#omega Arthur Morgan

[thefoxtherapist]

Nest

Arthur didn’t want to call it an embarrassment exactly, but it was something akin to it as he draped another pelt along the floor of the living room. An old broken down mansion of some kind, maybe. But it was good enough for now. And it was stable and safe enough he could set up a nest of some sort, closer to a den with the size. 

Settling down for long places wasn’t the easiest in the gang, but this place would do for now. And so Arthur dealt with the slight embarrassment of setting up his nest. Some of the pelts were old ones he’d kept, some were newer. Either way they lined the room, made it as comfortable as it could be with the addition of his small mattress.

The room originally provided to him would have been suitable. But an offhand comment from Mrs.Grimshaw about morale had him here. Maybe that was where his embarrassment stemmed from, the idea of being the gang's prime omega. Arthur brought his hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing his dry sunburnt skin.

A sheet used as a curtain was the final touch to his nest, closing it off to the rest of the house, the rest of the gang. It provided Arthur with much needed rest and privacy, whilst also allowing him to quickly be within reach should anybody require his services.

Arthur sat on the soft bundled ground, letting his hands roam over the soft pelts. He'd worked hard on getting the highest quality, and it paid off as he allowed himself to lay back. He let out a deep sigh, filled his lungs with fresh oxygen, that he then exhaled once more.

But as quickly as his relaxation started, it came to an end. The familiar young boy pushed his way past the curtain and into the room, all but diving on some of the soft wolf pelt on the ground. It wasn't his current obsession of spaghetti or Mr. Bronte, but it seemed to please the young lad who rolled around in the soft fur.

“Can I help ya, Jack?”

The bounty hunter watched as the young pup stopped, now laying on his stomach he grinned up at Arthur with a toothy, albeit bashful, smile. “I was hopin’ ya’d read to me?” The boy sat up, bringing his legs to his chest. Jack was always a bit reserved, shy considering who his father happened to be.

Arthur supposed the comfortable nest brought the allure of domesticity and despite wanting to say no, Jack’s pleading eyes convinced him otherwise. He really was more of a dam than he wanted to admit. Another embarrassment as he searched for the book Abigail had given him for whenever Jack had this particular request of his.

It wasn’t long before Jack was tucked against Arthur’s side, bundled up in a blanket, his face buried against the man’s shoulder. It was comfortable and warm, the child inhaled the safe scent. Arthur opened the children’s book, calloused fingers trailing down the pages as he attempted to find where they’d been.

“Remember where we were?”

“Uhuh! The princess had just fallen under the curse!”

Arthur nodded, finding the page, he then began to read. It was with sensitive ears he heard Jack’s breathing slowly get more subtle, softer. It took the boy only thirty minutes before he was out like a light, snoring softly into Arthur’s arm.

The man looked around the den he’d created. Sure, he’d been embarrassed. But now he was somewhat pleased with himself. He gave Jack a good nest to burrow in, one he found safe and comfortable too. There was little more the omega could ask for in terms of praise and notice.

[hannibalzero]

Arrowheads and second chances

Charthur chapter 7 teaser 🦌🦬🦌🦬

It had almost been a week.

No one had tired to kill Charles.

If anything, the family of the Sliver dagger ranch was..

welcoming.

Charles had a room to himself in the bunk house, if anyone needed him when he was resting? People knocked. Respected Charles space, allowed him to use the same latrine and wash clothing. invited Charles to meals and even schooling?

Hosea Matthew’s gave Charles a slate and chalk to practice his writing and arithmetic.

He could read some, knew the basics of arithmetic thanks to his Uncle, but actually honing the teachings was a rare treat.

Charles could remember his own mother encouraging him to learn and practice what he learned. If she taught him how to tie a knot, they would redo the knot again and again until it was just as good as hers.

Maybe that’s why he had such a gift with patience?

But this still could be a trap. Suckering Charles in with such kindness? He wouldn’t let down his guard just yet.

Then there was Arthur Morgan.

strangest omega Charles had ever seen.

There was no such thing as gendered work, for Arthur Morgan there was just work. He broke horses with Charles, John and Kieran. chopped wood, bailed hay, leveled ground for a rabbit pen (supposedly). Did laundry with Bessie and Tilly, made pies and bread.

It amazed Charles how damn strong Arthur was!

Arthur had come back from hunting with a big horned ram draped across his shoulders like some fine lady wearing a fur. Like it didn’t weigh anything! Not only that but the kill of the animal was downright beautiful.

One single arrow right between the eyes. No pain, the animal is given respect for its gifts.

[distorted-twink]

Arthur Morgan is an omega

[blackseafoam]

Marked Part 1

PART 2

A Bad Batch x Red Dead Redemption crossover AU (with illustrations :)

This is my first time writing fanfiction!

“Omega” felt like too sci-fi of a name for this universe so I changed it to “Meggy”. Everyone else is the same.

If you haven’t played RDR2 don’t worry, I’m not counting on every reader having done so. All you need to know is it’s about a gang of outlaws in 1899 running from trouble, chaos everywhere. The world is set in a kind of “fantasy” United States, where the places and cultures are heavily based on real life, but have different names for the most part. There are also some sci-fi elements to the world that I may or may not implement :) This takes place around the first chapter of RDR2 when the Van Der Linde gang is camped out at Horseshoe Overlook.

Word count: 2045

Rating T

The foothills above Valentine were peaceful, densely forested, and rarely traversed. Above the treetops the snowy peak of Mount Hagen shone like a beacon. Below the hillside the earth plunged into the deep and narrow Dakota River canyon. It was a perfect place to lie low for a while. Plan the next move.

Meggy sat on the back of her brothers’ wagon, the horses had been unhitched and were grazing on the small clearing where they had set up camp. The contentedness of the beasts calmed her. The two massive horses simply snacking away and existing, nothing else on their mind. She wished she could escape worry so easily as the breeze blew her short blonde hair and ruffled her skirt.

Swimming in her own thoughts, she didn’t hear her brother's voice calling to her until he was beside her. “There you are!” Hunter sighed with relief as he approached. “Are you… alright?” His tone dropped quieter. 

“Yeah, just thinking I guess.” Meggy swung her boots ponderously. She held something in her hands, resting on her lap. 

“What’s this?” Hunter came closer, looking at her hands.

Meggy froze. Frozen like she had rehearsed time and time again at the school. Bracing herself physically and mentally to be in trouble, again. She looked down with shame. 

Hunter parted her hands, revealing a tiny rabbit kit, its unweaned eyes still closed. “Where’d you find this?”

Meggy looked up and was confused to see her brother smiling. This was wrong. She should be in trouble for touching dirty animals. 

“Under the wagon.” She muttered, still not convinced she wasn’t about to be reprimanded, especially now that she had just confessed to a second crime: crawling around under a vehicle. 

“We should find its nest, it needs its mother.” Hunter took a step back. Meggy stared at him, her mind was still not catching up to the fact of what was going on. “Pick him up, let’s go look.” Hunter helped her off the wagon so she could safely cup the tiny creature in both of her equally tiny hands. 

“Look for a hole capped with fur, there might be tracks of bare earth in front of it, and cropped grass.” Hunters eyes scanned the forest floor for rabbitsign, Meggy watched him and then mimicked his movements. 

Hunter noticed that Meggy was uncharacteristically quiet as they searched. Did I do something wrong? Having a kid around had been an ongoing adjustment. In the short time she had been with them Meggy had shown a wide range of emotions, profoundly sensitive and resilient at the same time.. But this was the first time he had seen her freeze up like this. 

The kit began to squeak incessantly. Hunter saw a flit of movement near a Boulder. Meggy followed his gaze. A rabbit doe near her burrow. 

As they neared she scurried back underground, Meggy deposited the kit near the hole and they watched it crawl inside.

“Nice work, kid!” He held his hand out for a high five, Meggy flinched, almost imperceptibly, but Hunter noticed. 

In a moment the worry melted off her face and she grinned, slapping his hand with her new energy. “That was fun! Do you think I can learn to track like you someday?” 

“I think you just had your first lesson.” 

-

The next few days were a much needed break from action, for the most part. The gang lived on small game, wild edibles, and what was left of their canned goods. Wrecker showed Meggy how to pick the best firewood. Echo lent her a couple of his books, glad to have a third person around who knew how to read. Crosshair kept his distance, but patiently entertained some of her questions as he cleaned his rifle. Then sent her away after warning her to stay away from their munitions crate. 

Tech finally caved to Meggy’s insistence on riding one of their draft horses. He picked Marauder, the slightly less excitable of the two. The chestnut gelding was certainly not a kid’s horse, but as a retired warhorse, he was desensitized at least. Meggy was surprised at how much thinking went into riding, or maybe that was just because Tech was her teacher. He had a lot to say about riding technique. As he lunged Maurauder with Meggy astride, barely able to straddle the barrel chested beast, he rattled on about gaits, position, neck-reining, posting, side-passing, halting, and so on.

-

Meggy woke on the fourth morning. A wave of bliss washed over her as she sat up in her bedroll. The last few days had truly been the best ever, living off the land with her brothers who she didn’t even know she had until a couple weeks ago. They chose to risk everything to save her. 

She was still coming to terms with what they had sacrificed for her. Couldn’t help but feel a twitch of guilt every time she could sense them censoring their usual crass demeanor in front of her (even though Wrecker had already willingly taught her a few of his favorite curse words). She didn’t want them to change for her, but also didn’t want to be anywhere else in the whole world. Crosshair seemed especially snide about her presence, always keeping his distance and almost never speaking to her. 

She scanned the camp, the fire was still smoldering, the bedrolls still lined around it like a flower. Two of which were empty, one was neatly made, the other looking like a wild animal had escaped from it. 

She got dressed and walked around the wagon, surprised to see Hunter and Echo tacking up the horses. 

“You’re leaving?” 

Hunter looked up first “You’re up early!” He adjusted Havoc’s bridle. “Just getting some supplies in town, we’ll be right back.”

“Can I come? Please?!”

Echo glanced up at her,, and then looked to Hunter “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” He said before going back to picking Marauder’s hoof, holding it on his thigh between his torso and what was left of his right arm.

There was a long silence. Echo could practically smell Hunter’s guilty look, even with the ass end of a horse between them.

“Of course you can come.”Hunter gave in. Echo rolled his eyes. 

Meggy tried to contain her excited squeal.

“Hunter, there are people looking for her, we can't bring her to town.” Echo spat as he stood up.

“Don’t worry, I have an idea.” Hunter smirked.

-

The world was so much bigger than she ever could have imagined. The trees flew by as the trio cantered down the wagon trail toward Valentine. Meggy rode with Hunter on Havoc, his black mane nearly whipping her in the face. The speed was terrifying at first, but Meggy’s fear was quickly replaced by excitement as they got closer to town. 

Her skirt had been replaced by a pair of extra trousers lying around, they didn’t have a belt small enough so a length of rope held them up. Finding a hat that didn’t look ridiculous on her was more challenging but a wool cap ended up being the best fit. 

Now hopefully anyone looking for a “girl kidnapped from the Saint Denis Orphanage” wouldn’t think twice if they saw a boy. 

Echo still didn’t think it would work.

-

The streets were still a sloppy, muddy mess from rain several days ago. Echo frowned as he dismounted and his boots sunk into the filth. They hitched the horses and went about their business, Echo to the gunsmith and Hunter and Meggy to the general store. 

The streets were fairly quiet, an early start to the day meant less eyes around.

Meggy marveled at the abundance of items in the general store as Hunter bartered with the shop owner. She had so many questions, so many items she couldn’t identify, but tried to keep quiet so her boyish illusion would remain uncompromised. Once Hunter had packed the new supplies into his saddlebag they exited the store. 

”G’morning, mister. Got a light?” A tall burly man leaned against the wall just outside the store. Meggy startled a bit, Hunter did not, he heard the lumbering figure approach while they were still inside. 

“Sure.” Hunter fumbled in his pocket for his lighter and handed it to the man. The flame illuminated his face, his eyes rimmed with the cracked tan skin of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. His battered brown hat and dirty blue jacket bore similar weathering. He took a long drag and handed the lighter back. “Thank you mister.” He blew out the smoke “and little miss.” 

Hunter nodded and began to walk away, then realized what the man had just said… “little miss”. It could be nothing… just a slip of the tongue… there’s no way someone this far out could know who she was. He quickened his pace as they rounded away toward the gunsmith. 

The man took one more drag from his cigarette before putting it out on the ashtray on the windowsill, as he did so he scanned across the street toward another figure sitting in front of the saloon. A shorter, thinner man with black greasy hair and a black hat, two long scars clawed from under his eye to the corners of his jaw. The blue-jacketed man gave a nod just big enough to be seen from the distance between them. 

Inside the gunsmith, Hunter spoke in a low voice from behind Echo “we should go.”  

“I’m not finished yet.” Echo was inspecting the quality of the bullets he was about to purchase. 

“Just get them and let's go.” Hunter murmured.

Echo gave an annoyed look, but reluctantly agreed and they paid the gunsmith. 

As they exited the store Hunter’s paranoia climbed several levels when he saw the stranger was gone, his presence replaced by his still smoldering cigarette. 

The trio hurried to the horses, mounted up, and headed back up the hill into the forest. 

“What the hell was that about?” Echo scolded once they were farther away from town.

“I just got a bad feeling.” Hunter checked over his shoulder for the fifth time in a minute, instinctually resting his hand on his thigh holster. 

-

“But we just got here!” Wrecker complained loudly, the only way he knew how to complain. The gang deliberated around their late morning campfire. 

“I agree, moving camp would be unwise.” Tech fiddled with some type of hardware from the wagon on his lap. “Moving around would only draw more attention from more people.”

Crosshair remained silent, dragging on his first cig of the day. “If you really think they were after Meggy, don’t you think that guy would’ve just taken us then and there while we were in town? Instead of now when we’re back with our full party?”Echo wondered.

“If he’s such a good bounty hunter that he found us all the way across three states, surely he could take on one guy, a gimp, and a child.” Crosshair smirked. 

Echo ignored his antagonistic younger brother.

Hunter sighed. 

“I’m sorry. This is all my fault, isn’t it?” Omega sulked in the grass, hugging her knees at her chin. Flowers she had picked drooping in her hands.

“Her situational comprehension is quite high for someone her age.” Tech observed.

“We’ll be fine. We’re far off the trail, hidden by the trees. I did my best to cover our tracks. Let’s just keep the fire small tonight, we’ll be fine.” Hunter reassured them. 

-

“Four men, two of them are the ones we saw in town earlier.” Arthur focused his binoculars across the canyon. “No wait, five.” 

“What’s the plan?” John shifted. 

“Bounty is for all of them, but the kid is the biggest reward.” 

“And we gotta bring them all back to Saint Denis?”

“Nah, I talked to the sheriff in town, said he can hold them until we can wire someone to collect. For a price.” 

“No way we can take all five of those guys.”

“For once, we agree, Marston.” Arthur noticed one of the taller fellows cleaning his rifle. “Poster said they’re ex-military.”

“What are they doing kidnapping an orphan?”

“I don’t know, but it can't be good." Arthur lowered the binoculars.

Taglist: @dragonrider9905 @omegafett99 @griffedeloup

[twola]

Defying Conventions

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI, A/B/O

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

Navigating the world as an omega is hard enough - but navigating a friends with benefits relationship with an alpha is even harder. You're hell-bent on not being defined as anyone's property, not belonging to anyone - but biology has other plans. ABO. Honestly this is just smut.

It’s a dangerous game you are playing. 

You know that. He knows that. But living on a blade’s edge is something you all have been doing all of your life.

Your breath heaves as you come down from your high, sweat plastering your skin and your hair hopelessly tangled. 

Your limbs are also hopelessly tangled with his in the slightly lumpy bed. Sure, it wasn’t the Bastille in Saint Denis, but it was the best you could get in Valentine.

Beats his cot, it’s much too small for these activities anyway.

His lips gently press against your neck, tongue darting out against that sensitive spot under your scent gland, and you shiver delightfully in response, clutching at him everywhere.

He rumbles in approval, pressing up on one elbow to catch your lips in a long, satisfying kiss.

“Mmm, you like that?” His deep voice drips like honey from his lips as he pulls back, balancing on his forearms, his hips still pressed deeply into yours.

You smirk, running one hand through his hair, “What do you think, cowboy?”

Arthur’s knot pulses in your cunt, and you know it’s going to be several minutes more before it shrinks enough for him to extricate himself from you.

Not that you mind. Deep underneath it all, your bleeding omega heart yearns for it, though you would never speak those words into truth. 

He mustn’t know how you plead for him when you’re in the throes of your heat. How you beg, whispering into your pillow needily for him to come and fuck you, to knot you, to mate you, to breed you.

You don’t want to give anyone that kind of control over you. Even Arthur, your current bedmate with whom you’re aghast to admit you have been imagining all these things and more during your heats.

Your last heat was downright painful - the burning desire in your cunt couldn’t be slaked by your fingers. You wept, holed up in a cabin outside of Blackwater, wishing and pleading and begging for Arthur to come fill the emptiness within you.

But no - that was your rule. Never during your heat. The temptation would be too much. Hell, you gave up on refusing to let him knot you the third time you slept together. But never, never enough to tie you to him, to make you belong to him. You don’t want to be just some alpha’s omega. 

Even his.

Arthur leans down and places his lips upon yours again, moaning into your mouth when you open it for him.

For now, this arrangement suits you both. 

-

After the mess in Blackwater, after nearly freezing in Colter, finally - things seemed to settle down as the gang found refuge on Horseshoe Overlook.

A splendid time, of course, for Arthur to go into rut. When he came to you breathing heavily through his nose and his irises bleeding red, you supposed that it was better now than during all that previous mess. Even though you and he had not been together long enough for you to see him like this, you knew enough of alphas to recognize it when you saw it.

But rut - rut was a powerful thing. The kind of thing where he grabbed your hand and pulled you away from the laundry you were doing with a force that nearly knocked you over. Pulling you away from the camp, deeper into the forested area surrounding the gang’s hideaway.

“Fuck-” He curses as he stumbles through the woods, trying to get far enough away that he can touch you without some dumbass from camp interrupting.

You’re yanked forward into his embrace as he stops in a small clearing.

“Don’t you want to go to a hotel or somethin’?” You ask as he nips at your earlobe, unsure if you’d actually be able to remove yourself from him long enough to get to a hotel room.

“Naw-,” Arthur nearly growls in your ear, “Can’t wait that long to have you.”

You smile - there’s something incredibly endearing to see him so needy. Almost omega-like, if you had to put a descriptor on it.

“Show me what a good little omega you are.” His voice is rough like he’s been gargling gravel.

You nod, completely under the spell of his dominance. Leaning back against the tree, you hike up your skirts to pull your bloomers down, letting them flutter to your ankles as Arthur’s hand shoots forward between your legs, coating his fingers in the slick that’s accumulated there.

He growls in approval, his other hand working at his gun belt. After a few moments of finagling his belt crashes to the ground in a heap of leather and metal.

“How - how do you want me?” You ask meekly. 

Meekly? That is a word you would never use to describe yourself. But now, with Arthur’s eyes blazing red, his muscles bulging and his breath heaving like a wild animal, your instincts overrule everything and you just want to submit.

“Present to me, little omega,” Arthur smirks as he moves to press the entire line of his body against yours, engulfing you in the warmth of his embrace.

You sigh in contentment as you tilt your neck upward, allowing him access to the sweet-smelling gland under your jaw.

“God-” he rasps, his cock ramrod hard against you as he buries his face in your neck, “Gonna fuck you so good, darlin’.”

You moan in response and grab his wrist, shoving his hands back between your legs, where you drip with unmet need. As he mouths against your neck, his hand probes between your folds before he slides two fingers into your cunt, making you mewl as he begins to thrust his fingers in and out of you, coating them in your slick. 

His other hand immediately paws at his gunbelt, yanking the leather hard enough that it whines as he unravels it from his hips. In a blur of heavy breathing and dizzying arousal, he removes his hand from you and maneuvers you to the ground, your skirts hiked up as he peels his pants down like a man possessed. As he crawls over you, you look between your legs to see him hard and ready for you, the beginnings of his knot swelling before he even has a chance to press himself into your heat.

You mewl as he covers you and desperately pushes in, with one long, forceful stroke of his cock, he buries himself in your cunt without preamble. Your slick eases the entry, but still, the ache of his intrusion makes you gasp as you get used to that double-edged sword of pain-pleasure. You dig your nails into his shoulders as he retracts his hips and presses forward again, unrestrained in a way he has never been with you before. 

He’s not gentle, not in the depths of his rut. He slams his hips into yours like some wild beast, grunting and snarling as he uses your body to slake his needs. You whimper with each thrust, your head dipping backward out of biological habit, and you bare your neck to him completely. Time becomes irrelevant as he rocks your hips into the earth below.

“Gonna fill-” his breath stutters, “y-you up, sweetheart-”

“Yes,” you plead, and he throws his hips into yours one final time before you feel the sharp pain-pleasure of his knot expanding, locking himself into you. It’s naught but a few seconds more that he lets out a long breath, his cock twitching within you as he lets loose his spend.

Draping himself over you, the harshness of your coupling quickly fades as he catches his breath. The red rims around his pupils begin to fade as he returns to a state of mind not completely controlled by his sex drive.

“I, uhm… it’s gonna be a while.” Arthur admits sheepishly, tucking his head back toward your neck as his breathing slowly starts to even out.

You cock an eyebrow at him as a blush forms on his cheeks. He nuzzles gently at your neck as you tense slightly.

“How is that any different-”

“Like… a while longer.”

You purse your lips and narrow your eyes, “How long?”

“…An hour?”

“Arthur.” You snip back at him, frowning, “And you couldn’t… y’know, do this in a bed?” He finally presses himself up from where he had buried his face in your neck.

He smiles down at you, adjusting himself on his forearms to keep most of his weight off of you. “Sorry darlin’, couldn’t wait.”

You roll your eyes, but as he leans down to kiss you, you eagerly return it. “At least,” you whisper between kisses, “Let’s lay on our sides if we’re gonna be here a while.”

Through a jumble of limbs, the two of you finally situate yourselves on your sides, one of your legs thrown over his hip where you remain joined. You toss your skirts over the both of your legs and hips, shielding yourselves from anyone unlucky enough to stumble by.

“One more thing, sweetheart.”

You frown as you feel your shoulder dampen from the damp patch of moss you’re laying on. This blouse won’t get another wear out of it before it goes into the laundry tub…

“What now?”

Arthur lets loose a breath from his nose, and you notice his pupils are blown and the fingers over your hips pulse as he squeezes your hip hard.

You feel him rock forward ever so slightly - as much as his burgeoning knot will allow, and you understand what’s happening.

Arthur groans, quietly at least, his eyes fluttering shut. The blooming of warmth from where you are joined makes your cunt quiver.

“And how many times is that going to happen?” You huff, feigning annoyance but secretly, in that damned omega heart of yours, you cannot help but to love this moment, locked together with an alpha who chose you during his rut.

“Few times…” Arthur mutters.

A lopsided grin forms across your face when you kiss his reddened cheek. There’s a growing part of your heart that wishes you were heating. A traitorous part, one that longs to belong to someone. One that longs to belong to him.

Against everything you’ve fought for, the hard-won independence and defiance of your biology, here you are, wishing and wanting to be owned. To be marked. To be bred.

Is this the true nature of an omega? 

He softly presses his lips against yours, and damnit, you sigh contentedly as you grasp at his shirt. Arthur winds his arms around your shoulder.

Damn him, damn him properly.

-

Unlike your situation with Arthur, the gang spirals ever downward - from getting chased out of Valentine by Cornwall’s goons, to Sean’s death at the hand of the Grays, to the Pinkertons finding their last camp. And Christ, that’s not even counting Jack being kidnapped.

It’s like the world is imploding around the Van der Lindes.

Thankfully Jack has been returned.

Dutch has been doing more and more in the city, and the men have been out and about quite a bit 

You rub at your brow absentmindedly, wiping the sweat that collects there. Damned swamps. Damn Lemoyne. Even inside, it's so damn hot… the sweat seems to be pouring off of you, even after the sun has gone down.

You rub at your neck absentmindedly as you sit on your cot in the large room you share with the other girls, alone for a moment with everyone else sitting around the fire outside.

Your finger swipes across your mating gland, and you pause as you look at your hand in the dim light.

Your palm has a hint of gloss upon it.

Fuck. Fuck.

It wasn’t just how stupidly hot and humid these damn swamps were. No. No, you were going into your heat.

Stumbling, you try to be as quiet as you can be as you get up from your cot, grabbing your gun from underneath your lumpy pillow, and heading to the back door, latching it gently behind you as you walk quickly away from the mansion toward the river. 

You look back at the old plantation house to see the yellow-orange hue of the oil lamp in Arthur’s room lighting up the night.

The traitorous voice in your head whispers in your ear.

This could all be over if you just went to him.

No. No, you won’t do that. You won't be someone’s property. Even his.

You shiver as another jolt runs through your body, breaking out in a sweat you know to be from your heat-fever. You swallow, turning back around, and stepping away on unsteady feet, you head south, your revolver gripped tightly in your trembling hand.

Your breathing is heavy and labored as you make your way slowly to the arcing path at the edge of the property. By some miracle, you’re able to stay upright over the rope bridges and prevent yourself from becoming alligator bait.

Leaning against a kudzu-covered tree, you curse under your breath as you feel your slick begin to come. Saint Denis glitters in the distance as you pant, out of breath and you know you can’t go much further. 

A run-down shack on the edge of the Lanaheechee seems to be your only option. You press onward, your boots dragging through the swampy mud and ankle-deep river water as you haul yourself toward the old shack, praying that it isn’t already occupied.

Fortunately, in the one stroke of luck you are having tonight, it’s not. You can at least pull a chair in front of the door to keep it closed before you collapse to the floor, breathless, clutching at your gun as you try to drag yourself to the corner of this small room, tears finally bursting from your eyes as you lean back against the wall.

Goddamnit.

You’ve been so wrapped up with Jack’s disappearance and the move to Shady Belle that you completely lost track of when you were due to have another heat. You should have prepared. You should have packed supplies and locked yourself in a hotel room in Rhodes or Saint Denis or anywhere.

You shudder again as a feverish wave hits you, and the trickle between your legs is more noticeable. A sob escapes your mouth as you lean your head back on the old wooden wall, cursing yourself and your existence in this damned omega’s body.

Waves of feverish need threaten to drown you as you curl in on yourself, panting, your hand diving beneath your skirts to try to assuage the burning, but you know, nothing you do will quench it.

You’ve hiked your skirts up over your knees and worked your bloomers down your thighs when you hear heavy footsteps on the porch outside. Cursing again, you right yourself and grab at your gun, your heart dropping as someone starts to try to open the door.

The door bursts open with a hail of splintered wood and you huddle yourself in the corner of the room, raising your revolver toward the door. The gun shakes violently as you pant, dizzy and feverish in the throes of your heat.

“Shit, sweetheart.”

You can barely see straight, but you know that voice. The gun drops from your shaking hand as you cry out in need, clattering on the floor.

Arthur’s heavy footsteps rush towards you, and he drops to one knee at your side and cups his hand softly under your jaw, lifting it gently to make eye contact with you. Tears stream down your face, over your flushed cheeks as all you can make out is a watery visage of his frame looming above you.

“Are you hurt? Jesus, you're scaring me.” Arthur looks you all over, his other hand running down your arms to look for any wounds.

God, everywhere he touches you is fire.

You sob aloud and Arthur immediately sits down next to you and pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around you. 

“ ‘S okay, I’m here.” He says soothingly as he rubs your back, “Saw the tracks of you leavin’ camp on foot… what are you doin’ out here?”

You wonder how on God’s green earth he’s not affected by your sorry state when all of a sudden he shudders, his arms tightening around you near painfully.

He curses under his breath as he pulls you off of his lap and back onto the floor next to him. You mewl pitifully at the loss of contact with his body.

His large hand cups your cheek and you open your bleary eyes to look at him.

Arthur’s blue eyes have started to bleed into red, he winces slightly when he sees the gold of your irises.

“Christ, you’re in heat.”

You sob again, one of your hands flying to your lower abdomen as your body cramps in furious need, here he is, here’s your alpha, he can make this all go away.

All your life, you’ve fought against the nature of being an omega. You’ve locked yourself away during your heats, and you’ve pushed back violently from the idea of needing someone to take care of you. To own you. You’ve hated the helplessness of it all, but it seems like it’s all caught up to you here in this run-down cabin on the edge of the swamps.

“Sweetheart -” Arthur rumbles, his voice growing low, dangerous, but his tone still gentle and patient.

“It hurts so much.” You’re able to choke out, doubling over in pain as Arthur catches your shoulders.

“Y’gotta want this- Christ, I’ll do anything for you, but-” he pants, righting you and keeping a strong hold on your shoulders, “Y’gotta want this.”

Your voice cracks, “I…”

It is so hard to put into words, not when you’ve lived your life trying to escape the truth of your nature.

You’re so close to letting the words spill from your mouth - I want you, I always want you, I want to belong to you -

“I… I hate this- bein’ an omega. I don’t want to be… owned by someone… I want, I want-”

I want you to belong to me.

“Sweetheart.”

You moan pitifully in response.

Arthur gets up on one knee, and another crack of pain shoots through you as he inches away from you. It is assuaged briefly when you feel his hands on your shoulders trying to keep you upright.

“I can stand watch outside. I’ll make sure you’re safe.” Arthur’s hands move from your shoulders once he’s established that you can hold yourself up, to grasp at your hands, reassuring.

“I-” You wince and take a breath, feeling your slick soaking your bloomers beneath your skirts, “I don’t want that..”

“I’ll give you everythin’.” Arthur nearly croaks, his hands tightening their grip on yours involuntarily.

“Will ya-” You swallow your pride as you shift uncomfortably, sweat creeping down your neck along with the sweet-smelling oil from your scent gland, “Will you mate me?”

Arthur swallows visibly, “I will.”

“Will you-” You trail off, looking down at his hands holding yours, the heat radiating off your body, the thrumming need in your core… you close your eyes, let out a final breath of resistance, and give in to what you realize you truly desire.

“Will you breed me? Will you give me a part of you to create somethin’ new?”

Arthur’s hands nearly crush your own. “I had a boy once, he died along with his mother. I never mated her.”

You realize you’ve gone too far, you go to pull your hands back from him, but his grip does not let you go. You look back up at him, to his red eyes bleeding his own biological need for you, and cannot look away.

“Ain’t that stupid no more.”

“You mean…?” You ask timidly.

Arthur Morgan gets up on his knees again and gently, but with a barely concealed strength underneath his skin, pushes you to lie on the floor.

“I’m gonna knot you, girl. And if it doesn’t take, I’m gonna keep fillin’ you til it does.”

The cry that escapes your mouth sounds like a wounded animal, a sound of such primal need you were unsure that it really came from you. You tear at your clothing, far too hot on your skin, hiking up your skirts to grab at your bloomers again.

Arthur’s large hand brushes yours aside and presses against your cunt, he groans loudly when he feels the wetness of the cotton shielding you. He grasps it and roughly pulls on your bloomers, tearing the cotton off your body and you cry out pathetically, needily.

He throws your skirts up around your waist, baring your lower half, as he gets up on his knees and starts unlatching his gunbelt. It tumbles to the floor loudly as he undoes his suspenders from his pants and shoves them down, his large cock bobbing upward the instant it is freed from its confines.

Once, twice, three times he strokes it as he moves to lean over you, his free hand next to your head holding himself up. Before he covers you completely, you shiver as you stare at a bead of precum pearl on the head of his cock before dripping down to land on your thigh. You spread your legs for him and without any further preamble, he guides his cock to your opening and presses inside.

The amount of slick weeping from you should be embarrassing, he slides deeper into your cunt without resistance and groans while doing so, not stopping until your pubic bones touch each other.

You mewl as you feel him stretch you, fill you, satisfy the burning hunger deep in your body. Christ, if only he could never leave you - never leave you feeling hollow and alone. Christ, his flesh splitting you - so much more sensitive now, it is like you have been empty all your life and suddenly found the piece to fill you. You can’t imagine ever spending a heat alone again.

He gets down on his elbows to suspend himself just above you, rocking his hips slightly. Your legs wrap around his waist and he grunts in approval.

“H-how do you want it?” He hisses through his teeth, and when he opens his eyes again, you see his pupils blown and rimmed by red. The muscles of his neck cord along the collar of his shirt. He’s fighting off his baser instincts, it’s obvious to see. He’s gone into a rut, triggered by your heat.

That simply wouldn’t do.

“Rut me, alpha.” You whisper, and he groans aloud in response. Large, warm hands grasp at the back of your thighs and your legs are heaved up and over his shoulders.

Arthur bends you in half, snarling as he throws his hips down into yours and fucks into you with the force and brutality of an alpha in rut. You accept, mewling, loving every second of the near pain you feel as he thrusts himself into you. God, you wish this would never end.

He’s panting, straining, sweat dotting his brow - a sight to behold as he takes your legs off of his shoulder and allows them to fall open on either side of him. You can feel the swelling of him build as he grinds himself deeper into you before pulling out slowly.

Arthur throws his hips into yours with finality, and you scream aloud in overwhelming pleasure as his knot swells within you, deeper than he’s ever been before. He groans breathily before his lips find their way to your neck. You feel his entire body lurch into yours, smothering you, as he spills his seed into your waiting cunt. You whimper at the feeling of warmth blooming inside you before you yelp aloud as you feel his teeth encircle the gland on your neck and sink into your flesh.

This, this, this is what it means to be an omega, not to be owned like a piece of property, but to be wanted, needed by the one person in the world you’re mated to. Tears cloud your vision as you wince at the breaking of skin on your neck, your fingers digging in hard into Arthur’s back as a low moan flies free from your throat.

It takes several moments, but as both of your breaths begin to calm, Arthur presses up on his elbows and takes most of his weight off of you, his knot still strong, locking the two of you together. 

His river-blue eyes catch yours, and you smile at the red stain on his lips - the sign of his claiming you as his own. You raise your head to kiss him, the coppery taste of your blood heady as he opens his mouth to yours. A hand weaves through your messy hair, long having fallen out of the updo you had earlier in the day.

Arthur pulls back slightly, pressing his forehead against yours and letting his eyes slide shut. You press your lips up to his once more before whispering joyfully.

“You’re mine now.” 

He snorts but does not correct you. Here you are turning conventionality on its head, but Arthur is not the kind of man to throw it back in your face. With a tired, contented tone, he gives a sound of agreement before his low voice rumbles against your cheek.

“I am, little omega. All yours.” 

A rush of excitement fills you at his spoken admission, and with a strength you didn’t know you had, you press your hands onto his shoulders and roll him over, so that you are splayed out over his hips.

“Mine.” You gasp out as his hands clamp to your waist like vices. You begin to gyrate your hips over his, the only thing you can do with his knot still hard and keeping your hips locked together.

Your hands land on his pectorals, and his eyes flutter in pleasure as his breathing speeds up, moans bubbling up from deep in his chest.

“Fill me up, alpha. Your omega wants you to breed her.”

Arthur’s eyes shoot open at your words and in naught but a moment, his hips leave the cabin floor and he groans out another round of completion, spending within your heat with a loud grunt.

You lean over him playfully as he catches his breath. A triumphant smile beams across your face as you sit back up on his hips and pull your hair out of your face, twisting it back in a messy bun - just about all you can handle right now.

Arthur’s large, warm hands encircle your waist, his thumb rubbing at your hip bone as he calms down.

“Yer gonna kill me tonight, aren’tcha?” He breathes up at you, a grin appearing across his face as well.

“How many more times you got, old man?” You giggle, and Arthur shoots up into a sitting position, making you squeal as he tips you backward, letting you untuck your knees and swing your legs around him once more.

“Plenty enough to keep you satisfied.” He nips at your chin playfully.

“Oh yeah?”

“UUh-huh” he rumbles into your jaw as he kisses back toward your ear, “Gonna be drippin’ with me by the time I’m done with you.”

You press back on his shoulders so that he looks at you fully. You study his face for a moment before one of your hands brushes back a strand of his honeyed hair behind his ear.

“I don’t want to just be your omega.” You whisper, your eyes falling down his face to his neck, knowing yours is marred with his mark.

“You ain’t, sweetheart. You’re my partner. My equal.”

“But how can an omega ever be an alpha’s equal?” That voice that’s been teasing you all your life pipes up before you have a chance to quiet it.

The next thing you know, you’re dipped backward onto the floor, gently spread out as Arthur lays on top of you, still joined at the hip.

He leans down and presses a kiss softer than he should be allowed to give upon your lips. 

“Since I need you jus’ as much as you need me, maybe more.” He breathes, rolling his hips against you, causing you to gasp as his knot slips a little in the vice of your cunt.

“Promise?” You whine breathily as you can tell he’s heading toward another orgasm.

“P-promise.” He stutters.

Arthur presses his lips to yours with a finality that sends you reeling, clutching at him as he pours himself into you once again.

[tame-the-lion-writes]

anything but worthy [pt.2]

This is reposted from my ao3!

[SFW Arthur Morgan] tags: omegaverse

Ever since you were a teenager, you've loved romance books. First you pretended to hate them, and still occasionally do, but for all the tropes that you’ve scorned, there’s something inherently addicting about them, too.

You shared this little obsession with Mary-Beth, and as such, occasionally shared each other’s novels. She was an aspiring writer, you knew, and as an avid consumer, she’d appreciate your tips and critiques. But if there was one thing you couldn’t share, it was how much more you fantasized compared to her.

Pride and Prejudice was lovely, really – a testament to the change people will go through because they love someone. Romeo and Juliet was more of a tragedy, and while you understood the political metaphor, as a story, it felt a little too juvenile. There were the non-romances, too – Robinson Crusoe, Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn. Hell, you’d even read Charles C. Chestnutt, since you were so invested in the politics of the time. Equality for everyone, past the bare minimums of the Civil War! 

But, on some level, you didn’t want the sensical. You didn’t want things that made sense – you craved suspension of disbelief. You craved something more primal, something that could be set aside from the sociopolitics of everyday life – something private, and personal, and perhaps a little… perverted.

Ugh. Putting it like that made you sound like you needed church.

(And perhaps you did.)

– but that wasn’t the point!

The point was – that for the past year, you’d been miraculously saved by a big strong mountain man, and now, in a time when women only had the options of marriage, elementary schooling, or prostitution, you had been swept into the wild drama of a gang of outlaws. This in itself was perfect romance material!-- if not perfect – ugh – Victorian erotica material.

(Because yes, those existed – though you certainly wanted something better than a couple dozen pages written from the perspective of a fucking flea.)

Now Arthur Morgan, in particular, was perfect romance material. You and Mary-Beth – and even Tilly – yes, Tilly! – had agreed as such. John was taken, Sean and Bill both idiots – though Karen would probably settle for the former. Javier was a romantic with a lovely voice, but you didn’t know him all too well, and Charles was almost too quiet. (Again, almost – he was handsome and kind and patient.) Dutch was taken, Hosea was more of a father, but Arthur – Arthur – he was a perfect mix of rough and sentimental. A perfect mix of rugged and gentle.

Though you might have underestimated just exactly how rough he could be.

Not to mention that he was an alpha – the greatest one in the pack, even above Dutch, you’d decided.

Admittedly, you didn’t notice at first – notice how often he looked at you, at least. You noticed his strength right away of course, and how much of a leader he could be when necessary, but it took Mary-Beth and Tilly and Karen – all of them – to make you realize he had taken a liking to you.

“God, you’re oblivious as hell, ain’tcha?” Karen had said one evening, throwing her hands up in the air. “The man’s been eyeing you like a piece of meat!”

“Now, I wouldn’t say a piece of meat–” Mary-Beth countered with a nervous chuckle, shaking her head. “More like a… a male lead!”

“A male– a fuckin’ what now?”

Tilly giggled in the background, covering her smile with her hand. “You know, Karen, like the main love interests in Mary-Beth’s books.”

The blonde made a face, scrunching up her nose. “You know I don’t read that shit. Too sappy for me.”

“It’s not… ‘shit,’” you defended with a smile, albeit an understanding one, but seeing Mary-Beth pout, you had to say something. “They’re pretty good in my opinion.”

“Oh, don’t you dare change topics with me, girly,” Karen scolded, rolling her eyes. “Either way, you know what we mean!”

 Actually, you didn’t – not until then. It was hard to believe a man like that could like you. But ever since that conversation, you found yourself looking over your shoulder more, darting your eyes in Arthur’s direction to try and catch him in the act. For the longest time, however, he seemed normal – busy with something else, not even close to facing you. You had nearly given up when, one night, when the gang was celebrating a successful job with drinks, that you looked up to see blue eyes staring you down, laced with a certain expression halfway between affection and lust.

That day, you looked away, red face hidden in the darkness. But from then on, with his whatever toward you confirmed, a returned interest had started to grow. And boy, did you try to hook him.

It started with simpler gestures, really – an odd form of courtship since you were shy and he just felt so big compared to life. You’d do all his laundry, hand him coffee or stew, or leave him a newly repaired shirt on the table by his bedside. One time, you even managed to scourge together enough money to buy him a new ink pen. Your excuse?-- that if he kept writing in his journal with pencil, the graphite would rub the letters clean off one day. And you knew how much his writing and drawing meant to him, even if he denied any form of intelligence.

But it took another few months before you’d finally gathered the courage. The courage to ask him to stay with you, through the heat – during your heat. But–

“I am anythin’ but worthy of that honor, little girl.”

The response made your heart sink, and for a moment, you thought that was that.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” Your voice is shaky. “I just thought it would be nice – me and you.”

You felt like a little girl, trembling quietly in the night.  All that staring and time wasted – but it was just staring, not him actually planning to act on you. Well, now you just felt a little silly, too. Silly little omega. What kind of omega chases an alpha – not the other way around?

“I guess I’ll just ask Sadie or Miss Grimshaw to go with me again. Or maybe Karen, ‘cause she can handle a gun, too.”

But before you can disappear into the darkness, escape the vicinity and curl up – cry yourself to sleep – he speaks up again, explaining himself.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, omega. I don’t wanna hurt you. That’s all.”

“Oh, Arthur. I’d be okay if it were you.”

Something shifted that evening. And you parted ways with a better understanding.

The following day, the girls helped you pack – Miss Grimshaw being helpful in particular. She’d made sure some herbs for soothing tea was going with you, and had the others wrap up enough blankets for comfort. There was a tower, the older woman explained, back up north in the Grizzlies – nice and cool to keep your fever from being unbearable, yet not quite buried in layers of snow. Compared to the humid mists of Lemoyne, it sounded like sheer paradise. Arthur himself had scouted it out while on one of his trips, and after tidying up the place a bit, deemed it a safehouse for omegas like you, Mary-Beth, and Tilly. (And Kieren, too, but the boy didn’t like to admit it.) 

But when you expected Miss Grimshaw herself to hop onto the wagon with you, instead of a woman with makeup too gaudy for her features, you heard a rough groan as a man clad in brown leather pulled himself up to sit at your side.

“Er, Arthur, this is my wagon,” you said, dumbfounded, brain not quite working.

“Yup, I know.”

He cracked the reins, getting the horses to start their little trotting.

“It’s– it’s my wagon. I’m not going to town, you– you know that, right?”

“Yup. I know.”

You stare a few more seconds, stare hard, then sink into your seat, facing forward.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

You hear faint laughter from behind you and raise your head to look over your shoulder, where you see the girls waving – grinning – and Karen hooting and hollering, knowing how things were likely to go. 

“Why– why did you change your mind?” you ask, breathless, gripping your hands tight in your lap. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Just thought about it last night. Thought– hell– once thought no one would have me. Then some pretty girl shows up an’-- well– guess your words hit a chord last time we talked.”

“Arthur, nobody in their right mind wouldn’t have you.”

The rest of the trip is spent in relative quiet, your mind busy processing the fact that Arthur would be staying. The stop at Rhodes for food was brief, the pass through Emerald Ranch even briefer. Then it was up to O’Creagh’s Run, where Arthur stopped by an old man’s cabin. The man had spared you a knowing smile, clapped Arthur on the back, offered to take you both fishing later, then sent you your way.

After that, it was just a little roundabout trip to avoid the steep parts of the mountain range, and soon, you two were passing into a clearing where a log tower came into view. It was a sturdy, impossibly pristine place, likely recently abandoned. A nearby campfire was still smoldering, but Arthur noted that people rarely passed through. Ambarino was a scarce place after all, with few homesteads and little reason to visit. And – on the off chance some other alpha was too nosy for their own good – the top of the tower provided ample range for Arthur to threaten them off with a gun.

Settling in, you were starting to feel the haze of your heat, but luckily, Arthur had given you some privacy to prepare. He waited outside, by the campfire, scavenging through the leftovers of the former occupants to see if they’d abandoned any cans of food. In the meantime, you’d bundled up your extra blankets and pillows, 

Once overcome by the sweltering heat of Lemoyne, now the cold of the Grizzlies has drifted through the opening at the top of the tower, allowing the cool air to sink and settle around you, and paired with the blankets still lightly scented with the smell of fellow omegas, it begins to slowly you into a sense of security. The stove can be turned on later if needed, to warm both some food and you – but for now, the temperature is satisfactory, and in your chemise, the urge to sleep is instant. You don’t even fight it. Within minutes, you’re drifting off into peaceful nothingness.

And that’s when the sound of a gunshot awakens you.

“Arthur?”

You call out his name in the dead quiet, clutching the blankets close. Your heat is on the edge of full force, and you’re just barely lucid enough to stand. Which you do.

“Arthur?” you repeat, bare feet falling in succession on the wooden floor.

Then it hits you – the swarm of what felt like dozens of other scents. The disgusting mixture of chalk and rotten food, pungent chemicals, and more. But somewhere in the middle, there’s the familiar smell of leather – the warmth of whiskey, and the freshness of rain.

And you notice – it’s raining.

There’s no more gunshots, not that you can hear, but now there’s the sound of a struggle outside. Gasps and coughs and grunts, among the sound of fists landing hard on flesh and bone. You flinch repeatedly at each blow and finally decide to peek through the window, where in the dark of night, you can barely make out the silhouettes of several people.

Two bodies lie still in the grass, water gathering in the wrinkles of their shirts. Three more are standing – one, you make out to be Arthur, while the other two are clearly trying to beat him to a pulp.

Emphasis on trying.

With a well placed kick to the gut, Arthur sends another one flying, and now it’s just him and the seemingly equally large man left.

You can’t make out what they’re saying, but you can make a good guess. Why else would a group of alphas swarm to one spot when an omega’s in heat? The thought makes you sick, and you cover your mouth, slumping against the wall by the window and forcing the bile down. 

It takes seemingly forever, but after a while, the sound dies down. One more glance out the window confirms that Arthur is the only one left standing – because of course he is – and the sight of his outline, standing against the bright of far-off lightning strikes, shoulders rising and falling with every labored breath – it makes you want to crawl right into his arms.

But as you open the door and the full strength of your scent floods down the path towards him, his body goes rigid. There’s something wrong.

“Arthur?” you call out a third time. Then a pause.

“... Arthur?”

He turns, and you see the spots of red splattered across his face. There’s this wild look in his eye – not the mix of affection and lust that you’d seen so long ago, but the pure animalistic drive of alpha pheromones. In the rain, the scent hits you. Yes – leather. Whiskey. The smell of dust after rain.

The heat pools in your blood, but so, too, does your body call you to run.

And you do.

_

Oh, you want the third part? The lovely, lovely smut? Check out my ao3

[shootybangbang]

In which the part meets the whole [Part 5]

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Content Advisory]: this has omegaverse (alpha/beta/omega) dynamics, elements of psychological dissociation, and light dubcon (see note at end)

[Part 1][Part 2][Part 3][Part 4]

------

Something in this feels like fracturing. A ramifying split between the you who’d woken up this morning fevered and dizzy with the assumption that you were simply sick— and the you now, with her thighs wrapped around an alpha’s hips and his seed pooled impossibly deep. An irreparable divide, unnavigable.

But there’s nothing at all conflicted in Arthur’s expression. He looks more content now than you’ve ever seen him. Some essential bitterness carved out of him, at least for the time being. You hadn’t known that he could look so gentle, and it tightens a strange, sweet twinge in your chest to see him like this. Girlhood hopes, the ones you’d drowned inside of yourself the moment you’d realized the truth of your condition, come swimming to the surface now like starved fish. Rippling, flashing a mockingly bright fin here and there through the water.

You comb back the dark blond hair falling into his eyes with your fingers, then greet him with a quiet, hoarse, “Hey.”

He smiles. “Hey,” he answers— casually, as though he weren’t currently hilted inside of you.

“How, uh… how long do you usually…”

“‘Bout twenty minutes. Sometimes thirty.”

“Thirty minutes,” you echo. “Good.”

His weary chuckle carries in it a familiar hint of self-deprecation. “That’s good? Means you’re stuck with me like this for the next half hour.”

It’s as though a barrier has fallen away, nothing left to trap what you’d otherwise be too shy to put to words. Sincerity bleeding through that you know you’ll regret in the grey dawn of rationality. “Of course it’s good. Because I like this,” you flatten your palm over the stretch of skin beneath your navel. “Having you right here.”

Arthur breathes in sharply. “Gonna be forty minutes if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“So I should keep at it, then? I should tell you how much I like having your come inside me, h-how warm it is, and—”

“Omega,” he growls. and the word strikes a forlorn chord in you, those three syllables previously a curse, but they sound so fucking good when he says them now, as certain and right as your own name. And you vaguely register that you ought to be horrified by the power this gives him over you: that submission tied by blood, the ruling of your own body to his will. But with the dizzying sensation of being tied, the worry is shoved away in pursuit of pleasure.

Arthur presses his hand against the back of your neck and loosely cups it there like he’s going to scruff you. “You want me to take you again, omega?” He grinds himself against you as he speaks, and the sparking friction of it has you whimpering helplessly, shamelessly. “D’you want me to… ah…” he pauses and seems almost embarrassed to say it. But the same delirious lack of inhibition must have him in its grasp as well, because he continues, “D’you want me to fuck another load into you?”

The unprecedented crudeness of his speech shocks you into silence, and it’s all you can do to nod.

“Then you best stop rilin’ me up, because the longer I’m like this, the longer you’re gonna have to wait.”

You nod again, suddenly docile and obedient as a church mouse.

“You gonna be good for me then, omega?”

“Yes,” you whisper. God, that word. Makes you a captive through your own pleasure. Lashes you to him like leather cords passed through your bones.

“That’s what I like to hear.” 

His mouth grazing your own feels like a seal as absolute as red wax dripped on an envelope. Your own fate folded inside, its destination set. No way out. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

But as long as it’s Arthur— the fucking asshole who’d made you scream yesterday when he’d feigned falling off a bridge, the man who’d foraged for and forced you to drink a disgusting concoction of yarrow and meadowsweet when you’d run a temperature this morning— you can bear it, you think. The damnation of being owned. 

You ain’t just a thing for me to use, he’d said. A pretty thing to hear, and something you’d have agreed with once, back when you still had notions of egalitarianism. Before you’d seen firsthand the near universal hell others of your kind inevitably find themselves bound to, all the fire ground out of them, only the grey-ashed cinders of their past selves any indication of any life they might have lived outside captivity.

And yet he treats you like a person. Would have left you untouched if you hadn’t begged him to fuck you, you’ve no doubt about that. Even went so far as to decouple completely when you’d flinched beneath him, prioritizing your own useless comfort over the dictate of his rut. 

Arthur smooths his hand over your shoulder, following the curve all the way down to your forearm. He peers into your face like he’s searching for something lost beneath clouded water, and asks “You alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just had a feeling.”

He’ll be angry if you tell him. Not with you, but with himself. The slow decay of regret will sink into all this and take away this peaceable surrender. “Thinking about what happens after,” you reply, and it’s not a lie, not really. Only an omission.

It’s an unwelcome intrusion of the reality beyond the quiet pocket of reprieve this isolated outcrop has become. His thumb finds the inside of your wrist and swipes gentle arcs against the tendon ridged there, and after a brief silence during which you can’t meet his eyes, he says, “Things’re comin’ to a head soon, I reckon. Dutch said after one last score, we’ll be able to—”

“Don’t talk about Dutch when you’ve got your cock in me,” you grumble.

He dashes an apologetic kiss against your forehead. “When,” he says. “And I mean when, not if… when we’re both clear of all this, where d’you want to go?”

“What, with you?”

“No, I meant just you by yourself— ‘course I mean with me, dumbass.”

With him. With Arthur. The dismal, eager leap of your heart at the very thought of it. “I dunno.” You have to fight to keep your voice level. “It’s a big country, and I haven’t seen hardly any of it yet.”

“Yeah? Where to first, then?”

You begin rattling off a litany of destinations previously relegated to daydreams and wishful thinking. The canyonlands, those redstone basins sliced and worn smooth by centuries of water and wind. Or maybe the desert with its white dunes glinting like hills of heaped snow. Or the Grizzlies, all its bleak crags that come alive with greenery in the spring, when meltwater runs bright through the pines…

“Christ, woman,” he groans. “You askin’ me to take you on a goddamn tour from West Elizabeth to California?”

“Well, you don’t have to take me to see all of them…”

“Should start with the Grizzlies. ‘Cause it’ll be slow goin’ for a while, else the altitude’s gonna make you real sick.” He says this quiet with the burden of thought, plotting out a future like twining the fraying filaments of your lives together. “Stop in near Denver for supplies, and from there we can go Southwest, towards Painted Desert.”

As he sketches out that tenuous path, you close your eyes and press your cheek against his chest, counting out the low thrum of his heart. You listen drowsily as he lists possible routes and puzzles over hunting locales and difficult terrain, and you interrupt him periodically with idle and ignorant observations that he gently derides you for. The weight of his palm at your back is like a centering stone, anchoring.

He’s in the middle of dissuading you from visiting the Great Salt Lake (“nothin but brine flies and buzzards out there”) when he pauses and braces your hip with his hand. “Hold on,” he says. “Think my knot’s gone down enough that I can…” 

Arthur grimaces as he slides his softening cock from between your thighs, and the ensuing ache of withdrawal is tempered somewhat by the warm drip of his release, the quiet reminder of what you’re for. An omega: just a thing to be fucked and used and bred. There’s no denying it now— not with the baptism you’ve just been given, this induction into an existence marked by your own inescapable submission. 

He’s hard again from just beholding it, and regards the beading precome at the tip of his cock like a ripening curse. Hastily, he says, “We don’t have to… I mean, you gotta be sore from…”

“Again,” you demand. 

The look on his face, the raw adoration— you’d wrap the leash around your neck yourself to have this every day. Let it choke you to an inch of your life. You can feel it closing in now, as he kisses you and slips his hand between your thighs to feel the flow of seed and slick coating his fingers. 

He’s less cautious this time, now that you’ve taken him once without breaking. When he pushes himself back inside, he fills you with a single, drawn out stroke, every second of that renewed penetration a sweet agony of anticipation. And when he fucks into you, he seems to be entranced by the view of his previous release still glistening at your slit, the new smoothness of his thrusts with his own come to ease the burn. 

That first time had all the careful tending of observation, his own pleasure set aside in worry of what the simple force of him might do to you. But if not gone wholly, it is diminished now. There is a self-indulgence in his movements now, a roughness that you had but caught glimpses of before.

It’s indescribable, the intensity of having him this second time. The drip of what he’d given you before spilling down the backs of your thighs, each thrust weighted with eager anticipation of what he’ll soon replace it with. He groans when you brace a hand against his shoulder and hold his torso at arm’s length, all the better to watch the pumping of his hips, the shine of mingled release on his shaft that disappears and renews with each thrust— and oh, the silver fire of his eyes as he takes in the sight of you beneath him. You grin to have caught him off guard, and he echoes it as he shifts your hips up and mounts you in such a willful, dominant way that all your smug satisfaction dissolves into weak, fervent whimpers. He presses the backs of your thighs against your chest and drives into you as if the fluid friction of fucking was the purpose of his creation.

“You take me so well,” he says, so sweetly that it makes you servile, and draws out a depth of devotion antithetical to your temperament. Like pulling up a line from an ocean lure, coaxing from that unexplored territory something strange and sharp-toothed and possessed of an unknown trepidation. God, right now you would expose to him even the bright red jewel of the heart beating in your chest, give him every bit of yourself until there were nothing left to use.

Arthur hooks both your knees over his shoulders and pauses a second to press a kiss to your calf. His stubble scrapes against the delicate skin there, and you feel the gentle curve of him smiling against you. 

What can you do but give in?

The position that he takes you with now is one you’ve never experienced before. He keeps you on your back, near immobile and trapped by both the weight of his body and the unmitigated affection in his expression. There is a domination in it that you would have refused anyone else, but that you offer willingly to him, knowing that he’d free you up if you should so much as frown at him. And it really is absurd, the kind of power he’s allowed you over him. Contrary to natural law, building up a tenuous new order in its place.

“Look at you,” he croons. “All soft and sweet for once. Didn’t think you’d ever let me see you like this.”

You turn a luminary shade of crimson heretofore seen only in the plumage of certain exotic birds. 

“And so fuckin’ cute.” Arthur slides your legs down from his shoulders, straddles your thighs round his hips as he leans forward. Skin to skin again, a growl rising up in his chest with a tenor like longing, as though the act of kneeling before you had been one of deprivation. A sacrifice that he’d been forced to make, choosing between the view of you desperate for him, or the twine of your arms around his neck. “That noise you make whenever I call you ‘omega’.”

It catches in your throat, the responsive little whimper that you let out like an animal yipping in eager response to her master.

“The way you tighten up when I say it. It makes me— christ, it makes me…”

“Arthur—”

He bucks into you hard and kisses you near violently, as if in substitute to some deep-seated urge. A kiss almost like a bite. “Makes me want you all to myself,” he says hoarsely.

You nearly present your throat to him right then and there, and only manage to stop yourself by the last grasping thread of your diminishing self control. But he senses that conflict in you somehow, raises his workworn palm to your neck and wordlessly shields it from the threat of himself. Gentle, even in the harshness of his thrusts now, the jumping pulse of his pleasure approaching fast, and the swell of his knot heavy against your slit. 

It takes him just three staggered thrusts to lock into you this time, and with each one he whispers reassurance amidst that brief sting of pain, his own teeth clenched from the sheer intensity of his high before he fits himself completely and gives you that beautiful, helpless moan of his— a sound that is new to you still, and that you would gladly learn by heart. Arthur ruts a few short and jerky strokes that do little more than shift the length of him to a tight and aching friction, and it takes less than a minute of that priming before he shivers and gasps, the muscles of his hips and thighs taut as he fills you with the sudden warmth of his spend. The thick pulse of his seed like the frantic beat of his own blood, the liquidsmooth heat of it trickling deep, the guttural gasp that he muffles against your skin as he presses his mouth to your shoulder, as if the sinful force of his pleasure was such that he could not stand to face the eyes of its source— christ, it’s enough to seize at the core of you, plunge you headlong over the edge of your own vertiginous fall.

After, when your ears have stopped ringing and the soft abatement rests quiet over you both, he turns red and awkward when you ask him coyly what exactly “all to himself” entails. Arthur clears his throat, changes the subject. “You, uh. You hungry at all?”

“Probably.”

“After this, we should both eat somethin’. Figure out what we should do ‘bout provisions.”

“Or we can go for round three.”

“Food first,” he says sternly. “Then fucking.”

The firm underpinning of authority in his voice winds a current of unease in you as tight and hard as a dead man’s knot. And it’s stupid; he often takes this tone with you when he thinks you’re being unreasonable, but you can’t help but blurt out, “So now that you know I’m an omega, you think you can boss me?”

“What? No.” Judging by his naked bewilderment at the accusation, it wasn’t a line of thought he’d come remotely close to. “That don’t matter none to me. You bein’ an omega, that is. In my eyes, you’re still the same little fool I rode out with this morning.”

Ah christ. He looks like he really means it. His eyes full silver, his cock still holstered full and tight inside you, the well of your body slick and warm with two loads of his seed— every conquering sign plain to see, and still he persists in maintaining this false veneer of equality. When he touches the tips of his fingers to your cheek and directs you to look him full in the face, you turn your head slightly to brush your lips against his palm.

“Which means I can boss you because you still got barely a clue how to set up camp, let alone get along by yourself out here.” He kisses your forehead; you go as weak as if it were a bullet he had planted there instead.

When he withdraws this time, he pointedly keeps his head turned away from you and pulls up his trousers with a businesslike yank of his waistband, all the while pretending that he isn’t struggling to button his fly over the stiff and eager jut of his cock. You’re too exhausted to do more than whine out a few wheedling complaints in an attempt to lure him back. It’s cold without him there, you pout, and he’s too goddamned honorable to do anything more than retrieve his leather jacket from his saddlebags and chuck it in your general direction.

There isn’t much to eat. He’d been planning on hitting town this evening to restock, he admits, splitting two loaves of sourdough and a few strips of dried venison between you both, and says he’ll lay the hoop net in the river before sundown.

“I’ll help you,” you tell him through a mouthful of crusty bread.

“Like hell you will. You’re stayin’ right here.”

“What, why not?”

“Because if you come with, that net’s gonna end up floating away downstream while we fuck on the bank.”

The fabric of his trousers is strained tight over his erection, and though he makes every effort to look away, every contour of his body seems to tug in your direction. He is a conduit of compulsion, the current of his blood surely as vocal as your own, whispering in inverse. So it’s not hard to sway him— a clumsy bit of flirtation, the wheedle of your voice soft and sad— the kind of performance that yesterday’s you would have turned her nose up at, but she fades now sure as sunlight in the face of your own setting fate.

You trudge behind him through bramble and pine as he clears a way through the underbrush, with his spare shirt wrapped around yourself like an oversized tunic and your inner thighs swiped to gleaming with every step, wet with the steady drip of his come. Each unsteady footfall is an admonishment, the slickness of seed at your center as insistent as a new wound, as arousal itself.

The river is not cold. Its shallows are sunwarmed, silt bottomed and soft. Shoals of silver-sided fry fragment and dart when you shuck off your boots and wade in calf deep, wisping through the water like swirls of bright dust. You bend to pick up rocks to weigh down the net with, and catch him staring at the pale streak of him that runs down your leg, swerving at the hollow behind your knee. 

He swallows hard, red-faced, standing there on the shore with his hands untangling the net. The bottom of his pant leg soaks dark as he takes a sudden step into the water, and his pupils are dilated so wide that the silver of his iris is an emaciated ring of hunger. And will he take you like this, with the mark of his release gleaming on your skin, and ought you let him, ought you present yourself like a doe with wolves’ teeth ringed gentle in her open throat, like a good omega, like a proper omega—

But he blinks. Busies himself with work, though his fingers are shaking and the muscles of his arms and back tight. When you splash over to help anchor the net with foraged sticks and stones, your submerged hand brushes his; he touches the cupped cradle of your palm, but lets his momentary touch trail away with the parting current, and says nothing. Only when the task is complete does he smile at you with the angle of his mouth still somewhat bashful, gesturing with his thumb towards the camp in which he’s fucked you twice in as many hours, and in the end you can’t even make it halfway back before pressing your heat sodden body against a high-branched oak and dragging him into you by the buckle of his belt.

Rough scrape of bark along your back, a strew of monarch butterflies startles and scatters through the air in a shiver of orange and black wings, and it’s transfiguration that is on your mind as he pulls you flush. A worm will spin her bed of silk, sleep through the liquefaction of her body and the slow crystallization of poisoned wings. When she wakes, does she mourn what she has shed? And when Arthur inevitably puts his teeth to your neck and clamps down, will you grieve the unbonded past?

Omega like any other. Little breeding bitch with your heart on a rope.

But it’ll be alright, so long as it’s him. It always is.

------

Author's note: I've always thought that being an omega was a horrifying concept in many ways, given the potential loss of personhood involved. Here, the reader is having an EXTREMELY intense heat, and her thoughts are spiraling out of control in ways that are not at all obvious to Arthur right now. Not entirely sure where I'm going with this, very much testing the waters, but I'll state up front that though this may touch on darker territory, I'm very much intending this to stay consensual. It's a delicate topic though, and feedback/criticism is very much welcomed.

[woman-of-balnain]

Masterlist

In Progress/Future/Potential Fic List

Key:

😈 - Smutty Thoughts

🔥 - Strictly Foreplay or Not Really Full-Blown Smut

💦  - Smut

💥 - Arguing Between the Pairing

💔 - Angst

💕 - Fluff

❤️‍🩹 - Hurt/Comfort

🐺 - A/B/O Dynamics

⚔️ - Historical AU

The Walking Dead

Rick Grimes

Endzeitfragmente (Fragments From the End of Time)  🐺

Summary: A collection of stories surrounding my Rick/Reader a/b/o pairing. They are all connected and inspired by the original series I wrote, titled ‘the Claim.’

Collection Masterlist

-

You Don't Form in the Wet Sand (I Do) 🐺

Request: An omega reader who is able to handle and defend herself and how Rick would deal with that considering he just wants to protect her.

Part 1

Part 2 - 💦

-

Corruption 🐺

Request: a sheltered reader who comes from a religious family and doesn’t really understand presentations or heat/rut cycles. When her heat comes for the first time after the world has fallen, Rick helps her through it.

Part 1 - 🔥

Part 2 - 💦 (Coming Soon)

Part 3 - 💦 (Coming Soon)

Red Dead Redemption

Arthur Morgan

Requests:

Bold as Love - 💦 💥 (You get jealous after seeing Arthur with Mary)

Bold as Love Part 2 - 💦 (Reader gets back at Arthur)

The First Shall Not Be the Last - 💦  (You lose your virginity to Arthur)

The Fine Art of Flirtatious Conversation - (You are Arthur's Secret Wife)

[in-ky]

Day 6: Alpha Morgan teehee

BREEDING KINK BREEDING KINK BREE- Summary: you're in heat and arthur comes and helps WARNINGS: A/B/O content and breeding kink, alpha morgan and omega reader (afab, no pronouns). he's kinda rough so medium-low honor arthur lolz. partially dubious consent? idk

You wanted him so badly. Normally, you would stifle your wants and continue on with your day with that sharp longing in your chest for him. But today, it was a need. You needed Arthur. The slick beginning to drip down your thighs was proof enough for that. It was the first heat you had that was giving you intense pain. You thrashed around in your tent, clawing at your sleeping shirt to try and get any sort of relief from the boiling heat you were shrouded in. The heat had come earlier than you were expecting. Usually, you would retreat to the safe house in Cumberland Forest. But, of course and as always, nature had other plans. So here you were, trying to cover up your moans and scent from the Alpha in the tent beside you.

Arthur had helped you with your heat a few times in the past. He always made you safe and protected and never pressured you into becoming his mate. But you wish he did. God how you wished he did. With his stupidly hot attractive body and his scent of bonfire and warm leather that drove you crazy. You wanted him more than anything, but he was just being nice and attending you as one of the group’s alphas. As another wave of cramps and slick crashed into your lower abdomen, you couldn’t help but cry for your alpha. 

He was there in an instant, ripping back the flaps of the tent and glaring down at you with nothing but pure, fiery desire in his gaze.

“Wh- Arthur?” You gasped, pulling your shirt back over you “What are you doing up?” He entered the tent and clasped it shut behind him, so no one would be interrupting you. 

“I smelled you hours ago. I’ve been waiting out there for you to call me in and make sure no one else got to you before I did.”

“Why would you do that?” Arthur leaned in close, placing a kiss on your earlobe.

“Because I’m your alpha.” With that, he grabbed you under your knees and pulled you down so your back was flat against your sleeping mat. You groaned as his hard length rubbed against your bare core, leaving a trail of slick in its wake. “And you’re my omega.” He continued to growl, unbuckling his belt” Your brain gushed with adoration and pleasure. He was yours. He had always been yours.

“Alpha, please.” You begged, clawing at his clothes “Please, I need you inside of me. I need your knot.” Arthur growled, and kissed your neck, nipping and sucking around the junction between your neck and your shoulder. If he had just been biting a little harder, the whole world would know about your pairing. He reached down and unbuckled his pants, sighing in relief as his cock got some pressure relieved. 

“Are you ready?” He asked, taking himself out of his pants. He laughed at your eager nod. “Of course you are, look how much you’re weeping for me.” Arthur gathered your slick on the head of his cock and slowly pressed into you. You immediately felt at ease as his length parted your walls. He was easily able to bottom out on the first thrust because of your eager spasming.

“I will never get used to how nice you feel when you’re gripping me like this.” He groaned, burying his face into your neck and sucking on the sweet spot. Your moans got louder and more desperate, not caring who might hear you.

“Arthur, please!” You gasped at his thrusts “I need you. All of you.”

“Fuck,” He hissed, gliding in and out of you “Who do you belong to?”

“You, Arthur!” You cried, gripping onto his shoulders as the force of his thrusts caused your legs to shake.

“Whose- shit- who’s your alpha?” “You are! You’re my alpha, I’m your omega. I belong to you forever.” The words tumbled out of your mouth without you thinking, but it ignited something in Arthur.” “Damn right.” He growled, picking up his speed. “You’re mine. Mine to love and protect and breed and no one else’s. Everyone's gonna know who you belong to when you're round with my pups. Everyone's gonna see just how good of an omega you are. My omega.” You couldn’t respond to it, but your heart filled with the love and adoration that you had always felt for Arthur. He was yours. Forever. And you were his. And as he rolled you over onto your sides, knot stretching your walls to ensure none of the cum he was continuously pumping into you escaped and muscles tired from both of your releases, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and muttered the three words you had been longing for ever since you met him.

“I love you.”

[hannibalzero]

How does Arthur react when a random alpha starts flirting with him?

Arthur isn’t a man that’s used to positive attention, believing he is ugly and stupid he just can’t believe this alpha is flirting with him? Man must have brain damage or something.

“Aww hell, you could do much better than me.” Hiding under his hat the way he dose when he’s embarrassed.

Arthur is 36 canonly, so he truly believes he’s passed his prime and no alpha would want him. He ain’t no cute virginal show pony anymore he’s a tired work horse.

That looks kinda sad.

That’s how Arthur sees himself.

What other alphas see?

Oh EXTRME milf energy, a big titted omega male of the west, can handle himself and doesn’t have any pups hanging off of him. Not a young and fragile little thing that jumps at every little sound. Pretty blue eyes with a crooked little grin, big strong chest and arms. Great childbearing hips. Strong bowed legs and wonderfully spoils horses and pups.

Oh and let’s not forget that money comes to Arthur almost randomly.

Not only would the alpha in question be with a powerhouse of an omega, he would be quite well off too financially.

Back to the question at hand, as much as Arthur is trying to hide under his hat. He’s almost relishing in the sweet words and kind conversations, Arthur won’t allow any touch unless he’s into it.

Like this deer getting a belly rub.

Arthur will turn into a purring mess, he’s a big cuddler. But anything more needs some courting.

Cuse that’s how stuff works, courting and marriage.

Mary-Beth isn’t the only one who like romance novels 😁

[bears-are-my-favourite-colour]

“He’s so tiny Hosea.” Dutch whispers, almost afraid to disturb the peace.

Hosea looks over to the man stood by the bassinette, back hunched as he stares into the bed.

“Well, he’s a baby dear.” He smiles.

Dutch laughs, it sounds watery and choked. “I know he’s a baby. He’s just-” Dutch makes a choked noise, turning around to look at the man in the bed, little Arthur cradled on his one arm, head resting in his palm. And now with the man looking at him, he can see what Dutch means. His hands dwarf the boy’s head and his whole body rests on Dutch’s arm, little feet lightly kicking into the crook of his elbow.

“Wha- Dutch are you crying?” Hosea asks alarmed.

“I- I just.” He takes a shaky breath.

“He’s just so perfect Hosea.” He sobs lifting his free hand to wipe at his eyes.

Hosea smiles again, shifting with a wince before he pats the bed.

“Come sit down you big sap.”

Dutch makes his way across the room slowly and carefully, not taking his eyes of the sleeping babe as if any one wrong move would break the boy’s sleep.

There was a time, when Arthur was born, that Hosea thought Dutch would pack his bags and leave him and their son, that the idea of commitment that a baby would bring scared the man so much that he had to run away. But looking at him now, staring at Arthur with large doe eyes so full of love, proves to Hosea that the man was truly just afraid of the sheer size of the boy and just how easy it would be to accidentally hurt him.

Hosea is grateful of the fact. He could raise Arthur on his own just as many did in this world of absent fathers, but he would not have wanted to. Wouldn’t have wanted to raise Arthur with nothing but tall tails of his daddy or answer the questions every young man had about why their father didn’t want to stay.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the bed dips beside him with Dutch’s weight.

“You okay?” He asks and Dutch sniffs.

“Yeah. It’s just-”

“He so little. I know dear.”

“Don’t laugh at me Hosea.” Dutch huffs, but there’s no heat behind the words and he has yet to look up from their little boy’s face.

“I’m not Dutch.” He rests his head on Dutch’s shoulder, looking down at the baby still asleep on his arm. He really did look a lot like Dutch in his sleep with dark hair, that would no doubt lighten as Hosea’s did in his youth, falling over his face in little whisps.

“What I find funny is that you didn’t think you’d be a good father.” Hosea admits, “Now look at you, crying again because our son is small.”

“It’s not funny.” Dutch smiles despite this.

“No, it’s lovely.”

[jessie-j17]

Hello! My name is Jesse and I go by He/They pronouns, as of making this post I’m particularly new to tumblr and I have no idea how to work it, so I’m trying my best here.

I have ADHD and dyslexia, I’m currently hyper fixating on The Bad Batch and The Clone Wars and I’m so normal actually, I also am so normal about RDR2 and TMNT12.

My twitter is @Boubies_lovr

My discord is @stinkymeat07 (don’t worry about the name..)

My TikTok! https://www.tiktok.com/@kupid.tcw?_t=8lBGjp5NWsY&_r=1

Please contact me if you want to be friends!

[silanb]

Children are very good at things and also stuff. I would never lie to you.

[oblongblockofsteel]

Broken Doll Part 3

SUMMARY “You’re a blank omega, right?”

That question has been asked too many times in his life. Not that it had ever been Trelawny's choice to even BE blank. It's his greatest wish to bond, to feel connected, but when he bonds with Arthur Morgan, it's more pain than he ever bargained for.

There’s a modest mansion nestled in the rough little valley of Willowbrook. It was impossible to see from the road and had remained almost undetected for years. According to Trelawny’s sources the property had enough valuables to make a duchess blush, and he and his compatriots aimed to alleviate these wonderful people of that heavy burden.

‘Wonderful’ being a rather subjective term, his sources were also quick to share rather strongly held opinions of these people.

‘Peculiar’, ‘odd’, ‘strange’ was often used by the polite.

‘Fucking insane,’ from the more honest.

Trelawny despised going in blind, and so he had persuaded Arthur to rather take things a bit more methodically this time around. They were to watch the house for three days to pinpoint routines, determine how many people lived there, and possibly find out who these people actually were.

Arthur and Trelawny set out early that next morning. Charles and Javier would head off later in to small town nearby to see if they could pick up any more information. Trelawny would prefer to be plucking the brains of sheriffs and barmen, but he opted for a few days in the countryside this time. Besides, if his con was to work on these, he really shouldn’t be seen too much in town. Once Arthur and Trelawny had determined the variables, they were to meet Charles and Javier by a crossroads where they’d discus the plan further. Simple, easy as can be.

And of course Trelawny would be acting as distraction and right in the firing range as per usual.

He never really minded it. He quite enjoyed being the center of so much attention; it fed the ego enough for at least a few weeks. As a performer by nature, he really couldn’t be anywhere else but on the stage. No matter the size of it or the type.

The ride was quiet, the horse’s hooves soft against the dew-soaked earth as they cantered over the wet mud. Trelawny in a rare moment enjoyed the silence, taking the time to think of possible distractions and the problems which might occur during the heist.

His appaloosa tossed his head a few times, more frisky than he first thought. So, when they turned the corner to take the main road he egged him on a bit, taking Arthur past with a bright laugh. Arthur, of course, did not take to that kindly and quickly sped up, coming up from the side. Trelawny lay low on Gwydion’s back, feeling the muscle and bone shift and pound beneath him. He heard a sharp whistle just as they reached a hill and like a shot, Arthur and Boadicea shot past them and reached the top a good length ahead of them.

“Ya really thought you could beat Boa?” he asked panting and patting her arched neck.

Trelawny laughed again, “Perhaps on a dull long stretch of road you can beat us, Mr Morgan. But give us a road with sharp turns and all manner of obstacles, and Gwydion will show you how it’s done.”

The little appaloosa tossed his head as if in agreement and Arthur snorted, shaking his head.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Trelawny laughed and they continued onwards.

They reached the small mansion by midafternoon. Surroundings hills and forests made it difficult to see if you didn’t know where to look. It was as dilapidated as he expected. The estate around it had become over grown with weeds, the plants and garden unkempt and unruly. But even without binoculars, he could see a stable full of horses, a man walking down a path to what he assumed was a greenhouse.

There was life, and treasure to be found. Jewels if his sources were good – which they always were - a whole stack of jewels hanging behind a portrait in the main bedroom.

“You sure about this?”

“Have I ever been wrong?”

Arthur huffed, “Wrong? No. Unlucky? Hell, yes.”

“Let’s hope my luck has turned.”

Arthur snorted and turned Boa away from the house, “Let’s go find us a spot.”

They quickly set about scouting the area. They were looking for a spot that was both secluded and free of too much traffic. Some of these areas could be quite busy and they wanted to avoid them as best they could to avoid suspicion. They discussed possible pitfalls of the area, noting homesteads that were too close for comfort or trails hidden between the trees that hinted at possible traffic.

They finally settled on a cramped forested area, obscured from view but with a high ridge on the site which would be perfect for Charles to take out a few men with his bow if need be. But just before starting their vigil, Arthur noted a woodcutter’s camp only around thirty yards from the road. They packed up and moved on.

It would be dusk before Arthur finally settled on a spot: a slight ridge far from roads with a perfect view on the mansion hidden between trees and bush. A long stretch of river hugged the short hill close from the east, cutting in between the house and the hill and a rock face rising up behind them, meant they would not easily be spotted if they kept low. They scouted the area for a good hour but found no settlements, farmsteads, homesteads nor well-hidden woodcutters or trail.

“This should do very nicely,” Trelawny agreed, plopping down on a rock overlooking their target directly.

“You tired of looking, old man?” Arthur’s smile was downright mischievous.

Trelawny took off his hat and wiped at his forehead, “Not all of us can be boorish gorillas with more brawn than brains, Mr Morgan.”

He snorted, “I’ll go get us a rabbit, can you start the campfire?” he paused, then turned back and with a downright mischievous smile said, “Do you even know how?”

Oh that little snip. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, Trelawny stood up and walked straight towards him scratching at his chin with an idle hand.

“I rightfully don’t know,” he said, voice taking on a slight sing-song tone. “I haven’t done it in a while, I do so love living the high life, eh, Mr Morgan?”

“You sure do.” He crossed his arms, as if waiting for something. And Trelawny so hated disappointing people.

“Well now,” he raised a hand with a closed fist, and looked straight at Arthur, “Do you think this will work?”

Bright yellow sparks clapped right in Arthur’s face, he took a wild step back and nearly stumbled to the ground in his haste. “Fuck, Trelawny!”

He laughed right from his belly, and Arthur, despite his surprise failed to hide his own grin. “Go get us some dinner, my dear boy! I believe I can figure out a blasted campfire.”

“I think you just might,” he agreed, jumping on his mount, Arthur tipped his hat the man took off into the field.

Shaking his head, Trelawny e went to gather some sticks for the fire. He had only done so years ago while travelling with a Circus. They’d been kind, they taught him magic, and showed to him that he could survive, that he could be more than he ever thought he might be. Mostly, he remembered Bryan…

A love nurtured through wild adventures and constant laughter. A kiss in the dark, an embrace that turned into more, the sharp sting of a bite, and the painful disappointment of a bond unformed.

His hand paused, turning its journey away from a stick to settle instead on his neck. Bryan had, at least not abandoned him as the others had. Over twelve bites and not a single one would take. Not even his dear Deirdre, whom was now married to the owner of a mine up in Saint Denis.

Frederick was his name.

He sighed heavy and deep, and quietly gathered a few more sticks for the fire, pushing away his misery.

Thoughts of bonding brought up thoughts of Arthur and his impending marriage. He wondered what it would be like for the Alpha to be shackled to a Beta. Shackled might be a rough a term, but many Alpha’s felt incomplete in beta marriages.

Was that the reason the lad was so uncertain?

“Josiah!”

Oh dear, I’ve lingered for too long. Grabbing around three more sticks he popped up and hurried back to camp.

“On my way, dear boy!”

Arthur, silhouetted by the dipping sun, spun to him, his expression tight with worry, “Thought something had happened.”

Josiah held back the urge to roll his eyes, “I am fine, Arthur. I’ve been taking care of myself since I turned fifteen.”

“Sure,” he shrugged, “But anything can happen.”

Trelawny glanced up, a sharp reprimand on his tongue, but Arthur’s demeanor made the words curl up and die. His stood; hands on his hips, head bowed a little, and shoulders hunched and so clearly worried.

“True,” he said instead, “But I’m fine,” he touched his arm and Arthur’s smile widened a little, soft with relief.

The evening came alive with the barks and caws of nightlight. Trelawny leaned back against the rock, taking long delicious drags from his cigarette.

“Arthur…” he ventured.

“Mm?” Arthur, hat tipped low was leaned against a tree; hands crossed over his stomach and head bowed.

“Have you ever been bonded?”

The head tilted up, revealing wary eyes.

“You asked me so many questions last night that I thought it only fair to ask you in turn.” He took another long drag and kept his eyes on his companion, examining his reaction. Arthur’s expression softened a little, his lips pursed under the hat then with a heavy sigh.

“No.”

“Truly?” That was surprising, “I’d have thought you’d have at least one sweetheart by now!”

He chuckled and shook his head, “Nah, not yet.”

“Oh? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it.”

“Especially,” he continued, ignoring his response, “Seeing as you were so adamant to know how to court a lady when you were but eighteen years old.”

The nightlife sounds crept back in. The stark shriek of an owl piercing the night and punctuated the absolute silence from his partner. Arthur sat forward, his face falling into shock.

“You remember that?”

Trelawny laughed, “Of course!” he said, “How could I not? Young Arthur marching up to me with a face carved of stone and asking pertinent, deliberate questions about how to court a lady.” Trelawny laughed, “And after you had your fill, you had nodded and marched off only to ignore me for a whole of three months!”

Arthur buried his face into his hands, “Ahh damn, I thought you’ve have forgotten about it. That was just…” he cleared his throat.

“Endearing?”

“Stupid,” he muttered pulling his face out his hands, “Just beyond stupid.”

Trelawny shook his head, “Not stupid if it was sincere,” he stared at Arthur, “Was it?”

“What?”

“Sincere?”

In true Arthur fashion he rubbed the back of his neck and smiled, “Yeah, I guess. But I never asked them though.”

“Why ever not?”

“Chickened out.”

“A shy Alpha? Now there’s a thought.”

Arthur reached over and punched him lightly in the shoulder, “Shut-up!”

Trelawny laughed.

For the rest of the evening, they sit around the small fire, chatting about anything and everything, Trelawny truly enjoyed Arthur’s company, his smile and laugh, and that wonderful shyness that cropped up from time to time. Endearing really was the best word to describe the man.

The rabbit was delicious, the company even better, and he went to sleep with a lighter heart.

[miguel-owhora]

Howdy my fellow sigmas. Proud to announce, again, that I am going to be attempting Kinktober !!! and hopefully it doesn’t end the same way as it did before :3

Now then, I’ve decided to go the ‘easy’ way and select the kinks/fetishes for each day, but have you guys pick the characters. Or whatever. Some kinks/fetishes do repeat but ! who cares lmao. Feel free to use this list as inspo or something idk man

Anyways, here’s a list of character’s that I’ll write for, and the available days! I’ll update the slots with each req :)  

Characters:

Miguel O’Hara , Peter B , Webslinger , Ben Reilly

John Price , Simon Riley , Kyle Garrick , John MacTavish , Phillip Graves, Vladimir Makarov

Steven Grant , Marc Spector , Jake Lockley

Arthur Morgan , Dutch Van der Linde , Hosea Matthews , Micah Bell , John Martson , Bill Williamson , Charles Smith , Javier Escuella , Kieran Duffy , Lenny Summers , Sean MacGuire

Slots :3

Watersports | Fear play | Semi-Public Sex - Miguel O'Hara

Face Fucking | Sex against Furniture | Fingering - Micah Bell

Sleepy Sex | Scent Kink | Knotting - John Martson

Begging | Blowjob | Mirror/Window - Dutch Van der Linde

Anal Fisting | Power Dynamics | Corset - Micah Bell

Masturbating Each Other | New Relationship | Omega/Omega - Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Dollification | Nipple Play | Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics - Micah Bell

Orgasm Control/Cum on Command | Feet Fetish | Piercings/Body Modifications - Miguel O'Hara

Titfucking | Corruption/Blasphemy Kink | Shower/Bath - Micah Bell

Animal Characteristics/Partial Transformation | Pillow Biting | Hog Tied - Arthur Morgan

Dildos | Mating Cycles/In Heat | Smelling Clothes - John Price

Praise Kink | Stuffing | Creampie - Ben Reilly

Choking/Asphyxiation | Fuck or Die | Sexual Punishment - Kieran Duffy

Boot Worship | Creampie in Throat | Hair Pulling - Micah Bell

Breeding Mount | Doggy Style | Genital Spanking - Arthur Morgan

Face Fucking | Strength/Power Kink | Deep Throat - Lenny Summers

Unprotected Sex | Armbinding | Spanking - Kieran Duffy/Mary-Beth Gaskill

Anal Cock Warming | Premature Orgasm | Dacryphilia/Crying Kink - Arthur Morgan

Squirting | Fuck or Die | Face Fucking - Kyle Garrick

Size Difference | Fingering | Pregnant Kink - Hosea Matthews

Oviposition | Predator/Prey | Mind Breaking - John Martson

Over-the-Knee Spanking | Puppy Play | Toys - John MacTavish

Cock Worship | Lactation | Vibrators - Miguel O'Hara

Weight Gain | Lingerie | Breeding - Dutch Van der Linde

Daddy Kink | Cock Worship | Cigarette Burns - Dutch Van der Linde

Gunplay | Hate/Angry Sex | Violence Kink - Miguel O'Hara

Sneaky Sex | Fingersucking | Anal sex - Hosea Matthews

Dry Humping/Grinding | Quickies | Cumming in Pants - Micah Bell

Knife Play | Blood Kink | Handjobs - Javier Escuella

Squirting | Cam Sex | Service Top - Bill Williamson

Author’s Choice? Perchance…

[tame-the-lion-writes]

anything but worthy [pt.1]

This is reposted from my ao3!

[Arthur Morgan SFW] tags: omegaverse

Once upon a time, someone told Arthur that he was a good man. Yet right now, he felt he was anything but.

Because–

Lavender. Honey. Vanilla syrup on a cold, cold day.

You were once the newest addition to the gang, brought in right alongside Sadie – a family friend you happened to visit the day the O'Driscolls came around. Together, you hid in the cellar, the constant howling wind your saving grace, especially since you were an omega whose mere presence could drive alphas mad.

The day they came was an unfortunate one, and while Sadie's inner alpha called on her to protect both you and her husband, there were just too many of the damn rats to fend off. Hence retreating underground, hence curling up together for warmth. She smelled of cinders and sawdust, and for a while, it was enough, but had you stayed much longer, you two would have surely frozen to death.

And then someone new arrived.

Three "someones," really. There new alphas – to be exact, but your focus landed on just one. It was a miracle that Sadie had managed to survive the mere stress of her dead husband – her mate – but the scent of natural competition had heightened her senses once more. So she led the way out of the cellar, blade in hand, steps slow and cautious while a snarl rumbled low in her throat.

What followed after wasn't so pleasant, but soon enough, you were wrapped in linen – lifted onto horseback and embraced in the arms of a brown-haired stranger. The haze of hunger and cold, the lull of steady hoofbeats, paired with the comfort of something safe – of someone safe – of an alpha – was all it took to cradle you to sleep. Yes, a sleep where you dreamed off–

Leather. Whiskey. The smell of dust after rain.

They said you could stay until you figured out where to go, but that scent was one you couldn't bear to leave. And Arthur Morgan could say the same thing about you.

Since that day in the West Grizzlies, there was just something about you, and he couldn't put his finger on it. Because sure, he'd been heartbroken before – he'd chased after Mary, he'd made himself a fool, but you – yes, you – you were something different.

He wouldn't call it love at first sight. Hell, he told himself, he hardly knew a thing about love. If anything, he knew what love wasn't, at least sort of – and surely, the complexity of what he felt couldn't be defined so simply. You see, for example, was it love when he wanted to hold you? Maybe. Was it love when he wanted to wipe your tears? Maybe. Now, was it love when he wanted to have you – on your back in his bed, skin red and lightly bruised, while he gripped your wrists so tight, a little more, and they would break?

About that – most certainly, no.

But goddamn if he didn't hate it – no, love it – when sometimes, you'd act all cute and lovely, look up at him with those big doe eyes, and smile without knowing how he thought of you each night. There was an inherent need to protect you, to keep your smiles innocent, yet the simultaneous dark craving that tempted him to make you cry. He'd sweep you up in his arms, he fantasized, then carry you to his tent – where he'd lay you down so gently, yank you by the ankle as he undid his pants, hoping to see you scramble away then give in when you realize it was hopeless.

Again, he'd remind himself – those thoughts were all fantasy. Scenarios he'd work out in his head when the sun had settled, or whenever he had some privacy out in the woods or away from camp. He'd never actually act on it – no, he was too good for that. But those thoughts made him question if he was really good at all, or if he was teetering towards the edge – putting up a facade out of sheer strong will and not really because he was any sort of moral man. Because moral as he may be, as loyal to a code as he may be, beneath all that humanity was still the devouring instinct of a beast.

Alpha, alpha, alpha – longing for an omega, omega, omega. Oh–

Lavender. Honey. Vanilla syrup on a cold, cold day.

He wondered if you tasted just like you smelled, and if you'd let him take a bite of your neck–

"Arthur? Hey, Arthur?"

"Hm? Sorry, you say somethin'?"

"No, not really. Just worried – you've been staring at nothin' for the past, uh, fifteen minutes or so."

It's a hot summer Lemoyne evening, and you're down to your chemise, and his blue eyes can't help but skirt across the fine neckline. It's brief, but he notices the beads of sweat littering your skin – the way your collarbone disappears behind lace, and the way his mind tugs at his fingers to tug it down–

But he clears his throat and looks away, refusing to face you as you lean over, standing right beside him. "It's this damn heat. Can't even think straight–" he excuses with a gruff tone. It's not entirely a lie.

You purse your lips but seem to accept his answer – you've been oblivious so far, he knows, and he legitimately wonders how the hell when all he's done lately is edge towards being a fool. Or even a fucking creep– 

"Well, um, maybe you shouldn't– uh– sit so close to the fire then," you eventually add, offering him a sheepish smile.

It's true, Arthur realizes, that he's been so lost in thought – so lost, in fact, that he's damn near roasting his face in the flames. The campfire is less than a foot away from him, and he's been wearing a jacket this whole time. He didn't even think to peel off the extra layer, too muddled in pheromones or hormones or whatever. After all, he'd decided, you were meant for cold days. Fantasies of you, he decided, should be reserved for cold days.  But you were vanilla syrup, sickeningly sweet in the heat of summer. And heat– heat– when was yours again?

He shuffled back a few inches, so he's not about to be set on fire, but it does little to calm his soul when he's already so riled up inside. The way your brow furrows, the way your lips pout – if he focused on you any longer, on the fact that he could oh-so-easily grab you by the hips, Arthur would have to set a blanket or a pillow on his lap. And that alone, in this damn heat, would raise so many questions that he would hate to answer.

But he doesn’t have to grab you by the hips – you seat yourself next to him, and the proximity alone makes him want to curse. This camp was no place for you – this gang no place for you – and he was certainly not going to be a good man for you if your oblivious actions kept him latched on like a pike. Oh – but he wanted you safe and comfortable – and begging and screaming – and perfect and soft – and clothes torn apart. He wanted you splayed out before him, marks on your thighs – wet and needy and raw and ready for–

– him. 

Arthur covered his lower face with a hand, as if to scratch his beard, though it's really to bite down a curse. He wanted you, like a sacrifice – to have and hold – and hold down. So many mixed feelings, when you're a predator who loves their prey.

“Dunno why Pearson thought it would be a good idea to make stew again, in this heat. Maybe we could make jerky instead. Those don’t need to be hot to eat,” you comment, poking around the fire with a stick, moving about the logs so the flames last a little longer.

“If Pearson actually cared about what’s palatable, he wouldn’t be makin’ stew. Not again,” Arthur muttered in response, unable to help himself as he subconsciously leaned closer to you. The smoke was doing nothing to dull out your scent, but he wanted to cover it up with his own – with leather, and whiskey – and the smell of dust after rain.

“Oh! Speaking of food–” you whip back around to face him, and he reels back so he at least doesn’t look like a madman– “we need to go into town tomorrow. Miss Grimshaw said we’re running low on supplies.”

He plays his swerve off with a sarcastic grin – a guffaw. “Runnin’ low– I just went into town with Sadie. I ain’t forgettin’ that shoutout any time soon,” he huffs, slamming his hands down on his knees and shaking his head.

“Well– er–” you begin again, your lips forming a small pout, “I– I mean, I kinda need to go to a hotel or… preferably… a cabin… soon?”

His blue eyes examine your own for the truth, and though his jaw is clenched tight in suspicion, it soon loosens, his mouth agape.

You wanted?--

Oh.

A beat.

Oh, no–

“Darlin’, are you askin’ me to–”

You bring your hands up, waving them frantically in front of your face, a nervous laughter erupting from your throat.

“I– I mean–” you repeat once more, only to hide your face with both hands. “I-I’m sorry, Arthur. It’s just– I thought asking you outright would be weird, but it seems I’ve made things worse… And– and it’s not that I wanted you in the room or anything! I just thought it would be nice to be with you, and you’re always around to comfort me and help me with things, and– and I trust you to protect me, you know? You– you make me feel safe.”

“I am anythin’ but worthy of that honor, little girl.”

Your face falls, and your hands do, too. And you watch as he glares at the fire, features hardened once more. He sees it out of the corner of his eye – your expression – and his gut twists and turns, spurring guilt into his mind. You speak– again–

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I just thought it would be nice – me and you.”

He hears you suck in a deep breath as you get to your feet, ready to shuffle off to bed.

“I guess I’ll just ask Sadie or Miss Grimshaw to go with me again. Or maybe Karen, ‘cause she can handle a gun, too.”

Your voice grows quieter and quieter by the second, and that guilt of his builds up, inversely proportional to the sound. But as you move to step away, he opens his mouth once more.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, omega,” he explains, fingers curled in tight fists. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he repeats again. “That’s all.”

“Oh, Arthur–” you place a hand on his shoulder– “I’d be okay if it were you.”