regular daydream, but when the night fell and your body went warm and lonely, you wanted a different thing from him. 

     It was true, he made you feel bothered. You never had laid with him for obvious reasons ( in fact, with none of the men on camp, you weren’t some type of rent-whore), but you couldn’t let go of the idea of actually go through with his proposal.

     What were you? Some kind of moron?

     You closed your eyes and pushed your fingers even deeper into your insides. Oh, yes you were the biggest stupid out there, and you needed him so bad it made you feel ashamed.

     “I thought I heard my name…” - you heard.

     Suddenly your eyes were wide open, you hid your hands behind your back as quick as you could. You were far away from camp that night, meters into the swamps, and the lights of the house were but a ghost lingering in the night, but even so Micah Bell had found you.

     He must had been waiting for this chance.

     “Don’t mind me, sugar, you keep doing whatchu doin’” - he said, and his voice was heavy with a dark tone, even if he tried to play it as casual.

     You were so surprised - almost scared - that you couldn’t say anything. Shame and fear crossed your eyes, as you looked for a place to hide.

     “I know that look… you look like an animal that wants to escape from me… - he breathed deeply the night air, making noise - “And you have my favorite shirt on top of that. Didn’t anyone teach you that stealing is wrong, little girl?”

     He was satisfied like a reptile. All teeth, no smile. 

     “I can’t let that pass… Or else you could go on robbin’ other folks too, and we don’t want that, do we? You is lucky that was I who found out your little crime… and your little pleasure”.

     “No, Micah, go away” - you suddenly found your voice as you stood up to your feet.

     “I simply can’t, doll - he said, coming into your direction, you were frozen in place - “someone has to punish you good so you won’t forget who owns you…” - he said, and his hand grabbed between your legs with resolution, pressing you with violence - “Bad girls have to be punished”.

     You felt all your strength fade with a moan, your legs went numb and all you could think of was his cock inside of you, thrusting against your womb. You didn’t know what hurt the most, his hand or the desire within yourself.

     He pushed you against a tree and demanded your pants on your knees. You were so ready to have him that your cunt ached like thorns were already inside of you. Your mouth was closed in a hard line, but your eyes were humid, melted in pledge.

     “I hate you… I hate you Micah…” - you said again, trying to regain some control.

     His hand now discovering your secrets with rough fingers.

     “I can feel how you hate me, right here…” - he said, pressing your clit.

     You moaned - it was a cry of pleasure and pain. You didn’t want to wait anymore, but oh! how sweet it was the waiting, nonetheless. A neverending type of madness crossing your body and mind. 

     “Tell me, how should I educate little girls that don’t do what they is told?” - he rubbed you hard and intensely. His eyes never leaving your face.

     You tilted your head back against the tree.

     “Fuck me…” - you whispered.

     “Look at me when I’m talking to you” - he said - “Good. Now, say it again”.

     “Fuck me.” - you said, frustration painting your words.

     “And…? Ask me nicely and I might do it for you, or else… I’ll have to find another way to punish you”.

     “Fuck me, please Micah!” - you said, as he slipped his fingers inside of you, exploring each wet corner.

     “Then I’ll make you my cum-whore. I’ll stuff you with cum and piss, and you will thank me every time”.

     For a moment you too were silent, his blue eyes locked into yours, you could smell whiskey on his breath, and also feel how his band abandoned your cunt and turned you facing the tree.

     “Fuck me now!” - you squirm opening your legs like a whore on a heat, everything to make his entrance easier, deeper, please, cum in me, fill me with it until I can’t take it anymore. 

     He opened his trousers, and his dick was already hard as you felt it against your butt. Painfully throbbing in the night air.

     Micah grabbed you by your hair and in a single thrust he was inside of you. All of him at once. 

     “So tight MC… If I didn’t know better, I would say you is still a virgin” - he said as he stretched you to him.

     You felt as he pushed against your core, and your cunt ached as if it was a raw wound. He kept moving his hips deeply inside of you, violently shaking your body as you held onto the tree. The harder he was, the louder were your moans.

     He kept holding onto your hair, pulling your head back until you could see only the sky hidden behind tree branches.

     “You was all high and mighty, no man could lay a finger on you, wasn’t it?”- Micah said with a sadistic pleasure - “Well, now you ain’t nothing but my cum-whore, and you’ll take any shit I give you”.

     And he pounded against you with anger and lust. You could hear his breathing against your ear, and how good it felt when he bit you on your shoulder. Ravenous pain, tears and cries. He had rendered you his completely. All flesh to his pleasure, to his anger.

     You felt your legs shaking uncontrollably, and for a moment all went blank as you felt a strange liquid running down your legs. You had pissed yourself? It never happened before.

     “Ugh, you’re so disgusting, pissing on me like that… I think you’s even hotter now” - he said, between surprise and satisfaction.

     And he found a way to fuck you harder, hitting your butt cheeks as you moved for him, much like a slave with no control of its own. You were no longer “you”. You were his desire, his cum-whole, and his alone.

     You could feel his cum filling you by this point, warm and thick. He moved a little longer to be sure you took all he had that time, no wasting his seed.

     He left you there. Naked and shaking, dripping cum and sweat.

    You were angrier than ever.

—-

[herbatalover]

First request for @arthurmorgansleftear

I hope this will be good enough since it's pretty much first request I do on here. Please enjoy.

Camp boahs comforting reader after Micah comments on their weight

Gn!reader

The day started calmly. Birds singing, fish swimming, rats wondering around the kitchen.

Speaking of kitchen, you decided it's a good time to get some food. You haven't eaten in a while and a good outlaw has to eat plenty, so you decided it's your time.

Speaking of rats, it so happened that one of the camp rats was sitting there. Not really doing anything else than sipping whiskey, a sight no one can be surprised about.

You calmly ignored him. You learnt that that's the best way for you to go on with your day without having to break his nose.

Yet he always asks for it.

Even now.

As soon as he saw you approaching, Micah immediately grinned.

"Didn't expect you here"

You stay quiet, only giving him a confused glance.

Now, depending on your silhouette, he'll find a way to get under your skin.

Either "Didn't you come here today already?" "And I've been wondering where all the food goes..." "Look at that, you'll soon have to buy yourself new clothes if you keep eating so much!"

Or "first time in a month, ey?" "You finally decided to eat! Everyone thought you're sick" "If you like starving so much, why are we wasting our food on you?"

He has his ways.

And we all know he doesn't have the perfect body either, so you try to ignore him.

Try to.

Of course, it doesn't end well, since you end up trying to hide your feelings.

It hurt. Of course it did, why wouldn't it?

You quickly walk away, not even bothering to actually eat something. You only hear his sickening laugh as you walk away.

He knows he has won.

~

Arthur's first reaction as soon as he heard that familiar laugh was to check what's going on.

Obviously if Micah's happy, someone's not.

You bumped into him just as he walked towards the place.

His hands landed on your shoulders as he looked down to you.

Now, Arthur might be an idiot, but he can easily read someone's emotions from their face.

You were hurt. Micah was happy.

That bastard.

He looked at you with a concerned look.

"what happened?"

You just mutter that it's nothing. That it's just Micah trying to get under your skin. And that's what takes him over the edge.

Arthur walks up to the blonde rat and punches him right in the face.

While Micah's busy cursing him out, he takes you by the arm, gently, but firmly, and walks to your tent.

You want to ask what is he doing, but before you can, he hugs you.

Telling you that you shouldn't listen to stupid Micah. You're beautiful and everyone in the camp knew that.

Then he brings you a bowl of Pearson's stew.

You try to decline but he basically shoves it down your throat.

"Don't listen to that son of a bitch. You have to eat no matter what."

~

Charles isn't even bothered at first.

He learned to stay away out of camp conflict, so he couldn't be bothered.

But when he sees that it's you who's stomping away from Micah, he quickly jumps into action.

He walks to you, asking what happened.

Even if you don't want to tell, he makes you.

As soon as he hears what happened, he goes for the rat.

You know that moment where Charles throws Micah because he said something assholish?

Yea, that. He does that.

After that he walks to you and sits you down for a proper talk.

And that means him telling you why the food's important and why you're beautiful no matter how much you eat.

Then he gets some food and goes to his own tent, pulling you along of course.

Proceeds to feed you.

"You need energy. Besides, I didn't caught that deer for you to not try it."

~

John immediately tries to locate where what is happening.

As soon as he sees you with Micah, he gets up and makes his way over there.

He heard everything while coming over.

Wraps an arm around you, covering your ears and proceeds to curs the snake out.

You stand there, not knowing if you're supposed to cry or laughed.

You just watch Micah's expression go from annoyed to confused.

You didn't even noticed that John leaded you away.

He went outside the camp with you and looked at you.

Proceeds to hug the shit out of you.

Telling you that you shouldn't listen because what you eat is your deal.

And it definitely shouldn't impact on your self image.

For one's he said something smart.

"I don't care what other people say about you, you're goddamn beautiful. And everyone in the camp knows that. Shut up, you can't disagree"

~

Hosea usually doesn't care about the camp fights.

Prefers to stay out of it unless it includes him directly.

But he heard you mutter something to yourself.

So he raised his head from the newspaper to see what was going on.

Oh boy.

He doesn't do much.

Just gets up, rolls the newspaper, walks to Micah and smacks his head with it.

He ignores the rat cursing him out. Instead walks to you and leads you back to the fire.

Similar to Charles, explains why eating is important, telling you that you're beautiful and who cares about what Micah says.

He gives you a hug, then encourages you to eat something.

If you don't want to, he'll leave you alone.

But definitely will come to check on you every night.

"You gotta eat. So what if someone cares, are you harming them with your food?"

~

Dutch heard everything.

He was smoking a cigar outside of his tent when he noticed the situation.

Immediately walks there.

"What's going on?"

Micah tries to show the situation to Dutch as lighthearted, but when he noticed the leader isn't buying it, he looked away grumbling.

Dutch proceeds to explain to him that they accept everyone and that he didn't care about Micah's looks when he took him in.

He then takes you to his tent, sitting down with you and asking what was that about.

Talks you through why you think what he said might be true.

Basically a therapist.

He then gives you a hug, telling you to eat something.

"we need you big and strong! Another job's comin'!"

~

Javier was playing his guitar nearby.

As soon as he sees Micah's mouth open, he stops, turning his full attention there.

As soon as he starts talking, Javier took his guitar, walks there and smacks his head.

Micah will definitely have a bruise, but who cares.

Curses him out in Spanish.

Then pulls you with him back to his tent.

He let's you vent about everything.

Then plays you a song while you lean to him, bummed out.

After that, definitely makes you eat something.

"I know it's hard mi amigo, but you have to try!"

~

Sean is confused when he sees you walking away without the food.

He didn't hear anything happening, he only knew that you went to eat.

He gets up, going to you.

"where's your food?"

You look at him and mumble you weren't hungry.

He's confused, but then looks over to where you came from.

Ah. Micah.

He narrows his eyes and walk over there. You try to tell him it's okay, but he doesn't stop.

"oi! Don't bother my friend!"

Basically screams at him to the point his accent is too thick to be even able to understand.

It doesn't do much, but you appreciate it.

He then walks over you and cups your cheeks.

"look, I love you Y/N, but I don't want to have to stuff food down your throat"

Tries to make you laugh.

Eventually ends up eating with you so you'll feel better.

[ttuesday]

Hey babe, I absolutely love your writing, mainly for Micah.

If you're up to, I've been having this two ideas that I think would be great together, if you don't like it feel free to ignore this, I don't mind at all :)

I imagine Micah as the mr.steal your girl type of guy, and I also get comforting vibes from him. So maybe someone in the gang (maybe John or Sean?) cheat on reader and Micah comforts them then they end up together? a hc or one shot, I don't mind. Also, f! Or gn!reader if possible. Thank you 🤍

Word Count: ~3k (I got carried away with this lol)

Sean was always very open with you. It’s something you admired about him. When you first joined the gang, he made it obvious that he liked you and that he was eager to take you on a date.

He was also transparent about his past relationships, mentioning that he had a fling with Karen before he knew you. It didn’t bother you, it was in the past and Sean was dedicated to you now. Or that’s what you thought.

Sean had been so open with everything, he gave you no reason to ever be suspicious of him. That’s what made it hurt so much more, you trusted him whole heartedly but all that trust was shattered within seconds. 

You wandered towards the outskirts of camp, looking for Sean in the hopes of having some afternoon fun. But that’s when you heard it. “Oh and what am I supposed to say to her?” Sean sounded frustrated, throwing one of his hands up in the air “Huh? ‘Oh sorry dear, I had one too many and thought I’d show Karen how good our bed was?’”.

Your face dropped, your entire body going still. Karen, who was out of your sight and behind a tree, scoffed “Well, no, I don’t think starting off with us fucking while she’s out robbing is a good idea”.

You wanted the earth to swallow you whole. Both of them had their backs to you, gazing off at the horizon and trying to figure out how to break the news to you. Sean laughed “True, I don’t think she’d like it if that’s how we started it off”. 

It wasn’t the words that got to you, it was the fact he gave a little laugh. What, did he find this amusing? Did he think sneaking around behind your back was thrilling? That’s what snapped you back to reality. 

Within five minutes of overhearing them, the entire camp was aware of what had happened. You didn’t mean to get so angry or shout at the both of them as they hurried after you, fear in their eyes and stumbling over their words. Eventually as more and more people overheard all the shouting, Karen decided to take a step back and leave you be. But Sean continued to follow you, apologizing and saying how much he regrets you finding out like this.

You needed to get away. You weren’t sure how long you’d be gone for but you couldn’t stay at camp after all of this. “Please, just hear me out” Sean begged but you ignored him.

“Give the lady some goddamn space, Sean” Arthur shoved Sean a few steps away from you.

“What? No, I just need to explain” he argued, trying to side step Arthur.

Arthur quickly put his arm out to stop Sean and the two started to bicker. Thankfully, Sean got distracted arguing with Arthur, giving you enough time to gather the rest of your things and get to your horse.

As you mounted up, you saw Sean trying to get past Arthur to follow you again. As you flicked the reins to your steed, your eyes wandered to a figure at the other side of camp. Micah leaned against a tree, a revolvers in one hand and a rag drenched in gun oil in the other.

Micah watched you as you trotted away from camp. He knew there was a big argument but he didn’t know what it was about just yet. Micah knew he’d find out later in the night, probably from a drunk Bill or else he’d overhear Arthur talking to Dutch about it. Until he’d hear otherwise, he presumed it was a ‘lovers quarrel’.

-- -- --

You spent the night alone in a hotel room. Although it was definitely weird not having Sean next to you, you didn’t regret how you reacted and you certainly didn’t plan on taking him back. It was a long, restless night though you managed to get a few hours sleep after you finally broke down crying. A small part of you yearned for him but after that revelation, you didn’t want to even hear his name.

You knew you had to head back to camp eventually, see everyone giving you small glances when they think you’re looking the other way and unfortunately you knew you’d have to see Sean and Karen again.

Walking out of the hotel, something familiar caught your eye. Across the street and hitched outside the saloon was Baylock.

Micah wasn’t someone you considered a friend. You spoke to him occasionally but Sean despised the man and so you kept your distance. But Micah was always somewhat friendly towards you, even though he was infamous for annoying everyone else.

Sighing, you crossed the street and entered the saloon. Micah was leaning against the bar, beer bottle in hand. “Bit early for a drink, don’t you think?” You asked, hesitantly approaching.

“Thought I’d find you in here drowning your sorrows” he replied, preferring to look down at his drink instead of at you.

You scoffed “Oh I don’t have any sorrows that need to be drowned, Mr Bell”. That was a lie but hell would have to freeze over before you’d ever admit that loud-mouthed turd made your heart ache.

Micah did that low chuckle he always does and shook his head slightly. Clearing your throat and hoping to change topics slightly, you asked “So uh, what was camp like last night?”.

You thought it would be better to know what went on after you left. At least that way you’d know what you were walking back into.

“Plenty of fights, mostly people telling off Sean,” Micah side-eyed you, waiting to see your reaction “think I heard Miss Grimshaw yelling at Karen too”. You stayed quiet.

“Sounds like the whole camp got involved,” you finally commented after a few seconds of silence “well I best head back, guess I have to see them at some point”.

You turned on your heels and walked a few paces towards the door before Micah said your name, grabbing your attention again. You stopped in your tracks, glancing over your shoulder at him. “How’s about you have a drink, hm? Might make seeing everyone a whole lot easier” he suggested.

You hesitated, unsure if day drinking and spending time with Micah was a good combination. Micah could see your hesitation and so he tried to convince you again. “Look, have a drink and afterwards we can head back to camp together” he offered “if we go back together and you stay around me for the day then I promise Sean won’t come near you. Shit, none of them will come near ya as long as you’re next to me”.

As reluctant as you were, it was a good plan. Nodding, you walked back to the bar and sat up on a stool next to Micah. “Fine but you’re paying for my drink” you agreed, a playful smirk on your face. Micah mirrored your smirk, admiring how bold you were.

It was strange to spend time with Micah. Though the conversation flowed naturally, you knew he was actively trying not to mention what had happened. You knew people were going to ask about it but it was nice to see Micah make the effort to avoid mentioning it.

You had a surprisingly good time with him, laughing and joking about little things. It was the distraction your mind needed for a while. He made you laugh which seemed to surprise him more than it did you. And he was right, once you went back to camp with him, the rest of the gang left you alone.

Strangely you didn’t mind Micah’s company, which was something that completely baffled your mind. 

-- -- --

As the days turned into weeks, you slowly stopped thinking about Sean. It was hard, whenever he would come near you at camp it would make your skin crawl and you were constantly paranoid he’d try to ‘smooth things over’.

You didn’t want his apologies or explanations, you just wanted to move on. But that was harder than you initially thought.

After a few weeks, you’ve lost count of the amount of times you went off by the outskirts of camp and cried. You were over Sean but it was the incessant questions that plagued your mind that made you feel worse.

Every time you went off to cry, Micah wasn’t far behind. He was always there for you, gently rubbing your back as you cried into his shoulder. Around everyone else, you put on a brave face and got on with life. But when you were with Micah, you could lower your walls and be vulnerable.

“He never deserved you” Micah sighed, rubbing small circles in your lower back as you wiped away another tear. “Why wasn’t I good enough?” you sniffled, making your body involuntarily jerk forward.

Micah held onto you tighter and he guided you on to his lap. His touch alone brought you comfort you couldn’t even begin to describe. “He was the one that wasn’t good enough,” he said firmly.

You let out another sob, your breathing erratic. “Hey, look at me,” Micah softly cupped your cheek, making you meet his eyes “Sean’s a fool. You’re great with a gun and you can handle yourself on jobs, you’ve got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen and hell, anyone you take interest in is a real lucky bastard”.

After Micah said that, you both stayed quiet for a few moments. It was nice to hear that and you actually believed him. You’ve seen how mean Micah can be to people and how he doesn’t mind saying some unpleasant things to people so you truly believed what he said.

Out of everyone at camp, you never thought Micah would be the one to help you so much. He can be quite the caring man when he wants to be but only you ever got to see that side of him.

Feeling like he might’ve said too much, Micah moved his hand away from your cheek and looked away from you. You found it endearing how he got a little flustered, his breathing becoming heavier. Shuffling closer to him, you kissed his cheek. “Thank you” you whispered before wrapping your arms around him and nuzzling your head in by the crook of his neck.

Catching feelings for Micah seemed inevitable by then. He made you laugh, always made you feel good and showed genuine interest in you.

Whenever you would look for Micah around camp, he would be busy arguing with John or throwing insults at Pearson but the second his eyes would meet yours, you could see a slight change. His eyes would soften and his lips curve into a small smile.

As unexpected as it was, Micah was your rock and you didn’t try to stop yourself from falling for him. 

-- -- --

Each day, you and Micah grew closer. You were happy but more people began to notice how friendly you both were with each other. Mary-Beth and Lenny tried to bring it up with you, wondering why exactly you’ve taken a liking to Micah of all people but you shrugged them off.

It seemed as though everyone at camp had some kind of inkling you had a thing for Micah, well it seemed like everyone but Micah was aware. You were desperate for him to flirt with you, make a move and maybe even kiss you.

Of course you had no problem making the first move yourself but with everything that had happened with Sean, your self confidence wasn’t what it used to be. Another reason why you were hesitant was because of how good your friendship was with Micah. Whenever you thought about him rejecting you and becoming distant with you because of this, you shuddered and quickly pushed the idea out of your head.

Life was getting back on track… and that’s when Sean decided to approach you. In fairness, Sean had tried his best to respect your wishes of wanting space. He still cared about you dearly and didn’t want to cause you anymore pain but something within Sean told him he had to speak to you.

Sean waited until it was late in the night. You always stayed up late and there was hardly anyone else awake. He waited until you were alone by the campfire before awkwardly approaching you.

You tensed slightly. “Woah, it’s alright,” Sean said, seeing the small shift in your posture “I’m not here to talk about us, this is about something else”.

You still felt uneasy but curiosity got the better of you. “What do you want?” you asked.

“I, uh… well I’m worried about you,” he gazed down at the ground “I just don’t want you making any bad decisions”.

You had no idea what Sean was in about. Furrowing your brow, you pressed him to elaborate “And what’s that supposed to mean?”.

“It means you’re vulnerable right now and I don’t want people worming their way into ya” Sean never was great with his words.

You could feel anger building inside of you. You scoffed “Stop acting like you care about me, Sean. We both know you’re not saying this because you have my best interest at heart”.

Sean didn’t want this to become an argument but he couldn’t help get pissed off by that. “Of course I have your best interest at heart. I care about your best interest a lot more than that dirty piece of scum you’re spending most of your time with”.

“Oh and hear it is,” you said sarcastically, rolling your eyes “is this where you tell me Micah’s the worst person alive? That he’s a selfish asshole?”.

“Yes!” Sean exclaimed “That’s exactly what that man is!”.

You stood, knowing if you spent anymore time with Sean you’d end up punching him. “Stay out of my life, you don’t know Micah and at least he isn’t a lying cheater” you snapped, not caring about Sean’s reaction and storming away.

After a few minutes, you stopped walking when you reached the edge of camp, leaning against a tree before eventually slumping down on the floor. You were frustrated, annoyed and certain you never wanted to speak to Sean again.

You hid your face in your hands, debating whether you wanted to cry out of anger. But that’s when a snapping twig caught your attention. Looking up, you noticed Micah a few feet away, trying to find you in the darkness.

“Hey” you said quietly, catching his attention. Micah chuckled, not expecting to see you sitting on the ground. “I thought I saw you come out here,” he said as he became serious “did Sean upset you? Do you need me to have a talk with him?”. He was like a guard dog, ready at your command to go back and fight Sean.

You shook your head “It’s fine, I can handle him”. Micah didn’t look convinced. Kneeling down next to you, he asked again “You sure he didn’t upset you?”.

“I’m ok now,” you assured him “but I appreciate you caring”. Micah shrugged, making himself comfortable and sitting down next to you “Course I care”.

“But why? Why do you care about all of this?” The words spilled out of your mouth. You didn’t mean to be so abrupt but your feelings for Micah continued to grow and you needed to know if he felt the same way.

You could tell you had caught Micah off guard. “Well, cause you don’t deserve any of this,” he replied, turning his head to face you “you deserve a man who’ll care for ya, protect you, always be there for you… not Sean”.

You looked up at him, realizing that Micah’s eyes were entirely focused on your lips. “You’ve been there for me,” you pointed out, feeling some sort of magnetic pull to him “and you just admitted that you care”.

Micah hummed in agreement, his eyes meeting yours. You both had the same thing in mind. Slowly, Micah moved his face closer to you, only stopping when his nose brushed against yours. You could feel your chest tighten as you tried to muster up the confidence for that final push.

Throwing caution to the wind and living in the moment, you kissed him. It took Micah a second to process what was happening but he soon began to kiss you back. The kiss was cautious yet sweet. Micah would’ve loved to do a whole lot more but he knew not to push his luck and to do things step by step.

Once your lips parted ways, you giggled nervously. Micah smiled, relived you’re actually attracted to him.

“I got a robbery lined up for tomorrow,” he  shuffled closer to you “how’s about you come with me and afterwards we celebrate in town”. You grinned up at him “Sounds like a great idea”. Giving him one more peck on the lips, you got comfortable and leaned against him.

As you rested your head under his jaw, Micah’s mind trailed off elsewhere. From the first time he spoke to you, Micah knew you were different. You weren’t someone he could see himself having a one night stand with, he saw himself in a relationship with you and that was a very rare feeling for him.

Of course there was a Sean sized problem in the way. He still thinks about the night you were on some job and Sean cheated. Micah remembers Sean being annoyed at a small disagreement you both had and deciding to drink the problem away. 

The blonde outlaw always considered himself lucky that Sean didn’t remember the conversation they had that night. It wasn’t something Micah felt bad about. He was aware it would make you sad but he knew he was going to be there for you afterwards. 

The way Micah sees it, Sean’s his own man. It doesn’t matter that Micah encouraged him to get with Karen, ultimately that was Sean’s choice to make.

Micah sighed contently and kissed the top of your head, happy with the choices he had made.

[daily-escuella]

Drawn Out Feelings - Chapter 7

Charles x f!Reader

Charles has to leave and Javier finally confronts you.

((Bit of meta here, but I wanted to give Charles a proper reason to attack the rat man, hence the last line in the last chapter. In canon he's only violent in self defense/when someone else acts first or when someone is blatantly racist. The random event where he throws Micah to the ground like a bag of trash comes to mind, and it's a thing of beauty!! The last thing I want to do is write Charles as a needlessly violent person. He is the better man, he always will be, but everyone has a line. Anyway, please enjoy if you'd like!))

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Bonus

Word count: 2568

tw: talk of injuries (getting and giving)

Now he’d done it.

Charles wheeled around to punch Micah so hard and fast, the man hadn’t even finished laughing. Blood spurted from his nose as he howled in pain, dropping awkwardly to the ground with a heavy thud.

“You-” Micah sputtered as he held his face, spitting blood before roaring , “you piece of shit!” He unsteadily scrambled back to his feet and drew his side-arm. You cried out in shock as Charles drew his shotgun just as quickly, leaving the men in a standoff. You stared helplessly wide-eyed, the tension in the air quieting everything but the breath in your ears.

Only a moment later the flaps of Dutch’s tent flew open, spilling light across the scene before falling closed again.

“That is ENOUGH.” Dutch bellowed, his voice cracking as if it hadn’t been used that day, though you knew it had. He looked between the two men and saw Micah significantly worse off before he spoke again. “You need to cool off! Charles, get outta camp until you can learn to play nice!”

There was a hesitation before Charles holstered his weapon and said, “Yes Dutch.” before he turned away from the scene.

Micah chuckled at Charles’ back, though it had no humor, then he too holstered his weapon gruffly with disdain.

“Your hand-,” you began to fuss, seeing the blood on his knuckles as he approached. He shrugged off your concern.

Micah turned to Dutch, “Thank you Boss, you know how men like him can be." His voice was disgustingly sweet, but Dutch didn’t bite, instead he flashed him a cold stare.

“That’s enough Micah, don't think I didn't hear the shit you were saying out here. Now get out of my sight before I make you leave too!” He said firmly, pinching the bridge of his nose from stress before retreating back to the privacy of his tent. Micah kicked the ground and spit more blood before skulking off.

Charles shook his head angrily then ducked down to his trunk to pack some things.

You felt horrible. Charles was being punished for coming to your rescue. Of course you were happy to see Micah get punched, but you wished it hadn’t been directly in front of Dutch’s tent. “A-are you sure you want to go out in this?” You gestured at the weather, your face pulled into a grimace of concern. “Maybe I can talk to Dutch for you?”

Charles growled in his chest. “If I don’t get out of here, I’ll kill him.” He tossed a few essentials into his satchel before standing to look at you. He reached out a hand to gently touch your arm, “Come with me. Please.” He begged, looking softly into your eyes. There was a heat behind his words. You weren’t sure why he wanted you to come, maybe he was afraid of leaving you here alone, maybe he craved your company as much as you craved his but you simply nodded your head in agreement and hurried over to your tent to grab your things.

Your satchel was distressingly light without your sketchbook, but you flung it on under your long coat to keep it dry all the same. As you moved to follow after Charles you heard a familiar, smooth voice tentatively call your name. You turned quickly to see Javier walking to stand under the shelter of your tent, away from the rain. Your heart jumped into your throat.

“I-” you started, mouth hanging open helplessly as you couldn’t form the next words.

“Listen.” Javier started gently, looking down, the muscles in his jaw were working as he decided what to say next. “That was… Shocking… Earlier.” He said carefully just as Charles made his way around the wagon to help you pack. When he saw who you were talking to he made it to your side in a few long strides.

“We need to leave.” He said simply, staring down Javier.

“Wait, Charles,” you asked, knowing you owed it to Javier to say his piece after everything that had happened. Charles looked at you with an expression you couldn’t decipher, but you felt it held pain.

Javier shifted uncomfortably in place, “Could we talk in private?” he asked after a beat.

You looked quickly between him and Charles, unsure of what to do.

“I need to leave.” Charles said to you, this time urgently.

“Just... one minute.” You said to him in a quiet voice. He forced breath out of his nose and walked back to where Taima stood saddled. You knew you should have gone with him then, but you wanted to see if you could get your book back. And an even deeper part of you finally wanted to get the chastising you deserved.

You looked at Javier. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking at all, his expression was always a little stern but now it was entirely unreadable. “I’m so sorry.” you breathed finally, unable to hold his gaze as shame crashed over you.

“Tranquilo amigo... Your drawings…” he paused to think before saying, “they’re good.” Then his brow furrowed. “I just wish you’d asked me... I wouldn’t have minded.”

You looked up at him shocked. His face wasn’t harsh, it was one of sincerity. “Are you mad at me?” you asked quietly, still unable to process what he’d said.

“No of course not!” He replied, a little surprised himself. “It’s not like you stole from me or anything. And really... I can’t blame you,” he joked, adjusting his scarf for effect, then his expression turned pensive once more, “I know I wasn’t supposed to see them but… why me?”

You breathed sharply in, unprepared for his question. You looked around as if searching for an answer, but after taking a breath, you just spoke honestly. “I’ve never been able to practice portraits. I was… always too shy to show anyone,” you cringed, reliving the events earlier. Micah could have stripped you naked in front of everyone and you would have felt less exposed than you did now. “You were always so handso-” Charles flashed in your mind and you paused to consider your words, “um… you always looked so put together, and you… never noticed me.” he grimaced slightly and you shrugged in reply, “You were a good subject. I knew I’d never show you… Or, you know… hoped I wouldn’t…” You trailed off, letting Javier consider your words.

He chuckled once before saying, “no wonder you were always so shy around me.”

You squirmed. That wasn’t always the reason, but your feelings for Charles now were more real than anything you’d had for Javier. You weren’t about to jeopardize that with mixed signals to him if you could help it.

“I have your book here,” he said, as if just remembering, and pulled it out of his coat.

Your eyes lit up when you saw it and you accepted it back quickly, hugging it instinctively. “Thank you!” You exclaimed, unable to hold back your relief.

Javier smiled at you, “I left it how I found it. Your drawings of Charles…. They’re really good. If you really care about him as much as you do in this book, he’s a lucky guy.” You couldn’t be sure why, but there was a small strain in his voice. Regardless you blushed at his words, then tucked your book safely back into your satchel.

“Thank you, Javier. For- ...for being so understanding about everything.” You cast your eyes down for a moment, unable to fight your embarrassment away, but the relief you felt was stronger. You boldly met his eyes again and smiled.

“Of course hermana.” He said, “just ask me next time, I’ll be happy to pose,” with a laugh he opened his arms to you.

Shyly, you accepted the gesture and hugged him with a giggle, happy to put this horrible time behind you. “I should really get going,” you said when you broke the hug, “Charles is waiting for me.”

Javier’s face fell and you furrowed your eyebrows in response, “Uh, I don’t think he is.” He said looking over your shoulder.

You whipped around to see Taima gone and Charles nowhere in sight. You flashed a look to Javier before running over to the hitching posts.

You looked down the southern and westward paths in case he was waiting for you, but both were empty. When you made your way back to the horses, a troubled look on your face, you heard a groan of laughter.

“Aw darlin’, he left ages ago,” Micah said, barely trying to hide the amusement in his voice as he tended to his injured face. The start of a black-eye was already swelling. “Maybe if ya leave now you can catch up to him.”

You looked at him wide-eyed. You hadn’t expected Charles to leave without you. Though thinking back to the interaction you’d just had with Javier, you could see how he might have taken it wrong. You weren’t there for Javier, you were there for your book! “Which way did he go?” You asked, panic rising in your voice.

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Micah scoffed, hissing as he touched his face too hard, “He’s your boyfriend.” He added darkly.

You didn’t bother correcting him. You didn’t know if you even needed to correct him. You just needed to find Charles. You looked between Micah and the horses for a second before quickly walking up to your favourite draft horse. You gave it some affectionate pats before placing a makeshift rope bridle over its head and climbing up onto its back. You turned it out of camp and tapped its flanks until you were flying down the path in the direction you hoped Charles had gone.

~~~

The rain had only gotten heavier since you left. It was difficult to see only a few feet out in front of you, the wall of water blocked out any signs you could’ve used to locate Charles or anything for that matter. The tracks he might have left behind were washed out too, you were riding blind. The draft horse was brave, but unfamiliar with you as a rider. It didn’t take long before your frantic energy and directionless riding caused it to become very agitated. You tried your best to soothe it, but lost in the downpour as the minutes stretched on, your voice became less and less confident.

“Charles!!” You cried, feeling your voice muffled in your ears against the rain’s white noise. “Charles..!” You called more weakly, feeling a lump in your throat at your useless effort.

A loud crash and a deep rumble sounded in the clouds very close to you, your horse whinnied its discomfort. Pausing briefly to consider the danger you were in now, you decided heading back was your only safe option. You figured you’d only managed to make it halfway across the fields of Great Plains so far. As you turned your horse around, then around again, looking for any landmarks to help guide you, you realized you were completely lost. Adrenaline surged through you as you came face to face with the situation you’d blindly charged head first into. You had no guns, no shelter, no clue where you were and the sky was threatening to strike you down with hellfire at any moment.

As if your thoughts summoned it, a bolt of lightning exploded through the air less than a quarter of a mile in front of you. You screamed and your horse reared and bucked. With no saddle you were helpless to hang on, its wide, wet flanks impossible to grip with your legs. You were tossed to the soaking wet ground like a sack of grain before your horse took off in terror, quickly disappearing through the curtain of water.

“Wait!!” You screamed, “Come back!!” You jumped up and tried to run after it but your previously warm skirt and jacket felt like they weighed a hundred pounds soaked through as they were. Quickly realizing the effort was fruitless, you stopped, then fell to your knees, hopeless. You were unable to even think what to do next when a second bolt of lightning hit the ground further away than the last, briefly exposing the silhouette of a campsite. You gasped. It was a long shot, but hope gave you the strength to get up and begin trudging through the muddy field towards it.

If it was Charles you could explain what happened, you could hold him, you could make sure he was alright. If it wasn’t… You’d deal with that then. For now this was your only chance of making it through this storm in one piece.

You placed one weary foot in front of the other, plodding determinedly on in the direction the lightning had revealed your possible salvation. You had no idea how close you were, unable to see more than a few feet in front of you, but you knew no matter what, you had to make it.

You were forced to stop when your skirt snagged on a leafless, prickly bush. You tried in vain to yank it free. Instead your feet were sliding along the mud towards the shrub you tried so hard to pull away from. Finally you decided to just step out of your skirt and carry on. It was so heavy with the water it had absorbed anyway and you knew Charles would understand. You could both laugh about this, you showing up to his tent in the rain in nothing but your blouse and bloomers. You blinked the torrent of water from your eyes and continued to press forward.

Lightning struck again to your left and then to your right farther ahead. You didn’t see the tent again either time so you figured staying in the middle was your best path. You had to be getting close now.

When you stomped a foot forward again, as you had been the entire miserable trip, you didn’t see the ledge you were approaching and tumbled hard off the other side. You gasped and screamed as you fell, hearing rocks you’d disturbed clatter to the mud below. You managed to grab onto a wayward root, saving yourself from the worst of it, but the mud and rain made it slick in your hand. Your grip loosened no matter how hard you squeezed. You shrieked again as you hit the ground below.

The mud softened your landing, but only slightly. You felt a sting on your cheek where a rock had cut you and when you went to stand a pain shot through your ankle. Taking a moment to assess, you decided it didn’t feel like it was sprained, but you cursed yourself for a further burden on this perilous journey. You took another minute to gather yourself before pushing yourself up out of the muck, thankful your satchel was worn under your jacket. There might be a chance your book survived. As you crawled back to your feet, your ankle crying out with every painful step, you heard a familiar voice call out through the downpour.

“What the hell is wrong witchu??”

Arthur.

You hadn’t considered he might be camping out this way, and as you laughed in relief, you realized this was the second best person besides Charles for a lady in her bloomers, in distress, to come across in the wild.

[neon-junkie]

“Is that my shirt?” “You mean our shirt?”

For the prompt thing. F! Reader and Micah? If you can, thank you 😊🐀

Thank the lord, for the notorious Micah Bell has decided to come to bed for once. It's a rare sight, seeing Micah unwind and climb into bed beside you, letting out an array of soft grunts and groans as he hits the floor (probably over-doing them for dramatic effect.) Micah slithers up to you, snaking a hand around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest like the needy bastard that he is.

You snuggle into him, your eyes falling shut, and you're about to fall asleep until Micah speaks up. "What is this?" Micah questions, tugging at the fabric around your body, kneading the vaguely familiar texture. "Is that my shirt?" he asks, deciding that the fabric is the same one that hugs his stomach on the daily.

"You mean our shirt?" you correct him with a soft and smug laugh, and despite not being able to see Micah's face, you know that he's rolling his eyes at your comment.

"Our shirt..." he mutters beneath his breath. "Needy thing. Guess you'll be wantin' to wear my hat next?"

"Like you don't take up every opportunity to place it on my head," you scoff. Micah places a kiss on his forehead, resting his lips against your skin as he continues talking, his facial hair brushing against your hairline.

"I already told you, you look nice in it," Micah tuts. "What's mine is yours, doll. But you ain't havin' those revolvers of mine," he warns, as if you could ever forget just how precious those guns are to him.

"Alright, I'll settle for Baylock," you gleefully thank him, peeking your head up to press your lips against his, only for Micah to playfully swat you away, scoffing at your bold remark.

"Watch it, sweetheart. You're on thin ice!"

[johnnycranes]

“I need you to pretend we’re dating”

Micah x F!Reader

But it’s the 1800s so “we’re together” instead of dating i guess lmao. This was supposed to be a short fic, how in the world it reached over 2k words idk. 

Anyway I’ve missed writing for Micah so here’s my attempt at a comeback. Prompt masterlist here.

Rating: T with just a splash of M but nothing too crazy. 

Micah x F!Reader

Karen finally convinced Arthur to let you and her go back to Valentine after what happened the last time the blonde woman visited. 

‘Course, this time Karen decided to bring Sean along. The Irishman just happened to be free when Arthur said he’d be too busy himself, taking care of something for Dutch. 

So here you were, in the Valentine saloon with the two lovebirds. You knew you should’ve stayed at camp and shared stories with Tilly and Mary-Beth but noooo, Miss Jones just had to bribe you with a free drink and a “I heard a real interestin’ lead the last time we was here!” 

Karen and Sean were off by the piano, singin some tune while you were trying to scout any leads from the drunks by the bar.

You were about to ask the bartender for another drink when one of the locals, breath reeking of alcohol, placed an arm around you. 

"Well hellooooo there, beautiful. I ain't seen you 'round here before." he said, his words slurred and voice a little too loud from where he was. 

You smiled politely as you could back at him, tried to put distance between you two, but his arm felt like lead on your shoulders. "Just passin' through, mister. Here with a few friends." you pointed towards Karen and Sean, who, unfortunately, weren't looking at anyone but themselves. 

And apparently the man with you picked up on it as well. 

He chuckled. "Awww, there there, sweetheart. Seems your friends ain't leavin anytime soon. Why don't I keep ya company instead, hmm?" 

As much as you wanted to slap the man or kick him where it hurts the most, Dutch specifically requested that there be no more rowdy bar fights after all the trouble the gang caused in town already. 

Smile unwavering, you tried to look around for anything or anyone to help you get rid of the local. 

So when you heard the saloon doors swing open and saw Mr. Micah Bell III himself enter, you prayed he was sober and in a good enough mood to help you out. You were always one of the friendlier people towards him in camp, so hopefully that little friendship meant something. 

"Oh, there he is!" You yelled, looking at Micah. This distracted the local enough so he could loosen his hold on you and you slipped out, making your way to the blonde cowboy. 

He looked surprised to see you, even more so when you put your arms around him, leaning your head near his.

You felt him tense up and had a feeling he was going to push you away so you knew you had to say something quickly. "I'll wash your clothes and sew 'em for a week if you please just pretend we're together. Feller by the bar's tryna do more than just buy me a drink." you said by his ear. 

You could sense he was processing what you just told him. But suddenly his arms were around you and he pushed you away just enough to place a kiss on your cheek. 

You look up at him, even more shocked when you see the unmistakable smug grin on his face. 

"I was only gone a few minutes, darlin'. Didn't think you'd miss me that much." he said in a surprisingly sweet voice that didn't sound at all like the tough gunslinger you knew him to be. He placed his arm around you and started walking up to the bar. 

Not missing a beat and thankful that he seemed to be ok with playing along, you wrapped one arm around his waist and placed a hand on his chest. "You know me, just can't get enough of ya."

You both stopped by bar, Micah tipping his hat to the bartender and signalling for two more bottles. 

Unfortunately, the man who was harassing you hadn't left. "She with you, mister?" he asked rather blatantly, turning towards Micah. 

The blonde tightened his grip on you. "That is correct. Ain't I just the luckiest feller?" he actually tapped your nose with a finger. Seems Hosea has some competition in acting.

And you couldn't help but blush when his voice became just a bit huskier at the end there. The poor local didn’t seem to be giving up though. 

“Really now? ‘Cuz the little lady told me she came with just those two.” he said, pointing to Sean and Karen who were giggling about something or other.

Man, they really did have eyes for only each other, especially when they were both drunk.

Micah let go of you and you were quick to shove down the disappointment you felt, no longer in his arms. He was surprisingly warm.

Micah stood in front of you, blocking you from the drunk local. 

“Not that it ain’t any of your business, feller, but I passed by the gun store, left my woman with our two friends over there.” He glanced back at you. “Startin’ to think that was a bad idea.” 

You smiled sheepishly, knowing Micah meant to tell you that it was your fault for not thinking about how drinking with Karen and Sean was going to be anything but good. 

“I’m sorry, love.” You said, and you swore you saw Micah’s cheeks turn red from calling him love. “I leave ‘em for 5 seconds and suddenly they think they’re the only people in the world or somethin’.”

Micah laughed and you felt heat pool in your stomach from the sound. “Quite all right. I know you can handle yourself.” 

The local scoffed. “Actually mister, who knows what woulda happened to the girl if I hadn’t shown up.” the man said rather smugly.

“She woulda finished her damn drink in peace, that’s what.” Micah growled.

And it really did seem like the feller had a death wish because the next thing she knew, he was leaning towards Micah, glaring at him. “We was just about to have a lovely evening if you hadn’t shown up.” 

Micah barked out a laugh, obviously not intimidated by the other guy’s rather poor show of masculinity. “That’s real funny, friend. Cuz I reckon that’s my line, not yours.”

“Listen yo-” 

Before the man could finish talking, you heard Karen Jones squeal, saw Sean Macguire break a bottle on top of some poor feller’s head, and then the whole saloon was in an uproar.

Micah took the opportunity to punch the drunk man square in the jaw. It was no secret he wasn’t the toughest fighter among Dutch’s boys, but his ‘opponent’ was drunk enough that he went down without much of a fight, knocked out from all the alcohol. 

Micah took a swig of his whiskey, placed a few coins on the bar, then grabbed your hand, guiding you around the chaos until you finally got out of the saloon. 

“Well, that ain’t what I had in mind when I got to town, but that was fun.” he laughed, adjusting his hat. 

You couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Trust me, weren’t what I expected either.”

You looked down and saw you were still holding hands. You hesitantly let go, remembering how all this craziness started. 

“Thanks, Mr. Bell. I was tryna avoid another bar fight but it seemed Sean had other plans.” 

He smirked. “Well I can’t blame the boy. He only wanted to help his woman. ‘Case ya forgot, I did the exact same thing.”

You grinned, not sure if your cheeks were warm from the alcohol or from his charming words.

Probably both.

“Yes, and as promised, you’ll get clean and sewn clothes for a week, no more waiting for Ms. Grimshaw gives it to one of us girls.” 

Micah chuckled lowly, moving closer to you and you forgot how intimidating he could be. “As lovely as that sounds, miss, I actually had another... reward in mind.”

He leaned towards you and you could feel his breath touch your skin. You unconsciously licked your lips. “And what is it?” you asked, surprised at how small your voice sounded.

He grinned. “Oh, somethin’ we’ll both enjoy, I assure you.” 

You felt his fingers gently tilt your chin up and you didn’t stop him. You closed your eyes and thought you felt the prickle of his moustache on your face-

Before two familiar laughs and the saloon doors swinging open hit your ears. You jumped back and saw Micah do just about the same, only much more subtle, slowly backing away from you and adjusting his hat. 

Sean and Karen all but stumbled out of the bar, the Irishman still holding a bottle in his hand as he kept an arm around his woman.

“Micah you bastard, what the hell you doin’ here then?” Sean said, his accent thicker now that he was drunk.

Micah scoffed. “Savin’ Miss (Y/N) here, I reckon.” he said, tilting his head towards you. “Now I ain’t no stranger to a bit of fun at the saloon either but what do you suppose Dutch’ll think if anythin’ happened to these fine ladies?”

Sean laughed, almost falling over if Karen hadn’t steadied him. “Since when did you care about anyone other than yourself?”

Micah stomped towards the younger man. “Easy there, cowpoke. Don’t think I wo-”

You stepped in front of Micah, placing your hands on his chest. He looked down at you. “It’s fine, Micah. The idiot’s drunk.”

“Hey!” Karen yelled. “He ain’t an idiot.”

Sean leaned his head on her. “Aww Miss Jones you do-”

“He’s my idiot.” She finished. “Now, I don’t fancy headin’ back to camp just yet. Stole enough money from one of the fellers in the saloon to afford a bath and a decent room at the hotel.” Karen faced you. “You gonna be okay gettin’ back yourself? Or I do have some leftover for another room if ya want.”

Sean took one last swig before dropping the bottle on the ground. “Hey, I ain’t drunk enough that I can’t bring Miss (Y/N) back to camp meself.”

“You Irish fool, the room’s fer us!” she yelled.

Sean blinked before going “Oooohhh” and you laughed when you heard Micah mutter  “They’re both morons.”

You smiled at the other woman. “I’ll be fine. Mr. Bell can bring me back.” you looked at the blonde man and saw him shrug. Karen however wasn’t convinced, as she glared at Micah.

“Don’t you try anythin’ now or I’m tellin’ Arthur and kickin' your ass myself.” she said.

Micah waved his hands mockingly. “Oh I’m shakin, Miss Jones.” he brought them back down. “We’ll be fine. Now you two get the hell outta here before Mr. Macguire pukes all over the damn ground.”

Karen told you to take care before guiding a giggling Sean towards the hotel. 

Once they were inside the building, Micah faced you. “The hell were ya thinkin? Hanging around those two drunk idiots?” 

You shrugged. “Hey I was bored, ok? And Karen offered free drinks.” 

Micah huffed.  

Part of you was buzzing to continue what Sean and Karen interrupted between you and Micah. You rarely interacted with the blonde cowboy whenever he was in camp, but you knew you were friendlier towards him than most of the others.

He’s flirted, or tried to flirt with every girl in camp already so you weren't surprised at him trying to kiss you.

But dammit you really wanted him to.

He coughed, more to get your attention than anything else. “So… if you’re done here darlin’, we better get back to camp.” 

You felt yourself blush hearing him call you darlin’ again. You also almost laughed at his complete personality change. First he was a charming and dashing cowboy, next he was growling at Sean and now he looked a little nervous and unsure. It was kind of endearing. 

Feeling like a little girl too afraid to talk to the boy she was sweet on, you actually tucked your hair behind your ear, trying to avoid his gaze. “Actually I… I ain’t exactly lookin’ forward to headin’ back just yet.”

Micah’s expression looked guarded and you weren’t sure what he was thinking. “What did you have in mind?”

You blamed the alcohol for wanting to grab his head and kiss him senseless then and there. 

So you did.

Your lips were on his and you felt him go stiff before relaxing and kissing you back with just as much force, his hands going to either side of your face. You felt the rough texture of his beard and moustache on your skin, tickling you yet he couldn’t get enough of him.

It didn’t take long for Micah to take charge as he bit your lower lip gently, you opened your mouth just a bit but it was enough to allow Micah's tongue entry. You moaned against him and Micah was the first to break the kiss, letting you breathe while he placed some more open mouthed-kisses on your jaw and neck.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a while now.” he whispered against you.

You laughed breathlessly. “Reckon Sean and Karen killed the mood earlier. Glad I went for it, anyway.”

“Oh so am I sweetheart, so am I. Weren’t sure when the next opportunity was gonna present itself.”

You smirked as Micah finally stopped kissing you, and looked at you with those beautiful blue eyes of his. “Who knew all it took was a drunk cowboy to get us together, hmm?”

Micah brushed your hair out of your face and, in the most un-Micah way you’ve seen him be, placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “The man was a pathetic loser but I made sure to give him somethin’ as thanks.”

You looked up at him, brows furrowed. “You did?”

He grinned before he placed his arms around you and guided you towards Baylock. “Yep! Was about to break a bottle on his head, good thing I didn't, he can have the free whiskey as thanks.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

The next morning at camp, John yelled at Sean for the… mess that was left in his tent. Sean tried to defend himself saying “Excuse me sir but Miss Jones and I had a lovely evenin’ at the Saints Hotel back in town.” John wasn’t having it though, unconvinced and already asked Ms. Grimshaw to just burn the sheets while he goes and gets some new ones. 

As Sean grumbled on about how he didn’t do anything for once, Micah approached him, with a shit-eating grin on his face. You were close enough that you could hear what he said. “Awww, don’t be so sour, cowpoke. I reckon you should be more careful, like (Y/N) and I were last night. No one knows a thing.”

Micah walked away, hands on his gun belt and a swagger in his step. You waited about five seconds before-

“MICAH BELL YOU OILY TURD!”

You made a note to yourself that next time maybe make sure John’s tent is immaculately clean afterwards.

Or get a room in town.

[strangeradventuresofp]

there is not enough micah bell content

please and thank you

unfortunately i feel like i may have to make my own which is proving impossible at the moment cus i couldnt write to save my life honestly