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pencil-n-pen · 2 months ago

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TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ . °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

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solitablvd · 2 months ago

Text

Slowing Down

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Summary: When Arthur spots you asleep under an oak tree, he is drawn to the peaceful scene and sketches you in his journal. Leaving the sketch beside you, he departs. When you awaken, you find the drawing signed "A. Morgan" and set out to find the mysterious artist.

A/N: Finally wrote something for Arthur omg! This is super short and pure fluff, but I had it in my mind and needed to get it out there <3 Thank you for reading!

Words: 1.1k

Ao3 Link

Arthur rode swiftly through the open fields of West Elizabeth, the afternoon sun sinking low against the horizon. The wind against his skin, the golden light in his eyes—it all filled him with a quiet sense of calm. Out here, away from the gripping hand of civilization, he could breathe. The open land gave him hope, hope that he could hold onto this feeling of freedom forever. Riding far and fast was his escape.

Deer skipped alongside him, their movements effortless, while cattle grazed undisturbed as he passed on by. It was a glimpse of the world as it once was, before things began to change. Then, in the distance, a flash of white caught his eye—a dress, stark against the sun-drenched field. Beneath the sprawling limbs of an old oak tree, you lay still, having drifted to sleep while resting from your own long ride.

Arthur slowed his horse down, reining it in as he drew closer. Something about the scene held him in place, a pull he knew well. Your horse was hitched nearby, your body slumped gently against the tree’s trunk. The sight of you— your hair loosely framing your soft features, your hands resting delicately, your chest rising and falling in the rhythm of slumber—stirred a familiar kind of nostalgia within him.

Whenever he felt this way, there was only one thing to do.

He reached into his satchel, pulling out his journal and pencil. Dismounting his horse and taking a seat in the field, he began to sketch the scene before him, his hand moved instinctively. He started with the mighty old oak tree and the mountain range behind you, then worked his way to the smallest details—the strands of hair caught in the breeze, the way the afternoon light kissed your gentle skin.

And for a little while, Arthur was able to forget the weight of the world closing in on him.

When he was satisfied enough, he carefully tore the page from his journal. He stood, walking closer to you and being mindful not to make any noise. Your horse gave a soft neigh at his approach, and he offered a quiet hush, resting a hand briefly on its neck before kneeling beside you. He placed the torn out paper beside you.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching the way the fading sunlight draped across your skin, the peaceful rise and fall of your breath. A quiet nostalgia settled in his chest, a feeling he didn’t quite have a name for.

Tipping his hat toward you, he turned back to his horse. “Let’s go, girl,” he murmured, swinging into the saddle. With a click of his tongue, he rode off into the golden horizon.

As the hoofbeats faded into the distance, you began to stir. Blinking against the sun’s light, you sat up, wondering how long you had napped for. Your horse gave a neigh to where the hoofbeats had continued to fade. You turned just in time to see the figure disappear into the setting sun.

Your brows furrowed, but you turned your attention back to yourself, looking down beside you and the worn paper. Picking it up, you traced the lines— it was you, sleeping peacefully under the oak tree. The sketch was rushed, yet delicately detailed. The details were soft yet very intentional, every shadow, every strand of hair etched with a quiet care.

At the bottom of the page, in rough cursive handwriting, a signature: A. Morgan

A smile played at your lips as you read the name; whoever this was, he had seen you, truly seen you in a way that no one had before.

You tucked the page into your satchel carefully and stood. Determined to find this mysterious artist, you mounted your horse and trotted down the path the stranger had taken.

When you finally reached Valentine, you entered the bar at the center of the small town, asking the barkeep if he knew anyone with the last name Morgan.

“Morgan, huh?” The barkeep scratched the stubble on his chin, “Yeah, I seen him ‘round. He’s passed by here before, not sure where he is now though.” He shrugged.

You sighed, feeling slightly defeated you took back the paper from his hand. Arthur Morgan. You thought as you traced over the signature. At least you had a name.

As you stepped out of the saloon, the cool night air brushed against your skin. With the sun gone and the moon out, the streets of Valentine had grown much quieter, only the muffled noises from the saloon filling the air. With the sketch in hand, you almost began to walk when movement from the corner of your vision caught your eye.

There, just outside the general store sat a man on a worn wooden bench, one leg stretched out, the other bent as he leaned forward, using the light from the lamppost to look down at his journal. He was writing quickly, focused on jotting down his thoughts.

“Arthur Morgan?” You asked, your voice steady.

He looked up from his journal, “That depends. Who’s ask—” Before he could finish, a wave of realization came over him. His face softened as he came to recognize you: the woman from the field. He sat up in his seat, looking up at you with a hint of surprise in his gaze.

You held out the sketch to him, “You draw this?”

Arthur’s gaze dropped to the sketch in your hand, rubbing the back of his neck before letting out a soft chuckle. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured softly.

“Didn’t think you’d come trackin’ me down over it,” he continued, voice low.

You shrugged, silently staring back down at the sketch and wishing you had used the ride over here to think about what to say to him. In all honesty you weren’t sure why you’d tracked him down either, “Why’d you draw it?”

“You ever see somethin’ that just… sticks with you?” He glanced up at you, your eyes finally connecting. His eyes were tired, but not in a way that sleep could fix; like he was carrying more weight than he cared to admit. Then, Arthur exhaled through his nose and finished, “That was one of those moments.”

“Well thank you,” You spoke, taking the seat beside him on the wooden bench, “for the drawing.”

Arthur gave a nod, unsure how to respond to your gratitude. No one had ever intentionally sought him out for something like this before. He leaned back in his seat beside you, inhaling deeply, letting the quiet settle between you. For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about where to run off to or the troubles waiting for him back at camp. Instead, he just sat there, grounded in the present—alongside someone worth slowing down for.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #x reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #fluff #rdr2 fluff

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morganismss · 3 months ago

Text

loving in silence

Title Inspiration: Song, “we’ve been loving in silence” by MARO Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader Summary: “You and Arthur seek shelter in an abandoned cottage from a raging storm.” Content Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, smut, soft smut, fluff, fluff to smut back to fluff Other Tags: one shot, pwp, song fic, vague description of reader's physical appearance, female reader, slightly dominant reader, slightly submissive arthur, no use of "y/n", established relationship, high honor arthur Locations: Deer Cottage - Roanoke Ridge WC: 6.2k AO3 Link a/n: hii it's been a while! i worked wayy too hard and wayy too long on this but we got snowed in and i finally sat down and decided enough was enough. this is my first bit of writing in a several years so i am very rusty and i am the only person to proof read so please expect grammatical errors. i apologize if it's too wordy or too long! feedback is greatly appreciated though! i really hope you enjoy ♡

・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・

The air was thick and heavy, sweet with the smell of dampened grass. Dark ominous clouds loomed out in the distance across the tree line in mountains of varying shades of grey. Distant cracks of light ripped through the sky followed closely by low rumbling, and threatening winds whistled through the tree branches blowing leaves all around you as you rode.

It had been days since you left camp with Arthur for an adventure. Now, you two found yourselves in the hills of Roanoke Ridge about to get caught up in a storm.

You looked up to the sky above you and noticed the blue fading into green, darkening as the storm grew closer. The horses snorted in protest as you both pushed against the winds urging them forward. Fat droplets of rain started to fall one by one, tapping against the leather of your hat and fading into the hair of your horse. You looked forward to Arthur who was riding a few feet ahead of you on his own horse.

Neither of you were expecting to be gone this long, and this storm was going to delay your journey back to camp by at least another day. He turned to look back at you, opening his mouth as if about to say something when suddenly the downpour came.

The rain came fast and heavy, creating a thick veil you could barely see past. You shielded your face with your arm trying to stop the assault on your skin, your other hand held the reins and your coat tight to your body. “Up ahead!” You barely heard Arthur's voice shout back to you over another crack of thunder. You glanced upward past your arm trying to see through the curtain of rain and noticed a faint outline of a building off to the left side of the trail. Arthur spurred his horse forward with a faint “Hyah!” causing you to do the same and follow suit. Though difficult to see, you could just barely make out the details. It was a small log cottage with painted blue shutters, there was a covered well next to an outhouse, and a garden by the front door. It seemed vacant; no horses were hitched to the outside post and there was no stirring happening on the inside. It looked homely enough, but most importantly, it looked dry. The horses approached the cabin at a steady trot, their hooves squished into the mud as they reached the hitching posts. You swung your leg over the saddle and dismounted with a splash as your boots connected with the wet ground. The wind continued to rip through you as you struggled to keep your hat on your head and your coat from blowing open.

Arthur clung to his own hat and ushered you along with him, his arm wrapped around your shoulders keeping you close to him as if afraid you would blow away with the winds. You couldn’t help but lean into him and his warmth, not complaining about how tight he was holding you. You two reached the door and Arthur knocked firmly. “Hello!” He shouted. “Anyone home?” The seconds passed by with no reply. Arthur muttered a curse under his breath.

“I’m not standin’ out here all night.” His grip around you loosened as he took a step closer to the door. He took the handle in his hand and turned it open. A gust of wind pushed past you both and ripped through the threshold, snatching the door handle out of his grip and causing it to fling wide open with a loud creak. Arthur quickly drew his gun and turned to you. “Wait here.” He ordered. You nodded, your hand now hovered over the gun in your holster as he took a step inside, his revolver leading the way.

Arthur turned quickly around the corners of the door frame, checking to see if anyone was there. You watched as he disappeared around the corner of the door and out of sight further into the cottage.

You stood there outside clutching your coat closed, quickly becoming drenched while waiting for his all clear. You glanced around you and looked back into the tree line and up the path from where you two had rode down from, not a single sign of life around. The winds continued to rip through the trees, snapping off clumps of twigs and leaves from their branches.

“Anything?” You turned back and shouted impatiently into the cottage, not wanting to be stuck in this storm any longer.

A few seconds passed without an answer and for a brief moment you held your breath, worried. Your hand wrapped around the handle of your gun and slowly lifted it from its holster. Suddenly, Arthur came back into your sight as he rounded the corner of the door, startling you. “Doesn’t look like anyone's home, c’mon.” He gestured for you to follow him inside and held his hand out for you to take.

You let out your anxious breath and released your grip on your gun, reaching to take his hand instead. His fingers wrapped around yours as he gently pulled you inside, guiding you through the threshold and out of the rain.

Upon first glance, the cottage was cozy and pleasant, an instant improvement from the usual filth and abandonment you had encountered in your previous travels. The door shut behind you and you breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the rain, reaching to take off your hat. Arthur chuckled at your sigh as he walked towards the kitchen, taking his coat and hat off and setting them down on the wooden table. You shrugged your wet coat off your shoulders and set it on the back of the chair that was positioned next to the fireplace to dry.

The place was well furnished; wooden trim painted the same blue as the outside shutters, cabinets and shelves filled with books and trinkets, a stone fireplace built right into the wall adorned with trophy antlers and a golden mantle clock softly ticking away. The bed, positioned right beside the fireplace, was old and worn with faded bedding. The kitchen was well kept with clean dishes hanging up on the walls above the counter tops and decorative plates lined up along the shelves. Everything still looked lived in, like it hadn’t been neglected for long. Hopefully the homeowner wouldn’t mind if you and Arthur took shelter here for just the night. Arthur walked across the room, spurs clinking and wood creaking with each step he took. He knelt down in front of the hearth and prodded at the partially charred logs. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a box of matches, striking one before tossing it in. The fire slowly sparked to life as the flames clung to the logs, illuminating the room in an orange glow. Your body instantly relaxed as you felt the room begin to warm. “You think anyone's comin’ back?” You asked, concerned about the two of you trespassing. He stood up with a grunt and turned to you. “I don’t know, maybe,” his tone was low and his voice gravelly, “bread’s stale and food’s starting to rot. Been sittin’ out a few days at least.” He rubbed at his jaw, scratching at his grown in stubble.

You turned and looked at the kitchen table Arthur had just placed his belongings on, noticing the half eaten and neglected food. You walked over to inspect the mess and wondered about the stranger who lived here, questioning what might have happened to them and if they were coming back.

“We shouldn't stay long,” you say, “let's eat, get our strength back, and head back to camp.”

At that moment, another clap of thunder cracked loudly through the valley as the rain and wind continued to slam against the wooden structure.

“I don't think headin’ back out in this rain is wise darlin’.” He hesitated, his heavy steps creaking the floorboards as he walked up beside you.

The way the pet name sounded against his lips made your heart skip a beat, but it wasn’t enough to mask your concern. “We’ve already been gone longer than we said we would. The gang’s gonna worry.”

“We’ll leave as soon as the storm breaks,” Arthur walked to the kitchen window and peaked past the tattered curtains, “suns goin’ down too, we don't wanna get stuck out in the rain and the dark. It's too dangerous.”

You frowned but didn’t protest, realizing your oversight. You knew it would be too dangerous, especially in these hills. The storm alone would make your path home much more treacherous, and between wandering the woods in the pitch black darkness and being surrounded by Murfree Broods, it would have been a death sentence to leave now.

Arthur noticed the look on your face. “Hey,” the calm tone of his voice drew your eyes to his, “they’ll understand, ‘specially Hosea. We’ll get back tomorrow, it’ll be okay.”

“And if whoever lives here comes back and shoots us for trespassing?” You quipped.

“For their sake,” he paused, a smirk tugging at his lips, “they better be a faster draw.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from him and back to the kitchen table. You grabbed your satchel and rummaged through it, pulling out two cans of food and a wrapped loaf of bread.

“We still need to eat.” You sassed, holding a can out to him.

“Looks like someone’s already started without us.” He joked, pointing his thumb over to the neglected food before taking the can from you. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his joke.

Arthur pulled his knife from his side and stabbed it into the top of the can. He peeled back the aluminum top and brought the can to his lips, slurping down its contents. You both hadn't eaten all day and you felt your stomach grumble at the sight of food.

“I bet this wasn't the kinda adventure you were expecting.” He spoke, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You pulled out your own knife and cut off a corner of your bread loaf, bringing it up to your lips and taking a bite.

“I think I’d still prefer this to being shot at.” You chewed, cutting off another corner of bread and handing it to him. Arthur chuckled as he took the piece.

“Yes, the rain is more preferable than being shot at,” you both were quiet for a few moments as you chewed on your food, “but this was a nice change of scenery for you, right?” Arthur's voice faltered as he started to grow self conscious about this trip he had taken you on.

Arthur had decided to take you up into the mountains for a few days to teach you how to hunt and to look at the beauty of the mountain side. Thinking back, it was a bit strange how you were able to be out and away from camp like this. You rarely ever got to go on adventures, outside of running from lawmen and bounty hunters. For you, it was all chores, reading, and more chores and if you were being honest, you were starting to get sick of it.

You longed to be a part of the action, even Karen got to help with heists every now and then, but not you. If you couldn’t help out on a job, you at least wanted to see more of the world. Arthur had all but gotten down on both knees and begged Dutch to let you come with him, talking about your “expertise in flower picking” or something of that nature, anything just to get you out of that camp for a little while. If it wasn't for Arthur, you would be back at camp right now probably doing laundry with the girls or helping Pearson with the stew.

“It’s better than dealin’ with Uncle’s drunken ramblings or gettin’ yelled at by Miss Grimshaw.” You joked as you ate the contents of your can.

Arthur didn't respond and you noticed the slightly unamused look on his face, realizing he wasn't joking. You swallowed and reached out to grab his hand, the touch bringing him some comfort.

“Arthur, I've had more fun these last few days than I’ve had in a long time. Thank you for this. I mean it.” You told him earnestly. His eyes met yours as you gave him a smile and he smiled back.

“I think I’d rather be soaking wet in some stranger's home than dealin’ with Uncle too.” He joked and you laughed.

The storm had darkened more now as the sun fully set behind the clouds. You grabbed the neglected plate from the table along with both of the empty cans and placed everything in the kitchen sink. If anyone was going to come back, the least you two could do was not leave the place messy; you were outlaws, not pigs.

You heard Arthurs heavy steps slowly come up from behind you followed by two warm hands sneaking their way onto your hips. His touch was comforting and you felt the butterflies erupt in your chest. He ducked his head down into your neck, placing his lips against your skin leaving gentle kisses along your shoulder. You tilted your head to allow him more access and closed your eyes with a contented smile.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he hummed, lips and stubble brushing lightly against your warm skin, “wantin’ to be alone with you.” The vibration of his voice against your skin sent shivers across your body.

“Arthur, you’ve been alone with me for days now.” You sighed, leaning back into him and feeling his chest rise and fall against your back.

“Hmm, not like this.” His thumbs rubbed circles on your hips against the fabric of your clothes.

You two didn’t get to show your affection for each other much while in camp or around the others. Occasionally you both might steal a glance from each other while doing chores or you might catch one of Arthur’s longing stares when he got back from working a job; maybe even trade some secret smiles when he was alone in his cot or get to gently touch his hand for a brief moment in passing.

All efforts made by you two for intimacy were quiet and discreet, like trading secrets only you two knew about. You both rarely got a moment alone together, but standing here in this space with him like this made the rest of the world around you disappear. The running, the bullets, the bloodshed, none of it mattered in this moment with each other. If you were going to be stuck here with each other, then you both were going to savor every second you could.

You turned around in his arms and leaned into him, his arms now wrapped fully around your waist keeping you as close to him as possible. Arthur ducked his head down to rest his forehead against yours.

Thunder rumbled softly somewhere out in the distance and the rain continued to patter against the cottage as you both held onto each other, gently swaying to the ambiance. You wondered when was the last time you got a moment like this with him.

“Did you miss me?” You teased him already knowing his answer.

“Oh I missed ya alright.” He grinned and lifted his head back to look at you.

You peered up at him through your lashes, the look in his eyes all too familiar to you. It was a look you only got to catch from him every so often, a look full of all the love and desire he had in him. He looked at you like you were a sky full of stars, and to him that’s what you were; dazzling and enough to shine through his darkest nights. The way he was with you in moments like these were a stark contrast to how the rest of the world viewed him, the way the gang viewed him. He was tender and gentle when he needed to be; when he wanted to be, with you.

…

Arthurs head started to lean down to yours and your heart started to race. You met him halfway as his lips connected with yours like they were a missing piece to your puzzle, slotting against each other in smooth and slow motions. He was savoring the moment, the taste of you, he didn’t want to let it go.

He couldn’t resist you no matter how hard he tried. Being near you back at camp but not being able to touch you was torture to him, and it was torture for you too. All those glances and brushes of your fingertips left you wanting more of him.

It was a desire so strong that even now you couldn’t help your fingers from making their way from around the back of his neck to the collar of his shirt. You took the buttons between your fingertips and undid them one by one until his dress shirt was completely opened. Your hands lifted the hem over his shoulders as he helped to shrug the fabric off, discarding it to the floor and leaving his chest bare.

Arthurs hands made their way to the buttons of your blouse, unbuttoning each one and slowly revealing your chemise underneath. Your lips separated for a brief moment leaving you breathless as one of his hands reached up to softly palm your breast, his thumb brushing across your nipple.

The touch caused a soft moan to pass your lips that you couldn’t hold back. His lips feverishly connected back to yours as the sound you had let slip sent him over the edge, your tongues slipping between each other's lips leaving hungry kisses in their wakes.

You felt as his hands continued to feel over your body, slipping underneath the fabric of your blouse and onto your back pulling you impossibly closer to his body. It all felt too good to stop, but you wanted to try something.

Your palms pressed against his bare chest, pushing him gently away from you. Your lips separated again and Arthur looked down at you with a concerned yet questioning look.

“Go wait on the bed.” You blushed at your sudden confidence. Arthur blinked at you for a moment trying to register what you had said and then looked at you pleasantly surprised, a wide grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes ma’am.” He flirted, nodding his head to you. You smirked back at him as he walked over to the old bed. He sat down on the edge and started to take off his boots, his eyes still glued to you not wanting to miss a single moment.

You continued to smile at him trying to hide your nerves as you kicked off your own boots. Your hands slipped the opened blouse off of your shoulders letting it drop to the floor near his shirt. Your fingers made their way to your waistline as you unfastened your ribbon belt, and your thumbs slipped under the waistline of your skirt as you tugged it past your hips. All of your garments fell to the ground in cascades of fabric leaving you to stand there in front of Arthur in only your chemise and nothing else.

He sat there on the edge of that bed, taking in the very sight of you, completely at a loss for words. His heart quickened along with his breathing and you could tell he was flustered. He wouldn’t admit it but he was a little nervous too. His face was flushed a deep red and his gaze softened, hungry eyes wandering up and down your body until finally meeting your own.

The only thing he could muster in that moment was a soft, "C'mere." It was sensual yet wanting; it sounded like he was begging for you to come to him.

You smirked slyly at him as your hands rose to your body. You slowly started to sway your hips from side to side, taking the sheer fabric of your chemise in your fingers and teasingly pulling the hem up ever-so-slightly over your thighs, teasing him with only a glimpse of skin. The wood floors creaked softly beneath your feet with each shift of your weight.

You took a step towards him and your hands started to wander your body, gently feeling over your waist and up your chest. You took another achingly slow step towards him, and then another, keeping up with the same swaying movements. Arthur let out a frustrated and breathy chuckle knowing full well what you were doing, and he'd be damned if it wasn't working.

You continued to move your hips side to side, slowly taking more steps closer to him until you finally stood there in between his legs. His hands connected with your body, finding their way to the space just above your hips. His fingers felt warm through the fabric as he gently gripped you, holding you close to him. He leaned forward and placed his lips against you leaving soft kisses across your abdomen, his warm lips separated only by the thin fabric.

You picked up your leg and placed your foot on the edge of the bed beside him, the inside of your thigh now brushed up against his ribs. His hand traveled its way along the curve of your hip, feeling along the outside of your thigh until reaching under your shift. His hand then felt its way back up the bare skin of your thighs. The warmth alone made you weaker to his touch.

“Shifts still damp,” he mused, his other hand feeling the fabric between his fingertips, “should probably take this off too.” Arthur shifted his eyes up to yours, giving you a soft look as if they were asking for permission. Your lips parted and you let out a soft breath, nodding your head slightly. His hands dropped the fabric and the grip on your thigh and made their way up your body, warm skin separated by cool fabric. His hands felt over every inch of your outline before finding the exposed skin at your collar. Two fingers slipped under the fabric and slowly glided the sleeves of your shift over your shoulders. The neckline of your chemise softly tugged down over your chest exposing you completely. Arthur continued, tugging the shift down your waist and past your hips, letting it fall to the ground in waves of white.

Thunder rumbled out through the trees again as the rain softly pattered against the windows. A subtle symphony to accompany this tender moment between your bare body and him. Arthur looked up at you once again, admiring the sight of you before him. Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers raking through his golden brown locks.

“You’re so beautiful.” He cooed, lips finding their way back to your body in praise. Your body was an altar he could worship at for the rest of his life, finding his salvation in your touch alone.

Without a word, you dropped one knee down onto the bed, and then the other, now straddling his thighs. His eyes never looked away from you once. He was being patient now, admiring every move you made and savoring every touch of your skin, but every second left him needing more of you.

In a smooth motion, he softly took your face into both of his hands and brought you closer. Your eyes fluttered closed as his lips met yours again in more feverish kisses. His hands fell to either side of your bare waist as yours tugged at his hair. A groan passed his lips and against yours causing you to smirk into the kiss.

You felt yourself growing hot and desperate for more, absolutely drunk on him. Your hands made their way down to his belt buckle undoing the clamp from the leather and then fumbling with the buttons underneath. You tugged suggestively at the open flaps of his pants. Arthur got the hint and hurriedly helped you get them off him, letting them fall onto the ground beneath you with a soft thud. There was nothing to separate you two now.

Arthurs hands grasped onto your hips again as you climbed back on top of him and you felt his hard erection pressed against you. Your arms wrapped around his neck as your lips connected with his again. Your tongues shamelessly found their ways back to each other, slipping in between each kiss and gasp for air. Your body rocked against his as his hands felt all over you.

One of your hands dropped down and firmly grabbed hold of his member, the touch and warmth causing him to buck his hips slightly and groan again. You lightly tugged, stroking your hand up and down with pressure. You felt him pulse under your touch as he hardened more than before. He was achingly hard, and it was taking everything in him to not grab you and toss you onto the bed and selfishly have his way with you.

Arthur's hand left your hip and dipped down between the two of you. You felt as his finger lightly traced the skin along your hip bone and down into your inner thigh, his fingers slipping right into your folds. You gasped at his warm presence as your hips rolled in response.

“Looks like someone’s ready for me.” He teased with a smirk, referring to how wet you had gotten. His finger slipped from your entrance up to your clit, swirling around the bulb, and you found yourself not being able to respond in words but in cursed moans instead. The sensation made your legs shudder as you closed your eyes and leaned your forehead against his. Your hips rocked forward with each swirl and you found yourself struggling to focus on your hand that was stroking him.

“Shit.” You breathed as Arthur continued his finger movements. You felt yourself getting closer, but as much as you would have loved to finish right there on his fingers, you wanted him.

You moved his hand away before you could get any further and straightened up as you positioned his tip against your entrance. You looked up at him again searching for any sign of hesitation to stop. His eyes met yours and he nodded giving you the go ahead. You swirled his tip around your entrance before slowly settling down onto him, making sure to give yourself time to adjust to his size.

You closed your eyes and let out a soft breath, your arms returning to wrap around his neck as you leaned your forehead against his once more. You slowly settled all the way down to his base, taking all of him in. You started to move yourself up and down, feeling him fill every inch of you. Arthur secured his arms around you as you moved, biting his bottom lip in concentration as he slowly thrust his hips up to meet you with each bounce.

“Arthur.” You gasped as the softest of moan passed your lips. He loved hearing his name in the tone of your voice, and being the greedy giant he was, he needed to hear more of you.

His hands gripped your hips as he guided you back and forth at a quicker pace. You threw your head back as another moan escaped your lips. His lips connected with your jaw leaving feverish kisses down your neck and subtle marks across your collarbone as he nipped at your skin. He groaned again against your skin as you rolled your hips, his hands moving to grab your ass and roll you forward on him again and again.

It was just the two of you, skin against skin, bodies entwined and moving against each other like parts of a machine built to work with each other. No one else could touch you like this, not like how he could.

You tilted your head back as one hand gripped his shoulder for support, and the other gripped his bicep. Oh god, his arms, you thought to yourself and you bit your lip holding back another moan.

Arthur reached for your chin and angled your head back down gently with his thumb. He wanted you to look at him, but more importantly, he wanted to look at your face as he pleasured you. He wanted to see your puffy lips opening as you moaned out his name, he wanted to see your flushed face and furrowed brow twist into pleasure as he sunk deeper into you, he wanted to see the effect he had on you.

Your eyes met his with your mouth agape as the moans spilled freely out of you. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip as you continued to grind up and down on him.

“So damn beautiful.” He praised and you felt yourself melt in his touch, your heart pounding in your chest.

Your pace faltered for a moment as you leaned yourself back, your hands reaching behind you to steady yourself using Arthurs legs. Arthur leaned back mirroring you, both palms now on the bed behind him, the perfect view of all of you before him. You continued your pace as you moved up and down, his member slipping in and out of you.

You looked down at him underneath you, his face and body veiled in a thin sheen of sweat, his brow furrowed in pleasure and his face flushed as he moaned for you. It was unbelievably attractive to you seeing such a strong and stoic man like him reduced down to a blushing, panting mess, absolutely weak to your touch.

You continued to bounce your hips up and down on him. Arthur shifted his weight to one arm as he brought his hand to his face. You looked at him confused for a moment as he licked his thumb. His hand now moved down between the two of you as his thumb connected with your clit, slowly swirling around. The movement amplified the pleasure you felt across your body and you knew you were getting dangerously close now.

“Arthur, I’m-,” you struggled to get the words out as the sensations became too much. You felt your legs start to weaken and your pace start to falter.

“That’s it darlin’,” his hips thrusted up to make up for the rhythm change, “keep going for me.” You tried your best to keep going between feeling him pound in and out of you and his finger swirling around your clit, until-

Your body suddenly tensed and you held your breath as you reached your climax, waves of bliss and release crashing over you, over and over again. You cried out as your body shuddered.

Arthur continued his pace as you pulsed around his member, clenching tightly around him. His body rose up to yours again, hands grasping your hips as he continued to move you up and down on him, moaning into your neck over and over. Your hands cupped his cheeks and you lifted his head to look at you, your face burned as it flushed deep shades of red.

“Come for me.” You whispered, your lips hovering over his, brushing slightly. His breaths were heavy against your lips and his moans grew louder until suddenly he stilled for a moment. He took your lips in his with one last grunt as his thrusts faltered, his kisses sloppy and irregular as he pumped into you.

Arthur pulled you down onto the bed with him, arms still around you. Both of you panted hard trying to catch your breaths as you slipped down beside him. You looked up to him and gave him a tired smile. His hand reached up to caress your cheek, they were calloused but you didn’t care as his thumb softly traced hearts along your cheek.

“How am I supposed to keep my hands off of ‘ya now?” He let out a breathy chuckle giving you that same look of love he always gave you. You grinned and wondered the same for yourself.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” You suggested knowing damn well it wouldn’t last. You bet that within the day of arriving back at camp he would be all over you again.

He chuckled again. “Don’t think I could if I tried.” He pulled you closer and placed a kiss on your sweaty forehead and you rested your head back down between his collar and jaw. His fingers gently traced along the curves of your back leaving a tingling feeling in their wake as you sank into the warm feeling of his arms around your body, your eyelids growing heavy.

The unrelenting rain drummed against the wood like a lullaby and for a moment you imagined that this cottage belonged to both of you. The pictures on the walls were of you and him, the trinkets on the shelves all collected from your travels together. You imagined living room dancing in the warm orange glows and more nights close to him just like this. It was a silly dream for a couple of outlaws but maybe in another life it was possible.

Arthurs breathing evened out as he started to drift off and you hadn’t even realized your own eyes had closed as you replayed the prior events behind your tired eyelids. You let out one last contented sigh as you drifted into cozy darkness.

…

Morning light peaked through the windows and your eyes blinked slowly. The rain had long stopped and instead of hearing the thundering, you could now hear the birds singing in the trees. From this angle, you could look out the window and just barely make out the mountain ridge peaking into view of the window frame. Trees blanketed the surface in rich shades of green as the sun rays beamed out from behind the ridge line.

You patted the bed around you reaching to touch Arthur, but you noticed he wasn’t there. You sat up in the bed holding the blanket close to your bare body and looked around the cottage. The chair you had placed your coat on the evening prior was pulled up beside the bed, all of your clothes dried and neatly folded resting on the seat, but there was no Arthur in sight.

You got dressed, grabbed your belongings, and headed for the door. You took one last look around and smiled slightly as flashes of the evening played in your head.

You stepped out of the cottage and back into the wilderness. The sky was a bright blue without a single cloud to blemish the sky. You wouldn’t have ever known a storm had passed through if you hadn't been caught in it only hours before. The leaves in the trees rippled lightly as a gentle breeze passed through. You took a deep breath and looked around, spotting Arthur tending to your horses.

He was in the middle of feeding them, his hand rubbing along the bridge of his horse's nose as his eyes wandered over and caught yours. He instantly smiled upon the sight of you and waved you over and you couldn’t help but smile back at the sight of him too. You walked over to him and to your own horse and brushed your hand along its mane and neck.

“Mornin’ beautiful,” he greeted you, “how’d you sleep?”

“Haven’t gotten a good rest like that in a while.” You let out a relieved sigh and reached into your satchel, pulling out an apple and lifting it to your horse's mouth for it to eat.

“A good workout will do that.” He winked and you blushed looking back to your horse. He smirked at your sudden shyness, not willing to forget any time soon the new side of you he saw last night. He reached out and took your wrist in his hand and gently pulled you to him. You melted in his arms as they wrapped around you and he pressed his lips to yours in a single passionate and loving kiss. You sighed into him not wanting to pull away, but you remembered the journey you two had to make back to camp. You pulled away and looked up to him.

“Ready to get an ass chewin’ from Dutch?” You teased, turning to hoist yourself up onto your horse. Arthur groaned as he turned to get on his own horse.

“Maybe we should just stay gone another day.” He muttered knowing he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Dutch. Arthur wanted nothing more than to just bury his head into your neck and your warmth and stay here for a moment longer.

“Come on Morgan,” you pulled the reins of your horse and directed it towards the road, spurring forward, “maybe you could stop by my tent later tonight.” You turned back to him with a wink. He looked up towards you with a smirk playing at his lips.

“Yes ma’am.” He grinned as he followed you down the path and back towards camp.

#is this dirty enough?#i have reread this about a thousand times and im still insecure about it #i long for gentle arthur #the amount of song references i have hidden in this fic is ridiculous #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x reader smut #arthur morgan fluff #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #arthur morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #red dead redemption 2

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yandereunsolved · 2 months ago

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𐚁 Yandere High Honor Arthur Morgan (RDR2) 𐚁

One misstep in a mission led him into what could only be described as a more torturous cycle of love and abuse than he has ever felt before. Real smart of him to fall head over heels, quite literally, with someone hell-bent on locking him up. And maybe he'd be okay with that if you were the sheriff and he'd get to tease you before making some grandiose escape. But you had to be a bounty hunter—and an annoyingly good one at that.

You just don't give up. But neither does he.

He always manages to slip through your fingers, as your heart has evaded his. You'll get him this time or die trying.

He really could leave you in the dust with his trusty steed if he wanted, but it's cute how hard you try.

He pulls on the reins as he narrowly avoids another tree. Damn forests. Always growing those things.

He sneaks a look back at you so eagerly chasing after him, a deer after another one of its kind. How fortuitous.

He shouts at you, hoping to provoke your wrath, "Aye. What's the phrase? Seventh times the charm?"

He chuckles near lightheartedly, but you only hear a vicious cackle. With a single bullet from one of his twin Schofield revolvers, you feel your horse's legs buckle under you before you get a chance to respond. You swear this man can be in two places at once. By the time you have rolled off, not being able to spare a second to look for injuries, and stood up, Arthur is sitting on his high horse, quite literally, holding the revolver a couple feet from your head.

"Sorry, partner. Seems like you winnin' jus' wasn't in the cards."

You raise your hands from your sides, keeping your fists closed, your small backup slip joint knife in one.

"Seems like you're hiding somethin', darlin', or is this just another one of your tricks?"

You realize you haven't responded to him at all, almost frozen. Damn it. Fuck it all. It's not time for your 'instincts' to kick in. You become disturbingly aware of the metallic copper taste overwhelming your taste buds.

"Come on now!" He gets off his horse, yours having limped off, not rideable in its condition anyhow.

"The big bad bounty hunter who has taken in some of Colm's men gets all shy when in my presence." He gets closer. He seemingly walks with ease, but you can see the tenseness of his muscles, a strange mix of conflicting emotions in his weary eyes.

"Seems you're easier than I thought," his chapped lips murmur into your ear, innuendo woven throughout his tone—unashamed, almost.

Your body goes into the motions before your mind has time to make a calculated decision. You open your slipjoint knife to slit his jugular. A dead bounty is better than a dead bounty hunter. His hand wraps around your wrist, twisting it, causing you to drop the knife. You fall to your knees in pain as his grip tightens, no joy in his eyes from harming you.

"A-Ah, hah... fuck me," you breathily moan out, the adrenaline that's pumping into your veins becoming feckless.

You don't know how willing I am to take you up on that offer.

Arthur shoves you onto the dewy ground. Your knees buckle beneath you as your chest makes itself well acquainted with the dirt. He straddles your hips, the familiar sound of rope moving in his… his rugged hands.

The world threatens to turn black on you, but you stay conscious out of spite.

"You'll rot in hell, Arthur Morgan. Arrested or not," you spit out through gritted teeth, your blood seeping into the earth and the collar of your clothes.

Your body sits somewhere between alert and comatose, trying to find a split moment to make your escape before hogtied.

He chuckles.

"You ain't the first person to tell me that. You are the most attractive," he gruffly huffs out.

His thighs squeeze your sides tighter as he roughly ties your wrists and knots them together. He lingers for a moment, admiring you in this position. But he is a respectable man, well, somewhat respectable. So he keeps an 'appropriate,' appropriate for an outlaw grip, on you as he binds your ankles.

"If I was a worse man, I'd kill you." If I was a better man, I'd let you go.

He makes it a point to show the difference in strength as he connects the bindings of your hands and ankles together. His hands wander to various limbs, holding them down as you begin to struggle, frustrated by how long he's taking. How embarrassing this is.

"Kill me or let me go! You won't do it, though, will you? Inside of that twisted, fucked-up mind of yours, you like me. Maybe I remind you of the innocent souls you've tortured, you sick—"

Your voice is dampened by the sweaty bandana he stuffs in your mouth and ties around the back of your head. You still try to shout, albeit quite muffled, and you're getting light-headed again.

Arthur wants to say, 'God, you look good this way. The things you do to a poor man like me.' But refrains. 'I really am too much of a sick, ugly fuck to expect love from you.'

"You talk too much, dear. This ole' trick should shut you up for a while."

He hoists you up onto his horse, securing you to it. In a last-ditch effort, you try to use the leverage of the horse to nudge the cloth out of your mouth. You get it a little ways out and cause one more uproarious ruckus with your mouth.

"Or I could take your tongue, but I suspect you like it."

You can tell by his tone that he isn't joking. You stop and quiet yourself. You almost want to curl up into yourself, but don't.

"Good job, darling. Seems you're finally learning how to listen."

He talks to you sweeter than his horse. A shiver runs down your spine as your cheeks heat up, all involuntary, of course. As if it couldn't get any worse, he pats the top of your head, rubbing it as if you needed to be soothed like an animal in distress.

"We'll work on it. Together."

He mounts his filly, instructing her to start galloping. You don't know how long this ride will be or if you'll survive, although you suspect you will—and you'll have to play house or give in to whatever fucked-up fantasies are going on in that mind of his. You're too much of everything at this point. So you lie defeated, hogtied like some common criminal, on the back of the horse that belongs to one of the West's most notorious outlaws.

"I’m a poor, lonesome, cowboy." "Poor, lonesome, cowboy." "Poor, lonesome, cowboy." "Taking my darling back to camp."

#yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #yandere rdr2 #yandere rdr2 x reader #yandere red dead redemption #yandere red dead redemption x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #yandere arthur morgan #yandere arthur morgan x reader #high honor arthur morgan #yandere high honor arthur morgan

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piratefishmama · 1 year ago

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Steve very smoothly taking the reins at a gay club when Eddie "i've been here SO many times just follow my lead" Munson deer in headlights it the second he's thrown into the deep end of dancing sweaty bodies, loud non-metal music and opportunity for actual queer interaction on a Fruity Four weekend out in Indy.

Steve guiding him onto the dance floor, helping him to loosen up a little, gently reminding Eddie to keep his eyes on him whenever someone gets a little too close and

Oh yeah, Steve hasnt actually come out to anyone yet, he's just there as the 'token straight guy', he hasnt really thought too hard about it just yet, although maybe he should because Eddie does have such pretty plush lips and those big brown eyes are staring at him like he's goddamn hypnotized--

an Nancy an Robin are watching from the bar placing bets on how long it'll take them to disappear into the smoking area to make out against a wall.

#steddie #shenanigans #STEVE JUST #TAKING CARE OF A VERY OUT OF HIS ELEMENT EDDIE #EDDIE KNOWS BARS #HE KNOWS LOUD MUSIC #BUT HE'S RARELY IN /THAT/ KIND OF PLACE #WHERE HE CAN SWAY WITH ANOTHER MAN #PRESS UP REAL CLOSE AND JUST /FEEL/ EVERYTHING #and it's STEVE doing that for him #help him #or dont hes fine

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juliepatterson-jdpconcepts · 1 year ago

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Release date 12/12/2023 - exciting :-)

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geneviveleocardius · 4 months ago

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arthur morgan romantic headcanons

but you both had a baby at a young age:

baby girl version

arthur swears he’s a tough man, but the second his baby girl grabs his finger or giggles at him, he melts and says, “well, ain’t you somethin’ special.”

the moment anyone so much as looks at her wrong, arthur’s voice gets low as he growls, “you got somethin’ to say about my girl?”

he calls her sweet little names like “darlin’,” “sugar,” or “princess,” his voice always softer than you’ve ever heard it when he talks to her.

arthur clumsily tries to braid her hair, muttering curses under his breath when it doesn’t work, but he keeps at it because he knows how much she loves it when he tries.

he loves pointing out animals and flowers to her, kneeling down to explain, “that’s a deer, little one. quiet now, don’t wanna scare it off.”

arthur makes up bedtime stories about cowboys and adventures, always with a brave little girl as the hero who saves the day, grinning when she asks for “just one more.”

when she starts toddling around in tiny cowboy boots he bought for her, he can’t stop smiling and says, “look at that—already ready for the range.”

he sits with her and lets her scribble in his journal, pointing to her messy drawings and saying, “that’s the best-lookin’ horse i’ve ever seen.”

arthur makes sure she knows how to be strong, but he always says, “you don’t need to be tough all the time, darlin’. you just be you.”

he loves to pick her up and spin her around, both of them laughing as he says, “you’re the best dance partner i ever had, but don't tell your mommy I said that.”

whenever one of her toys breaks, arthur’s quick to sit down with it, mumbling, “don’t you worry, i’ll have it good as new in no time.”

he cheers louder than anyone when she does something small, like saying her first word or learning to run, clapping his hands and exclaiming, “that’s my girl!”

as soon as she’s big enough, arthur has her sitting in front of him on his horse, holding the reins and saying, “you’re a natural, kiddo.”

when she’s scared, he kneels down, holding her tiny hands and saying, “ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you, not while i’m around."

arthur often tells you, “she’s gonna have better than what i had. i’ll make damn sure of that,” his voice full of quiet determination.

whenever she gets into mischief, she runs to arthur, and he chuckles before saying, “alright, but don’t tell your ma i helped you out.”

he jokes about how she’s already trying to “protect” him when she toddles up to him with her tiny hands on her hips, scolding him in her baby voice.

arthur hums quiet lullabies while holding her close, and even if the tune’s rough, it’s the most soothing sound in the world to her.

when he watches her sleep, arthur softly mutters to himself, “wonder what kinda woman she’ll grow up to be. hope she knows how proud i’ll always be of her."

she always runs to him, climbing into his lap no matter what he’s doing, and arthur grins, wrapping his arms around her and saying, “this is the best seat in the house.”

#rdr2 community #rdr2 #arthur x reader #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2

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hazelfoureyes · 1 year ago

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The Safeword is RadioApple (part 4 - Lucifer’s victory)

Read the first part here for intro and warnings and then decide:

Did Alastor win rock paper scissors? Smash this

Did Lucifer win rock paper scissors? Keep reading….

Alastor wrapped a firm hand around Luci’s neck, pulling him closer to nip at his ear. Lucifer peered down at you, a gleam in his eye that could only be called sinful. “We came to an agreement.”

The word ‘we’ felt like it was in bold. “To show just how much we want to work together for you. Wanna hear the plan?”

You nodded, holding your breath as you watched Alastor’s tongue snake out and lap at a thin line of golden liquid dripping down Luci’s neck.

“We know you’re not feeling one hundred percent today, kitten. So, instead of having you take more than you can, Alastor will be the focus.” You heard a hum from Alastor, pulling back from Lucifer and looking at you with half lidded eyes. His smile was closed, but something in his features conveyed to you a sureness.

Luci bent down, whispering in your ear, “Let’s ruin our big bad deer demon together.” His voice, the words, the hiss that decorated his lilt harkening back something ancient in you…it shot a pang of electricity to your lap. Who needs heaven, when they sent their best recruiter straight to hell?

To your great pleasure, you watched the objects of your desires strip each other naked. Surprising, given how Alastor disliked Lucifer seeing him in the buff. But everything had been pure shock since they got into your bed, so maybe you should steel yourself.

Attentions turned on you, wide eyed and fidgeting. Alastor lied down on his back, a sigh as you straddled his lap. With a few soft touches and strokes he was hard in your hand. You used his warm and soft cock head to stimulate your clit, gathering wetness to ease his entry. Slowly, the angle making him feel more like iron than flesh, you sat down on his length. You needed a second, moving forward or back felt like you’d accidentally rearrange something. When settled, nodding to Alastor, he pulled your legs forward, knees hugging his ribs.

You didn’t understand the angle yet, until you looked back and saw Lucifer’s sharp eyes gleaming in the lowly lit room. He popped open the small bottle with one hand, “Lean forward kitten, Daddy needs room to work.”

Alastor’s legs jumped when you ground down on his half hard dick. You’d never seen Lucifer so commanding, even that first night he was rough but he was still timid and lost in the sensations. This was intentional, Lucifer in his element in a new way for you and Alastor alike.

Pressing down on Alastor, stomach to stomach, you found his face a little out of reach for kissing. He was so tall, and lying down made it harder for him to stretch to meet you. You were very rarely on top, Alastor typically only comfortable with you riding when it was just you enjoying yourself, him with no intention to chase a climax.

He noticed your pout, sitting up with his elbows to bridge the gap better. His head tilted, mouth open and tongue reaching for yours. Your breath was already shaky, something unusually sensual about everything. This wasn’t fucking anymore, was it? Had this changed? From one slip of your tongue?

Alastor was hungry to feel your soft tongue on his. There was a deep comfort in you that he enjoyed, a place of safety behind your teeth. He put his weight on one arm, needing the other to caress your cheek, slender and long fingers roaming up your face and to your ear.

His entire torso tensed under you, head pulling back. He looked so unlike himself, teeth biting at his bottom lip through his smile, eyebrows high and furrowed. He was looking at you but a little past you.

Lucifer’s finger was massaging the lube into the soft and rarely lavished skin around and on Alastor’s hole. He was licking his lips, hungry for the reactions. He hadn’t enjoyed topping a man in ages, many seemingly forgetting the short king was entirely capable of taking the reins.

But he was showing restraint. Even just pressing softly against the tight ring of muscle was hitching Alastor’s breath. You felt him soften a little in you, you knew time would tell you if it was nerves or disinterest.

“Can I move?” A soft question muffled by his neck, you pressing your lips to his pulse point and sucking.

“Please, dear.”

You take to your task slowly, not wanting him to slip out. As Luci sinks in a knuckle, then another, soon a whole digit, you feel the radio demon come back to life in you.

Alastor was struggling. The foreign feeling of being entered was fighting for dominance with the slick heat of your cunt slipping around him. It didn’t feel bad, just unfamiliar.

As more fingers spread his hole open in preparation, he started to get pulses of pleasure up his balls and along his shaft. He knew you felt it, you moaning more as your body shook, rising and falling on him.

When Luci began to thrust his three fingers in and out of Alastor, you could see the change immediately. Eyes clenched shut, his hands came to your hips to hold you still. He began rocking up into you and back down onto Luci’s hand. You had no complaints, his strong arms lifting you with ease and freeing you up to focus a hand on your clit. The scene was too hot, his pleasure too intoxicating for you to keep your hands off yourself any longer.

The pressure of his muscle pulling with Luci’s fingers was morphing into pleasure, the pressing digits seemed to hit something he hadn’t found before, the withdrawal of those fingers also providing such a satisfying feeling.

Lucifer opened Alastor’s legs wider, free hand rubbing the flesh of his ass and inner thigh, “What beautiful skin you’ve been hiding. So soft and supple.”

The deer demon went pink in the face, “Just shut up and do it already, your majesty.” His usual cutting tone was blunted by how his voice broke as Luci’s fingers dug into his ass with crooked knuckles.

“You don’t have to, Alastor.” You reached a hand for his cheek, missing the first time as he didn’t stop bouncing you on himself.

“Yeah, you don’t have to, Alastor.” Luci was leaning his face against your arm, looking down at Alastor. He watched the blush deepen, the radio demon too prideful to say what he wanted. But Luci knew, he could feel it as Alastor tightened around him when he said Alastor’s name.

He knew the second he won the game in the lobby he was going to make Alastor lose face, whether with his cock or words. Both, it seemed now.

You felt Alastor buck a little, an embarrassed smile. His eyes shot to the right, avoiding the way you both were looking at him. You with sweetness in your eyes, Luci with a lusty fire lighting the red of his pupils.

Lucifer poured the lube down your own ass, it dripping to Alastor’s balls and between his cheeks. A long and deep moan rocked your chest, Lucifer’s rock hard girth thrusting between your cheeks. His hands were both rubbing the excess lube over Alastor’s ass.

“Is that necessary?” Alastor tossed his head back.

“No, but I love the sound it makes when I’m fucking you.” Lucifer kissed your neck, eyes dark and hooded as they aimed at Alastor.

You’d never seen Alastor look vulnerable before…the closest was his face before and during his orgasm.

Luci was drinking in the look on Alastor’s face. He went back to fingering the other man, scissoring them apart to make room.

“You’re so warm, Alastor. I’m worried my cock will melt.” Alastor’s eyes closed, smiley wonky. “And kitten, you’re so pretty bouncing on our big buck.” Wet and long tongue traveling up your neck.

One hand reached back, you gripping Luci’s hair as you met Alastor’s thrusts with your own. Every time Luci spoke it seemed he was determined to make both of you break.

Had he spoken like this before in bed, you weren’t sure how Alastor would have taken it. But for some beautiful reason, Alastor’s eyes went wide as his hips lost rhythm, suddenly jerking into you with fervor. He was so horny.

Your body felt cold as Lucifer retreated. Alastor sighed when the fingers quickly left him.

You both made a shocked yelp as you were unceremoniously yanked back to the foot of the bed. Alastor sat up, arms holding you up as you twisted around. Lucifer had taken Alastor by the thighs and effortlessly pulled his ass, and you with it, to the edge of the bed.

A shudder ran through Alastor with the realization just how much Lucifer had been holding back when he had been teasing him the day before. The chill first carried a tinge of fright, but then his nerves were flooded with euphoria—- Luci wanted Alastor to dominate him. He had fully let the sinner take the lead.

“Lie down and hold on,” your King smiled at you, giving a command you were happy to accept. As you rested your full weight in Alastor, you hooked your arms between his armpits and held onto his shoulders. Head rested on his chest, you kissed below his collarbone, salty skin so enticing under your mouth.

“Just tell me to stop if you want to tap out.” Lucifer smeared the lube coating you both across his leaking head and down his member before pressing into Alastor. Too tight, but the best they could manage, he used a little forced to get past his entrance. Again you felt Alastor seem to shrink a little in you, mind not able to focus on anything but what was about to happen. You weren’t moving now, just clenching around him to keep your own fire stoked.

The muscle too tight, a cock ring trapping the blood, Lucifer began slow and short thrusts into Alastor. The gentle rocking slowly bounced you against Alastor, your trapped clit rubbing into Alastor’s pelvis.

You could hear Alastor swallowing groans, jaw tense as he fought back the sounds Luci’s cock was making him create. His hands were rubbing your ass, gripping every couple of thrusts. One of Luci’s claws dragged down your spine.

“Don’t fight it Alastor. It feels better when you let go. Relax.” Lucifer’s voice was deeper than his normal speaking tone, “Let me hear you. Or do I need to bully your little g-spot to make you scream for me?”

Alastor’s eyes rolled back, Luci delivering on the threat immediately. Red and black hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead as his straining broke out a sweat. You nuzzled into his neck, giving soft bites and leaving love marks. Finally, a moan tore out of him, a growl of pleasure.

Luci grabbed your hips and held on, using you as his anchor point as his speed and depth picked up. The movement had you clutching onto Alastor to keep his cock from ramming through your cervix with Luci’s powerful thrusts.

You cried out Luci’s name, followed by a series of, “Fuck! Oh God—! Mmh, Luci…lu-,” as Alastor lost his grip on his sounds. His chest rumbled, hands threatening to cut into you as every exhale he made just a strident groan.

Lucifer felt his orgasm quickly building as he watched you both before him, sobbing from the pleasure he was happily pouring into his lovers. He worried if the high of the feeling reached any further he wouldn’t be able to contain his troublesome wings. He could soar with this ecstasy alone.

He wanted to hear one more prayer to him, from his newest convert. His soon to be third favorite sound rang out, his thighs slapping on to Alastor’s sticky ass. There was a pop as their bodies pulled apart and the lube tried to keep them together. Your mouth formed lazy kisses on Alastor as you couldn’t find the power to close it.

“Lu-,” you watched the smile fall apart on Alastor’s face, sharp eyes wet and struggling to keep from rolling back.

Almost. Lucifer was so close, pushing back against the pleasure. Say it.

Your wet pussy was gripping him like he was your lifeline, plush walls quivering over him. Opening him up wide and deep, sensitive and intimate insides fucked by his king’s thick cock. He couldn’t call for God, so he yelled out for the closest thing he had.

“Lucifer!” Alastor lost control of his radio echo, Luci’s name cutting through the room with a stark clarity.

With Alastor’s submission, Luci pulled out, jerking himself off for several pumps before he came onto Alastor’s pink and twitching hole. Before he was spent he sank back in to that welcoming heat.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fuck it back in to you, Allie.”

Alastor couldn’t stop now, he needed to give you his own seed, biology urging him to take you by the waist and impale you on his manhood.

Luci stopped moving, letting Alastor take over. Sandwiched between two vastly different sensations, Alastor couldn’t stop the embarrassingly unrestrained whines, a chorus of, “Fuck fuck fuck,” as his leaking slit smashed your cervix.

You could only silently sob into his chest, trembling when he gave your womb a punishing mating press. A flood of warmth, thick and determined semen scratching a primal itch for you both.

Pussy clenching, body hungry for every drop of your darling demon. Your hands wound into his hair, pulling off of him so you could reach his cheek. Lucifer’s hands roamed around your backside, pausing to rub at tight muscles. He enjoyed watching the cum dribbling out of you.

“Darling doe,” you always grinned when Alastor called you that.

Luci stared at your entrance, open and puffy. “Love?” His fingers grazed against your lower lips.

“More, almost got there.” You sighed, blood still flowing to your crotch with an ache.

Heaven, ironically, was Alastor whispering into your ear as Luci kissed your lower back, hands rubbing at your clit and fingers rocking into your spongy g-spot.

“I’m unworthy of your affection, let alone your touch.” Alastor’s hands were petting your head, mouth dropping kisses to your cheek and forehead as you whimpered. “You are my proof redemption isn't something found above.” Your body locked up, focusing all your energy on getting relief.

Sweet words into your skin, kisses fit for a queen down your spine, the very fingers that held the damning apple frothing your shared lover’s seed around in your cunt.

It was an effortless climax, a short but intense orgasm fueled less by stimulation and more by the immense satisfaction of the unlikely pile you were in. Luci lied on your back, body boneless above you.

The serotonin waned, Alastor tossing Lucifer to his left, you rolling off to his right. There was a brief moment where you looked at him, and then you both looked at Lucifer.

Luci’s lusty side was fully evaporated, bright eyes and goofy smile as he gingerly set his head against Alastor’s bicep.

You and Alastor looked at each other again, your eyes searching for an answer, question unnecessary. Your answer came in the form of a swift move of his arm, allowing Luci to be pulled into his side and letting his head take a place on his chest.

In his attempts to compete and always dominate over Lucifer, Alastor had been uncharacteristically interested in sex as of late.

You were hoping now, as he closed his eyes and tried to return to a normal heart rate, things would mellow out. Perhaps their tug of war for your affection would be laid to rest and you could all fill your time together with slightly less sex. You could finally show your love in a way you were happiest with.

Luci smiled as you cuddled into your place opposite him. He reached out and laced his fingers with yours.

The rock paper scissors hadn’t mattered, he had every intention of taking the lead regardless of his positioning in bed. After seeing how upset you were at their bickering, and how elated you were when you thought they had actually made a truce, he knew he had to go through Alastor, not around him. If he could become your equal under Alastor, he could have you without restriction. He needed to be full accepted into the triangle of horrors, as Angel called it.

A little piece of him fluttered, it was a nice … coincidence that he found Alastor to be a shockingly compatible lover for himself. Not able to put a word to it, he swallowed down a part of him that seemed to shimmer in his chest when he thought about Alastor’s after-sex smile, the way his chest smelled of sweat and passion, the vibration of his body as Alastor asked you if you’d like a little music.

The radio popped on, smooth and sultry sounds making your lids heavy. It was too early for bed, but your body didn’t particularly care what you thought after what you’d done to it.

Your eyes finally shut, staying focused long enough to watch Luci grin into Alastor’s chest as Luci tightened his hold on your hand.

ଳ⊹₊ ⋆ masterlist

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djarincore · 1 year ago

Text

a sacrifice in your name

SUMMARY: A paladin's oath means everything to them—but not to Simon, not when it comes to you.

ALTERNATIVELY: Simon sacrifices his oath to save you.

TAGS: oathbreaker!ghost, f!reader, DND!au, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, nondiscript violence, implied minor character death(s), Simon can lift reader, special villain guest appearance by Graves, body worship, cock warming, WC: 3.2k

A/N: a little what if scenario for vengeance paladin!Simon, who will always choose you over everyone else no matter the cost. and yes, the title is another sleep token lyric...

thank you to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers!

You wake to dim woods, a full moon overhead, and arms firmly encircled around your waist. The world bounces and sways in your bleary vision with a persistent ache pounding through your head.

Memories of the past few hours are a rapid flash of reds and oranges, sounds of crackling, splintering wood, and terrified screams echoing through the night. The bone-chilling fear of death seems to still freeze your sore muscles.

Now, as you slowly regain your senses, you realize you're riding atop a horse somewhere deep in unfamiliar woods in nothing but your night gown. The figure, whose arms encircle your body, grips the reins in front of you. Their own weight almost sags against yours. A helmet rests against your shoulder.

Icy fear crawls back through your body. You wish you can remember or get a clue as to where you were, but it is too dark and the horse is no longer on a path. The best you can do is escape, run, somewhere far from this stranger.

You jerk forward and claw at their arms, but you're blocked by leather vambraces. The stranger pull you closer to their chest, trapping your arms against your body.

“Let me go,” you plead. The stranger scrambles to restrain you and reign in the horse, who has become spooked by your cries. “Please!”

“Shh, you're safe,” a familiar voice soothes. It's grated, rough. Simon. “It's alright.”

Your body sags into his, but your heart still pounds. Your thoughts are mush in your head as you try to piece them together.

“What happened?”

The last thing you can recall is smoke and flames, raiders breaking down your door, and the blunt end of a sword bashing your temple.

Your query is followed by thick silence. A dark cloud of confusion hangs over you and Simon doesn't seem to want to offer any guidance.

“Simon?” You attempt to turn, but he holds you tighter, almost forcing the air from your lungs. And then, you realize he's trembling.

Simon, who was the pillar of strength, never trembled, never showed an ounce of fear. You grew worried.

“Don't,” he says quietly. “Just rest. We’ll be at an inn soon.”

A pit sinks in your stomach. An inn, but not your inn. If your fragmented memory serves you correctly, your inn is ash. The home and business your family-owned for generations was gone in a single night.

All the fight and adrenaline drains out of your body, leaving you weak and exhausted. You shut your eyes and lean against Simon, allowing tears to fall freely in the dark.

The neighboring town’s inn is small, cold, decorated with the heads of different animals and sharp weapons mounted on the walls. You hate it. There is no fireplace, no warmth, or life—nothing like your inn, your home.

You stare into the glassy eyes of a deer hanging above the owner. Your blank expression stares back in the reflection.

The owner is a bony, severe-looking man whose slimy gaze clings to you alone. Even as you cower behind Simon the man’s hunger makes you shudder.

You stare into the glassy eyes of a deer hanging above the owner instead. Your blank expression stares back in the reflection.

“A bath for her.” Simon tosses an extra silver piece onto the counter.

You're covered in soot with a trail of dried blood running down your temple and a small cut on your neck.

The owner perks up. “Do you require any assistance washing?”

You can't help but cringe at his words and wrap your arms around yourself.

Simon’s hand darts over the counter to grab the man by the scruff of his neck and slam his face onto the counter.

“Shut the fuck up,” he barks, “and get it ready. Or I'll spill your fucking guts on the floor and you can wash that up instead.”

The man whimpers and you can't find it in you to feel bad for him. But you do worry. Simon always makes a point to keep his violence away from you.

His fury wasn't a sight you saw often. You only know the beginnings and ends of it. The deep breaths as he tried to control himself and keep his temper in check or the bloodied knuckles and split lips.

“Yes, yes, right away,” the man stammers.

Simon doesn't let up. You see the fingers of his pointed gauntlets curl tighter, forcing a choked gasp from the man.

“Mercy,” the man pleads, voice wavering on the edge of tears.

Finally, Simon flings the man back and he stumbles to catch himself from hitting the wall. Scampering off, the man disappears around the corner.

Simon heaves a sigh, bordering on frustration and exhaustion. His shoulders are tense and when you reach a hand out to touch his arm, he doesn't look at you. He hasn't since you woke up on his horse. His helmet being on didn't help either.

You desperately want to know what he is thinking. Simon was never a talker, but his eyes were always more expressive than his words.

His arm wraps around you, bringing you into his chest. Your cheek rests against his chest plate. The metal is cool against your skin. Your arms wrap around his waist in turn.

You want to ask him so many questions, but now isn't the time. You want to think he’ll explain everything soon, but his tension doesn't reassure you.

He holds you in silence until the owner returns.

The man's gaze doesn't fall anywhere near you this time. The bloodshot, green eyes stay firmly on Simon as he stumbles over his words and let's you know the bath is ready.

Simon takes your hand and leads you around the corner. The narrow hallway has a wooden staircase built into the left and leads further down to an open door. You can see the tub inside, a towel draped over a wooden chair beside it.

The washroom is a simple room with a basin and a chair. There's a standing mirror tucked in the corner you use to look at the grime covering your body. Your face is gaunt, a shell of yourself. Your fingers ghost over the frown you fear will become permanent.

Simon shuts the door and moves behind you like a pillar, poised to support your unsteady legs. “Off,” he commands with a low voice, brushing the strap of your nightgown off your shoulder.

Your clothes slip off easily and Simon guides you into the tub. The water is lukewarm at best and you curl your knees to your chest to conserve heat.

“Will you tell me what happened now?” Your question is quiet.

He runs a cloth over your shoulders.

“Raiders,” he all but spits.

“What of everyone else?”

“Gone.”

Your brows furrow. You just couldn't believe you were the only one to make it out. Your heart breaks for all the people who were lost.

“And the raiders?”

No doubt Simon made short work of those bastards. He always did.

Simon wrings the towel out and extends his hand. “Come on. Out before you get cold.”

You're redressed in your nightgown but not satisfied.

He leads the two of you up to your room for the night. There's a wooden bed tucked in the corner and a dresser beside it with an oil lamp. You grimace at the sheets which are covered in a layer of dust. You pull them off the bed and toss them to the floor.

Simon begins the quiet routine of shedding his armor at the door. It almost feels like you're back home. His helmet comes off first and rests on the dresser.

Finally, you can see the tight furrowed brows, the downcast eyes, and tense jaw he wears. There is a quiet conflict raging behind his tired eyes. He looks exhausted and beaten to the core. He leans his sword against the wall, places his gauntlets on the dresser, chest plate and greaves beside it.

You watch as each piece comes off, searching for signs of injury. He never returns to you without scars or bruises for you to fuss over. But piece by piece, his clothes are free of blood and his body doesn't tense from sudden movements.

No sign of injuries should be reassuring, but it only adds more questions.

“Are you okay?” Your hands run down his chest to rest on his abdomen.

He's quiet for a moment, tense beneath your hand, before he mutters a curt, “Fine.”

Simon takes your hands and guides you back onto the bed. He leans over you, forcing your neck to crane back. A hand cradles your cheek, caressing your cheekbone with his thumb, as his lips lower to ghost over yours.

You want to ask him more questions—ones he won't answer, he can't answer—but he stops you short.

Simon captures your lips in a desperate kiss. He kisses you with a hunger that he needs satiated. His hands cup either side of your face, always gentle.

When he pulls away there's something missing from his gaze, replaced with a despair that stretches beyond you.

“Simon…”

“Not tonight,” he whispers.

He never liked to talk about his missions, the evils he faced all in the name of upholding his oath. And you never forced him to, simply doing your best to provide him comfort in other ways. You gave him a home to return to, open arms to fall into, and loved him completely. But, the hollow look on his face warns you of something terrible, something that can't be healed.

He brings himself to his knees, head hung in quiet repentance. His lips press against your knee. Then his hands snake up, pushing your nightgown past your thighs.

You grab his hands before he can reveal anymore, but he is insistent.

He looks up between your thighs like you alone can offer him salvation for whatever sin is consuming him whole.

“I need you,” he pleads. “Let me have you.”

Simon doesn't wait for your response before he’s rising once again to push you against the bed. When his lips meet yours, it's fierce and demanding. His body cages you and you're helpless to refuse as he knees your legs open.

Simon’s rough hands explore the soft curve of your body. Your hands caresses the slender curve of his neck and into the silk strands of his hair while his thumb traces random patterns on your stomach before dipping below the waist of your panties. His fingers skim lower and lower, and you squirm when the dull ache between your thighs grows stronger.

The pads of his finger meet your sensitive clit for the first time and rub slowly. Your body seizes around him, thighs clamping around his, and your arms wrap around his neck to ground yourself around the sensation.

The way he gazes upon you so reverently, like a goddess worthy of his devotion, nearly makes tears spill down your cheeks. You let out a gasp as the pleasure in your stomach grows stronger.

Your hips move against his hand, demanding more. When his hand moves away to tug at your gown, you pout.

“Off,” he commands.

Nothing needs to be said twice, not with Simon. You pull your dress off, freeing yourself to the darkness and his roaming eyes. Your nipples are pert against the cold air. His calloused hands glide over your waist, mapping every inch and curve of your body to commit you to memory.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers in awe. His hand cups your breast as he lays kisses across your chest. Between each kiss he says, “You’re mine.”

You feel yourself blossom beneath his reverent touch and words. You lift your hips to let him pull your underwear off. His hands slide up your calves, over your thighs, and eventually one settles over your mound. You arch into his touch. A sigh leaves your lips as he runs his finger through your slick folds.

Two fingers are thrust into you without warning. Your breath is caught in your chest as you clench around him. His fingers work inside of you, pulling sweet moans from your lips, until you come undone.

Simon lifts your limp body against him as he settles on the bed with his back against the wall. You lay against his chest, face buried in his neck, as a wave of exhaustion hits you. The traumatic night is finally catching up with you.

As you come down from your orgasm and your eyes grow heavy, he pulls his cock free and positions you above him.

You attempt to shift your hips down to take him, but he stops you with a gentle squeeze of your hips.

“I've got you. Just relax.”

Simon eases you down on his cock, stretching you open. You want to squirm, to move, to please him the same way he did for you.

“Just stay here,” he says, his breath heavy in your ear. His hands cling to you as he shifts your bodies against the pillows. You feel the stir of him in you and involuntarily clench. He groans, burying his face into your neck to regain control of himself. “Let me feel you.”

You stay in each other's arms until your breaths fall steady. The closeness, his warmth, is a comfort you relish. Your home may be gone, but you still have Simon.

And, for now, it is all you need.

Simon waits for you to fall asleep first, cradled against his chest, before he allows himself to feel guilt wash over him. The weight threatens to drown him and he clings onto you like a raft.

He leans his head against the wall, staring at the water-stained ceiling. A veil of unshed tears blurs his vision. “Forgive me,” he whispers.

To who and for what, he doesn't know. He just hopes those words are enough to make the ache fade—it doesn't.

He allows himself to fully recall the entire night before he found you, before it all fell to shit.

Simon returned to ruin.

He saw the plume of smoke in the distance and hoped it wasn't real, but it was. Your town was engulfed in flames, glowing in the dark as bright as day, burning in his eyes like hellfire.

He moved through rubble, mind swimming with dread, to find you at the center of town, bound and unconscious. There were men surrounding you who wore a familiar coat of arms.

Graves, the pain in his side who never seemed to just disappear, was standing in the center of it all. Simon had faced his men before, but never Graves in person.

Simon would have caught on to the strangeness of the situation if not for the fury boiling in his blood.

Simon knew what he had to do—kill him, make him suffer. His oath wouldn't allow his evil to continue any further.

Gods, he hated the cocky grin on his face.

“There you are,” Graves called out like he was greeting an old friend.

“What the fuck do you want?” Simon’s sword was already unsheathed, ready to taste blood.

“To teach you not to fuck with me.”

Simon almost barks out a laugh. He raised his sword toward the challenge. Not one of Graves’ men moved to help defuse the situation.

“Go ahead and do as your oath commands—kill me.” Graves stood proud, arms spread wide.

Simon took a step further.

“But if you kill me, your girl dies too.”

A henchman hauled you up and placed a dagger at your throat.

Simon, for once, faltered. The sword in his hand trembled. He tried to steal himself but found he couldn't catch his breath.

He couldn't kill Graves and reach you in time. And he was sure if he made any move to save you, you'd be dead already.

“If you don’t kill me, I'll let you leave with her. Make your choice.”

So that was the game.

“Fuck you,” Simon spat. “I don't know ‘er.”

Graves ignored the bluff. Something in his smile told Simon, he saw right through his bullshit. “Go ahead and be a hero, Ghost.”

“I'm not a hero.”

He scoffed at the word. Destroy evil by any means necessary. His tenant echoed in his mind. Any means necessary.

He was far from a hero. A hero didn't turn a blind eye to those in need to pursue evil. He left behind innocent's far more times than he can count in the name of his oath.

Would you become one of the souls he sacrificed too?

Ever since he lost his family and took up his oath, he couldn't allow himself to feel emotions like guilt, sorrow, or fear, less it made him weaker to deliver the vengeance he swore to uphold.

But, you were his new family, the love he found amidst his violent wandering. He couldn't lose the safety and warmth that you were.

No matter what he chose, you or his oath, he would lose a part of himself.

Simon wanted to plunge his sword into Graves’ chest and be rid of the man and his impossible choice and that fucking smug smile. He wanted to destroy his very existence, so not even the strongest magic or God could piece him back together. He knew the world would be better off without him. He knew it deeply.

Yet, Simon lowered his sword and made his choice to condemn the world.

“I knew you were a selfish one.”

“Give her to me.”

Graves waved his hand and you were dropped. Simon caught you before you could touch the ground. He wrapped his arms tight around you, shielding you from the world.

“Fuck with me again and I won't wait for you to save her.”

Simon gritted his teeth but didn't say a thing. He kept his eyes on you. There was a cut on your neck where the blade was, shallow enough to draw a sliver of blood, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Fighting Graves would mean your death. Simon didn't care if he died, but he would never risk you. All he could do was lift you up and walk away.

Each step away from that ruined town he felt a piece himself slip further into the dark, remaining in the wreckage. His limbs lost feeling; his chest constricted.

A rope pulled inside his chest, urging him back to finish his duty. But, his feet dragged against the force to continue forward.

When Simon stepped over the town's threshold, the rope snapped. He was left with cold, empty despair.

Simon held you because that was all he could do as he left behind the destruction and his oath. At least he still had you.

He condemned the town’s survivors to death and allowed evil to escape the wrath of punishment—and he would do it all again to save you.

He will tell you of his selfishness in the morning. But, for now, he will hold your bare form tighter against his chest, closer to his heart, convincing himself you will fill the piece of himself that will never return.

But the void is boundless. It is echoes of flame and terror, shame and guilt, and a haunting voice calling to him in the dark.

“Oathbreaker, what have you done?”

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drdemonprince · 4 months ago

Note

so recently a girl I was hanging out w (we're both trans girls) indicated that she wanted to dominate me in the way I've wanted my whole life but I've never received (mostly not physical, sweet, predominantly psychological, soft, playing w the power dynamics, etc.). Since then I've been feeling some relief but also intense desperation, like I've been starving all my life and I've only just realized, and now the hunger pangs are eating into me.

I was just wondering if this resonates w how you understand kink and where this desperation could be coming from. I'm autistic, so I was wondering if it's desperation for the need to unmask? Or if it's about the shame of having kinky desires, and the relief that comes from getting affirmed that those things are ok? Is it really about a need for care, which I have received very little of my whole life? Or if I'm overthinking it— could I just have a deep gnawing hunger for submission in and of itself, where submission is, for me, as important as breathing?

Of course, I know you can't explain my own emotions, but any insight you have into the tangled web of desire, desperation, hunger, kink, care, relief, autism, trans shit, and isolation would be v v v appreciated. ty dr demon prince :)

I think what you might be responding so strongly to is the opportunity to express a side of yourself that normally has zero outlet. We can call it headspaces, or alters, or escapism, or playing a role, and certainly it has to do a lot with letting go and unmasking -- but the universal human explanation is that who were are is largely socially instantiated, and that it is impossible for us to be certain versions of ourselves without that self being welcomed, catered to, and interplayed with by another person -- the right person, in the right dynamic.

Kink can be so beautiful because it allows sides of ourselves that rarely find expression to interplay with others' also hidden or hard-to-activate sides. With one partner of mine, I get to be a slobbering obedient puppy for their nurturing, yet controlling mommy. Both of us are able to access sides of who we are that feel unreachable in everyday life, or unsafe to express. For them it's a gender euphoric experience that doesn't line up with their day-to-day identity and presentation; for me it's an escape from my mental burdens and the relief of being cared for. Yet it's also deeper. By playing at this long-lasting pet-handler relationship, I get to activate layers of trust and vulnerability with them that it would normally take years of processing and the exact right circumstances to reach. I get to collapse into their arms wailing without having actually been put through any real emotional ringer. I can be completely waylaid with emotion and need and become briefly dependent upon them and let them have full control over my body, without actually having to lose any of my freedom or having to worry about whether they can handle it.

That's just a personal and recent example. But I often feel that within kinky, headspacey social contexts, a different side of me is free to express itself and my ego doesn't have to mediate or hold the reins. I feel the same thing at Furfest, though it's not always sexual. I can just be a friendly, silly, huggy deer, and meet other people for their playful animal/toony energy too. Because we are all just being silly animals, I can relate to people that I might have very little in common with in terms of my day-to-day life. We don't have to talk about work, or our families, or political economy -- we can just dance and get stoned, cuddle and eat snacks, play videogames, compliment one another's outfits, live in the present right before us. all the over-intellectualization that normally separates me from people is just gone, and some more primordial feeling of animal comraderie is there.

And I miss that feeling of ease and friendliness DESPERATELY once furfest ends. It feels at times that when a bond or a social context like this disappears that some essential part of myself has been TAKEN from me. Because it doesn't just dwell within me. I can't just enjoy it alone at home. It has to operate within a living social dynamic.

It may be something like that for you. When I first discovered there was an entire community devoted to erotic hypnosis, my lifelong fetish, the universe seemed to open up with possibility and I was elated. I no longer felt doomed to a joyless daily existence. It turned out I could have real, meaningful fun, connect to other people, do something new that touched new parts of my brain. I could experience some of the sensations I had only ever dreamed about and believed were impossible to realize in actual life. I wanted to live in the hypno world forever (and I did get myself into some weeks-long waking trances that kinda mentally fucked me up because I was in such a frenzy, oops). It's a kind of love, finding your spaces, finding your people, finding the contexts in which some sacred part of you is free. It's a love of yourself, and the other person, and the context -- it's a love of being alive, which is often so sorely needed for those of us who are wired in such a way as regular life is usually unfulfilling or painful.

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eveomo · 3 months ago

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bounties and blessings - arthur morgan x f!reader

chapter 3 (SFW)

previous chapter

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

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

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

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ wc : 3.8k

You awoke to the sound of rain hitting the window panes of the hotel room you had gotten for the night. The clouds hung low, clinging to the mountains like a nervous child clings to their mother. Whatever light shone through the clouds was directly in your eyes, and you let out a groan of irritation at the intrusion. Rubbing your eyes, you sat up, placing your sore feet on the ground before running your hand through your tangled hair and deciding you needed a bath—badly.

After putting your boots back on, you headed for the front desk and placed some coins on the counter. The clerk directed you to the bathing room, and you gladly entered, appreciating the dim lighting. After undressing, you folded your clothing and placed them on the stool next to the bathtub before stepping into the hot water and sighing with relief. Grabbing the bar of soap, you rubbed it between your hands and started with your hair, scrubbing your scalp, then your shoulders, working your way down all the way to your feet. You remained in the tub for quite some time, appreciating the way the warm water released any tension held in your body.

Now freshly clean, you left the hotel and unhitched Lenora, climbing on her back and lightly tapping her sides with your feet before trotting out of Valentine. You were low on food and money, which left you with one option to fill your empty stomach: Hunting. Were you bad at it? Not necessarily, however you had long run out of arrows and hadn’t had the time to make more, forcing you to use your revolver or rifle to hunt which was less than ideal for killing small animals such as rabbits and turkeys. Crossing over the hills, you kept your eyes out for herds of deer, or anything that would keep you fed for the next few days.

After riding for about 20 minutes, you saw a herd just down the hill and you quickly dismounted, removing your rifle from your saddle. Taking light steps down the hillside, you crouched behind a bush and waited for the grazing deer to lift their heads up, giving you the perfect shot. You held your rifle up, closing one eye and taking a deep breath to steady yourself, finger ghosting over the trigger. You locked in on a movement, and as soon as the doe had looked up, you exhaled and fired, sending the rest of the herd running in a panic.

Letting out a sharp whistle, you approached the deer’s body while the sound of Lenora’s beating hooves got closer. You hoisted the deer onto your horse’s back, grunting at the exertion. A loud grumble erupted from your stomach, and you mounted Lenora, setting off to find a campsite so you could cook what you had hunted.

The sun was beating down on you now, a sharp contrast to the previous rain and clouds just that morning. It painted your face a slight pink despite the shade your hat provided, and you found yourself longing for your blouse despite the rolled-up sleeves of your button up you had stolen from a bounties dead body. Spotting a cloud of smoke coming from a clearing in the trees, you quickly pulled the reins and directed Lenora, hoping to find an empty camp with a forgotten fire. Unfortunately for you, gunshots began to erupt from the area. Hesitating for a moment, you urged your horse faster, quickly approaching the camp as part of you hoped you would be left with dead bodies to move, and an empty camp. Despite your speed, the gunfire had stopped as you had arrived, no more than 20 feet back.

“Dirty O’Driscolls.” A familiar voice spat out, and you sighed at the realization that it was Arthur before dismounting and walking towards the now empty camp.

Just as you were about to enter the clearing, you spotted a man in a green vest sneaking up on him, knife in hand before lunging and tackling Arthur to the ground and you froze. A struggle ensued, the knife getting far too close to Arthurs neck. You quickly drew your revolver and pulled the trigger, shooting the man point blank in the head.

“We gotta stop meeting like this. You alright?” you said, finally emerging from the bushes as Arthur pushed off the dead body slumped over his.

“Sure, thank you, ma’am.” He replied with a huff, rolling his shoulders in pain. Arthur quickly looted the body, putting a watch and some tonic in his satchel before approaching you and dropping some coins in your hand.

“Ma’am? Just how old do you think I am, Mister?” Looking down at your hand, you quickly counted the small amount of coins sitting in your palm. “‘nd hold on now, me savin’ yer life is worth $3?” You exclaimed in disbelief, cocking an eyebrow as you shoved the coins into the back pocket of your trousers.

“What? An outlaw can’t have any manners now? I already thanked you,” He scoffed, clicking his tongue as his horse returned to him. He grabbed the reins and mounted his American Standardbred, looking down at you. His gaze was strong and unnerving, a distant look in his blue eyes that chilled you to your core.

“Well, I oughta head back-“

“Wait!” You spoke before you realized the words had even exited your mouth, and you felt the blood rush to your face in embarrassment. Thankfully, your minor sunburn concealed your blush.

Arthur cocked a brow before replying, “Yes?”

You threw your thumb back, gesturing to the deer resting on the rear of Lenora.

“Err… Could you help me skin this? I ain’t all that great at it.” He shook his head in amusement and dismounted.

“Sure, I’m not expected back for another day or so anyway.” Arthur approached your horse before picking up the deer and resting its body on the ground. He squatted next to the animal, his eyes scanning its lifeless body. He let out a low whistle as he noticed the bullet hole straight through the skull.

“You got a good shot there.” You smiled softly before replying,

“No point in havin’ a good shot if I can’t skin it myself.” Shrugging, you squatted next to him and removed your hat, wiping the back of your hand along where sweat had collected at the brim. You glanced down at Arthurs hands, knuckles scabbed over from the bar fight, and various scars covering both worn hands.

“You been livin’ alone out here and you can hunt, but you don't know how to skin what you’ve caught?” Arthur teased, a glint in his blue eyes that made your breath get caught in your throat.

“I-I know how… I just ain’t good at it.” You mumbled. You were still somewhat new to this. Hunting was usually a success for you, but the skinning? That’s a different beast altogether.

Arthur chuckled softly, voice low and gravelly. “It ain’t about knowin’ how. It’s about knowin’ when to make the right cuts. You gotta let the blade do all the work for you, not your hands.”

You shot him a skeptical glance, but his posture and the confidence in his voice made you reconsider any doubts you had. With a long sigh, you dropped your head. “Alright, teach me then.”

A small smirk worked its way onto Arthurs face, but he didn’t say anything more. He removed a knife from his satchel and it sliced through the hide without any hassle, a clean line following the curve of the ribcage. The first cut was always the hardest, and despite his years of practice he had yet to perfect it.

He glanced over at you, admiring the furrow in your brow and the way you tugged your lip between your teeth in concentration. “You ever skin a deer before?” Arthur asked, further separating the hide from the meat and muscle.

“Once or twice,” you murmured, though it was painfully obvious from the way you shifted uncomfortably that you weren’t confident in the slightest. You gestured towards the hide as he worked. “Never as cleanly as this, though.”

Arthur paused for only a moment before continuing on. “Yeah, well that’s the trick. Slow and steady. Take your time, there’s no need to rush.” He slid the knife down the flank of the deer and handed it to you, hilt-first. “Take it from here. Just follow the line.”

“What, you think I don’t got my own knife?” Arthur rolled his eyes in response while you drew a slow, controlled cut through the hide, following the line he had made. It was much harder than Arthur had made it look, your hands were shaking and it felt as though the knife was fighting you.

“You’re gripping too tight,” Arthur said, his voice lined with a soft tenderness that disappeared as soon as it had bubbled up. “Loosen up, let the blade do all the work.”

You relaxed your grip slightly, and the knife slid more easily through the meat and hide. The scent of the deer wafted through the air, sharp and pungent. As you worked, you fell into a rhythm, the initial discomfort dissolving as your movements became more fluid.

Arthur nodded in approval. “That’s it, girl. Just like that.” Your face flushed as he spoke, a simple praise making you feel giddy inside. He helped you peel back the hide and roll it up, placing it right behind the bedroll sitting behind your saddle.

“Make sure you keep some fat on the meat, just not too much. You need that bit for cookin’.” He finished, and you glared at him.

“I know how to cook, thank you.” It came out sharper than intended, but Arthur just laughed.

“You sure? Even a lone wolf has more meat on its bones than you.” He joked, gesturing to your small frame.

“It ain’t polite to comment on a ladies body, Mister.” You chided him, beginning to cut the meat away from the bones.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a lady.” Arthur teased, removing his hat so he could wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.

You glared at him. “Shut up.” Eyes narrowed, you continued to work while a pleasant silence settled between the two of you. The only noise being the chatter of the wildlife and the occasional grunt from you and Arthur as you worked on the deer. You worked delicately, cutting away at the tender joints and muscle.

“Why’re you helping me, Arthur?” You asked, absent-minded as you made another cut. “Ain’t like you owe me nothin’—except your life.” He chuckled at the last comment, but stayed silent a beat before setting down the other knife he had retrieved from his satchel and studying your face for a moment.

“You’re better off with help than on your own, and I guess because you saved my life.” He drawled.

You didn’t ask for more, that was enough.

You both worked together in a comfortable silence, the deer slowly being separated into usable parts. As you freed the meat from the bones, Arthur wrapped the meat, then used discarded sinew to tie it together. It was taking a lot longer than you had expected it to, and the sun was beginning to creep behind the mountaintops. You lit a cigarette, nursing it between your lips as you continued to cut away, before finally finishing and cutting some of the meat into smaller chunks. Standing up, you grabbed a couple of logs that the O’Driscolls had so kindly left, and you nursed the fire until you could feel the heat on your face.

“Well, I’d best be on my way.” Arthur grunted as he stood, wiping his hands on his jeans before turning on his heel and approaching his horse.

“Hey,” you started, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly “you want to stay and eat? It’s the least I could do since you helped me,” Arthur turned back around and nodded, not saying much else.

The two of you sat around the fire, chunks of venison sitting on the blade of your knives as you cooked it and ate silently. It was a little more awkward now, the sun had set completely, the only light being the now warm glow of the fire which illuminated Arthurs sharp features. You studied his face for only a moment before his eyes met yours, and you quickly diverted your gaze towards the flames.

Suddenly, the night was thick with smoke, the air heavy and burning your throat with each stuttering inhale. The once sturdy frame of your home enveloped in flames, now nothing more than splintered wood and blackened timber. It groaned as the flame further consumed it, shooting sparks up into the air like dying stars.

You knelt in the snow, your hands trembling as you held the body of your now lifeless husband. His blood, warm and sticky on your palms now coated the front of your nightgown, but you didn’t notice, nor did you care. You were too focused on committing his features to memory, his pale face illuminated by the growing fire, his green eyes the same as the day when your parents had introduced the two of you, his muddy hand held out with a gap-toothed smile as you hid behind your mothers legs. You placed your hand over his now glazed over eyes, closing them forever. A warm kiss against cold, dry lips made your body wrack with sobs as you held him closer, kissing him for the final time.

His chest, once broad and full of life, was now still. There was a gaping wound where the shotgun had torn through his torso, his blood staining the white snow. He’d fallen just outside the door, trying to make it to the horses, trying to get you to safety before the debt collectors came. But they were too fast, too brutal. The gunshots rang through your ears, reminding you-

“Hey,” You were snapped out of your flashback, staring back at Arthur with wide eyes.

“You alright?” He finished, putting out his cigarette. You sat upright, releasing yourself from the nervous posture you held. Bringing a cigarette to your lips, you struck the match and lit it, inhaling.

“Yeah, just thinking ‘s all.” Wiping a stray tear from your face, you put your blade back over the flames since the piece you had cooked had now gone cold. Arthur let out a hum, clearly not wanting to dig any deeper, and he shifted uncomfortably where he sat. He scratched his head and sighed before standing.

“I really should be going now, Miss…” He trailed off, clearly expecting your name. You spoke it softly and he repeated it, before mounting his horse and riding away. Left alone, you allowed the pit in your stomach to consume you, and your body wracked with sobs as you held your head in your hands. It felt like you could barely breathe, your chest constricting and compressing; breaths coming short and stuttered as if you were swinging on the end of a rope.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here all alone?”

You froze as the click of a rifle cocking resounded through the clearing. Your hand slid instinctively to the grip of your revolver. There were 5 of them. You could hear their murmurs and the muffled shuffle of feet creeping closer from every direction.

“Look at this, boys,” came a low voice from behind you. “A pretty lady waitin’ here just for us. Ain’t that a sight?”

He was closer now, just to your left. You didn't turn, but your fingers wrapped around the cold steel of your revolver, your eyes flicked quickly to the nearest cover—a barrel just ahead of you. You had seconds, maybe less.

“Get the rope,” another voice sneered, this one rougher and deeper, laced with authority. “Tie her up nice and tight. We got ourselves a real prize this time.”

Your heart pounded, but your movements were fluid, second nature at this point. You quickly swiveled, pulling your revolver from its holster in one quick motion. The first a scrappy man with a scar running down his face stepped into view just as you fired a round. The bullet ripped through his chest with a sickening thud, his body jerking back and collapsing into the dirt with a gurgled scream, his green vest stained with blood.

The other O’Driscolls reacted insantly, guns drawn. But you were already darting to the side, tucking low behind the barrel as bullets whizzed past you, striking the dry earth with sharp cracks.

“She’s fast,” one of them cursed, his voice filled with frustration. “Get her!”

You breathed deeply, mind sharp and calculating. You needed to thin their numbers, fast. You knew they wouldn’t just back off—these bastards would press until they had you cornered.

A younger man, no older than twenty, emerged from the trees ahead of you, eyes wide with panic as he aimed his rifle. You ducked and popped out the side of the barrel and fired, sending a bullet straight through his knee. He collapsed with a scream, his rifle falling uselessly beside him.

“Goddamn it!” The leaders voice rang out. “You ain't getting away from this, girl!”

You didn’t respond, you couldnt afford to. From behind the barrel, you pulled a second revolver from your belt, your finger sliding across the trigger as you darted toward a wagon, firing off two quick shots. The third O'Driscoll went down with a hit to his shoulder, his rifle flying from his hands, the second bullet catching him in the side. He didn’t make a sound as he hit the ground, twitching for a moment before stilling.

Two down. Three left.

The leader, a burly man with a thick beard, shouted for the others to fan out. You could hear their feet scrambling in the underbrush, closing in from all sides.

"Come on, girl!" the leader yelled. "We ain’t playin’ fair anymore!"

You gritted your teeth, slamming the revolver back into its holster, and grabbed the rifle you’d left propped up against a nearby tree. You rose up above the wagon and pulled the trigger, catching the next O'Driscoll—a tall man with a wild-eyed stare—right between the eyes.

The remaining two O'Driscolls exchanged panicked glances. One was the young boy you’d already injured, clutching his bleeding leg with a grimace. The other, a grizzled man with a long scar across his throat, charged forward with his rifle raised, desperation in his eyes.

You could hear him coming, his boots crashing through the underbrush. You didn’t wait. As he broke through the tree line, you were already aiming. The rifle bucked in your hands, two shots ringing out like thunder. The O'Driscoll staggered back, his rifle spinning from his hands as he crumpled into the dirt.

You felt a burning pain in your thigh, and you looked down as you watched blood begin to stain your trousers.

Shit.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins, and you were brought back down to earth as you remembered the boy. His face was pale, his leg a mess of blood. He was fumbling with his own gun, terror written all over his face. You took a breath, steadying yourself. you moved quickly now, ignoring the searing pain in your right leg as your boots thudded softly against the earth as you closed the distance between the two of you.

"Please," he whimpered, his voice shaking as he leveled his gun at your chest. "Please don’t—"

He didn’t get to finish. A shot that wasn’t yours rang through the air with deadly precision. The boy dropped his gun, body slumped in the dirt in a heap. You shot your arm back up, aiming for wherever that bullet had come from.

“‘S just me,” Arthur spoke, and you sighed in relief as you placed your gun back in its holster. You sucked air in through your teeth as the adrenaline left your body and you were reminded of the gunshot wound in your thigh. Looking down, a choked gasp left your throat as your pant leg was almost entirely soaked.

“Shit.” He dismounted quickly and tugged his bandana off his neck. Guiding you with a hand on your shoulder, he sat you down and instructed you to put your leg out straight as he began applying a tourniquet. You hissed in pain as he tied it.

“I know, I know.” Arthur comforted you, his eyes meeting yours. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled your arm over his shoulder, walking you towards his horse.

“I can ride, Arthur.” You murmured, attempting to free your arm from the grip he had on your wrist as he helped you walk.

“Not with an injury like that, you can’t.” Arthur said with a raised brow.

Huffing, you reserved yourself to your fate, allowing him to guide you to his horse. You looked away in embarrassment as he placed his arms underneath your shoulders, hoisting you up onto the back. Arthur approached Lenora, a series of ‘You’re alright, girl’s and ‘It’s okay’s left his mouth as he grabbed onto her reins and led her back over. He mounted and clicked twice, his horse jolting forward.

“Wait—Where are you taking me?” The realization dawned upon you that you had nowhere to go, and you clearly couldn’t stay at the empty O’Driscoll camp. Anxiety clawed its way into your stomach for no good reason, nausea twisting your gut as the pain in your leg grew with every stride

“Back to camp. My camp, I mean. That leg needs tending to, Miss Grimshaw and the other ladies can help you with that.” Miss Grimshaw? The other ladies? Confusion settled between your brows as you held a little tighter onto Arthurs waist. Very few gangs ran with women, and if they did, it was for the men’s stress relief.

“No! I can’t ask that of you. Just leave me somewhere with cover and I’ll figure it out.” You pleaded with Arthur, the last thing you wanted to do was invite yourself into their camp and use their resources. You hadn’t had many run-ins with gangs, sure you cleared an O’Driscoll camp here and there when you had to, but you preferred avoiding them at all costs

“You won’t last a week out here with your leg in that kinda condition. You’re coming back to camp with me and that's final.” The commanding tone of his voice shut you up instantly, and you reserved yourself to your fate with a sigh as Arthur passed you a bottle of whiskey from his satchel.

“Drink this, it’ll be a long ride without it.”

yaaay chapter 3!!! enjoy some action (just not the sexy kind)

i gave up on arthur pov at the end of the chapters bc it felt corny. hopefully the dialogue felt accurate and flowed well but if it didnt please lmk! i am always open to constructive criticism <3<3

hope u liked it! pls like + reblog <3

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