#verai marcel

[shootybangbang]

The Upsides of Property Damage [Part 4/5]

Authored by @verai-marcel and @shootybangbang

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Mature

[Content Advisory]: light D/S undertones

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

[Author's Note]: Thank you guys so, so much for your patience, and so sorry for the delay! Most of chapter 5 has been completed and should be out soon. If you want to be notified when that comes out, go ahead and leave a comment down below and I'll make a taglist or something.

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The maintenance request form states: [Please give a brief description of the problem.]

for the past few days i've been so fixated on fucking the maintenance man that i've been having difficulty accomplishing basic tasks because every time i try to concentrate on anything even remotely meaningful all i can think about is him saying "maybe you just enjoy my company" and if this keeps up i'm fairly certain that i'm going to actually get fired from my job so clearly i need to either get laid or get evicted

This statement makes you look certifiably insane. It’s not even a request– it’s a confession . Sending this would be tantamount to seating yourself beside the grated window of a church booth and asking its captive priest whether he’d prefer you spit or swallow.

More importantly, it also exceeds the text box’s 250 character limit. You rapidly tap the delete key until the entire obscene paragraph disappears. Then you try again. 

broken cabinet.

Hmm. Lacks an element of genuine contrition.

broken cabinet. sorry. :’(

[Your service request has been logged. Please allow up to one standard business day for a response.]

You glance at the time displayed on the microwave’s grease-spattered screen. 4:36PM. Morgan’s probably already packed up for the day– and taking normal operating hours into account, the earliest he could possibly show up tomorrow would be 9AM… which gives you at least sixteen hours to emotionally prepare yourself to confront him.

Morosely, you drag yourself out of your kitchen chair to pour yourself a glass of sparkling water. So this is what I’ve sunk to . Using service requests as a means of personal summons for the hot repairman. Pathetic. Shameful. And 100% necessary for the preservation of your sanity.

How many times have you pictured it now? Morgan, cornering you against the wall and wrapping his hand around your jaw… Or maybe , he’d rumble, caressing your lower lip with his thumb. You just enjoy my company . Then he’d fuck you silly, of course, in a series of lurid positions that grow increasingly obscene with each imagining.

And how many times have you pictured its inverse? Morgan, backing away in response to your hypothetical advance, his face contorted with faint disgust as he asks, “You know I was just joking, right?” Following which you’d get written up for sexual harassment by the leasing office and put on… housing probation, or something.

Being humiliated, you can handle. Albeit not very well— but you’re usually able to stay at least semi-functional. The same goes for flirtation. It’s this hopeless vacillation between the two possibilities that drives you out of your mind. Schrodinger’s boner: simultaneously fucked and unfucked. And like that quantum superposition, you’ve been plunged into a private hell of uncertainty until your reality can settle definitively on one or the other.

This has been predictably bad for your job performance. Earlier today, you’d accidentally deleted two entire spreadsheets of data whilst lost in competing visions of fornication and abject rejection, and then constructed a pivot table so incomprehensible that one of your colleagues had personally reached out to ask whether you’d recently experienced head trauma. 

God. At this point, you really have no choice but to put the question to him directly. Plain and simple. Just a quick “are you hitting on me” and it’ll all be–

Your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door. 

Huh. Looks like Defying Your Blue Collar Dom is getting delivered a day early? It’s unusual for Amazon to leave packages at your doorstep instead of in the lobby, but it does happen, so…

…Oh.

It’s Morgan. What the fuck.

“But you were supposed to come tomorrow ,” you blurt, eyes wide with panic.

“That so?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances sidelong to the empty hallway, and shifts his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. With a shrug, he squares up his shoulders and turns back towards the stairwell. “Later, then.”

Shit. This is all going wrong. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I– I, uh…I’m… ”

He allows your stammer to run its course into awkward silence. Then the corner of his mouth angles upwards in a sly smile and he asks, “Or d’you need a minute to put away anything else your ‘friend’ mighta left out? I can wait.”

Somewhere in the realm of missed quips, there probably exists a clever response to this. Somewhere that is decidedly not here. “No,” you reply in a small, pained voice. “She, uh– she hasn’t been around, so… y’know…”

The sentence unspools like loose yarn. Jesus Christ, this is stupid.

“You alright?” Morgan asks, frowning down at you from where he stands. “You ain’t normally this incoherent.”

His comment implies that you’ve been operating thus far on an existing, baseline level of incoherence. Biting back the urge to query exactly what that looks like, you reply with a clipped, terse, “I’m fine.”

As you lead him towards your kitchen, you nearly trip over the half-packed suitcase parked beside the door. At this, Morgan again voices his concern. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this on edge before. Something botherin’ you?”

Yes , you think to yourself. My libido.

“Or is it some one that’s botherin’ you?”

He says the words with such a darkly implicative undertone that you actually turn around to stare at him, disarmed by the sudden shift. The warmth in his eyes has gone out like a blown candle. “Is it one of the other maintenance men?” he asks, and the whisper of lethality in his countenance surfaces so quickly that it speaks to a kind of practiced efficiency. 

A mingled thrill of fear and intrigue runs up your spine, and you swallow hard.

“If one of ‘em’s harassin’ you— if anyone’s harassin’ you…” he says these words with slow deliberation, while curling his free hand into a fist, thumb tucked over his folded fingers in that characteristic manner of boxers and street brawlers alike, and god if he were anyone else you’d likely be shrinking against the wall in terror right now. “Then you come tell me. And I’ll handle it.”

You have a sneaking suspicion that his method of conflict resolution involves grievous bodily injury. “Nobody’s bothering me,” you reply. Then, because he still looks vaguely homicidal, you follow up quickly with, “Just had an off day.”

This placates him somewhat. The tension diminishes like a rope going slack, and you realize with a hot pang of humiliation that your underwear is slick with arousal.

It’s not until he’s crouched in front of your broken cabinet, which stands ajar with its wooden door peaked at a 45 degree angle, that you finally work up the nerve to confront him. “So. Morgan.” You lean against the edge of your kitchen countertop like the faux marble might offer you emotional support. “There’s, uh. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

He’s sorting through his tool kit and doesn’t lift his head. Picks through an array of silver chiseled pieces so deftly that you can’t help but wonder what else those hands might be clever at. “Yeah?’ he asks, selecting a screwdriver head. He slips it into the drill chuck, twisting it tight.

“Are you, um…”

Fuck. You can’t say it. Your mouth literally refuses to shape itself to the words. Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Are you thirsty? You want some seltzer?”

Morgan blinks, then turns to you looking predictably baffled. “That’s… what you’ve been wantin’ to ask me? Whether or not I’m thirsty?”

“Yes,” you reply weakly.

For once, it’s him who’s been caught off guard. “I– uh. Sure, I guess.”

He takes his drill and begins to remove the damaged hinge. Taking the door leaf and flipping it this way and that, he examines the damage.

The crack of aluminum when you pull back the can’s metal tab and the responding fizz of compressed air sounds a little like a rebuke. Scathingly, it hisses: what the hell are you doing?

I have no idea , you admit, pouring the can of sparkling water into a clean glass. You pass it over to Morgan after he presses the trigger on the drill twice and sets it on the countertop. He gulps down an absent mouthful, then immediately stands up to spit it in your sink.

Oh. He hates it.

Your voice is thin as a reed. “I guess you’re not a fan of sparkling grapefruit, huh?”

“It’s…” With the duty-bound reluctance of a dog given a loathed order, he takes another, tentative sip, and forces himself to swallow. “It’s fine.”

It is clearly not fine. “Do you, uh. Do you want a beer?”

“What, you encouragin’ me to drink on the job?”

You open the fridge. Good god, you might as well partake too. It’s not like you’re in any state to get any work done, stuck as you are in this miserable limbo . “In any case, I’m gonna have one. And I’m still on the clock.”

“Alright.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So long as you’re complicit, why not?”

You end up downing half a bottle of 8% oatmeal stout in about three sips, then stand around blankly waiting for the roil of anxiety to abate. You’d attempt the precarious endeavor of small talk were it not for the fact that the only thing you can think of right now is “grapefruit”. Not the concept of grapefruit. Just the word “grapefruit”. This must be how computers feel when they spit out the same, continuous error message.

Mercifully, he intervenes. “You goin’ on vacation somewhere? Saw that suitcase by your door.”

“Catsitting,” you say.

“’…s’cuse me?”

“Catsitting. Like… babysitting. But for a cat,” you explain. “My friend’s going to Vegas the day after tomorrow, and her cat has anxiety.”

“Cats can get anxiety?”

“This cat takes cat Xanax . His name is Sebastian, and he’s the most neurotic animal I’ve ever met.” 

Morgan asks, “Yourself included?”

You make a noise that bears no resemblance to any word in the English language.

He chuckles. “Well, go on, tell me how neurotic he is.”

Thank fucking christ, the alcohol is finally beginning to course its way through your blood. Your tongue loosens enough to tell him how poor Sebastian had spent nearly an entire day curled up under your friend’s bed the first time you’d tried to take care of him, how you’d ended up driving to the grocery on a Sunday morning to scour the shelves for the most pungent can of sardines they had in stock, and how only then , with the room saturated in fish fumes, had the cat finally dragged itself out of the boxspring to nose curiously at your offering.

Morgan laughs. A good sign, you think. “That’s nothin’,” he says, and describes to you his boss’ cat: a purebred white Persian appropriately dubbed “The Count”, so thoroughly spoiled that she won’t eat the same meal twice in a row.

You snort at the image of a prissy little fluff ball turning her nose at a gourmet cat meal.

“Though it’s funny, I never took you for a cat person,” he says.

“No?”

“Figured you’d prefer snails.”

“Look, snails… snails are…” This is a sentence you started with absolutely no knowledge of how it should end. “I like snails,” you say lamely.

“Oh yeah? Think I remember somethin’ else that you like.” He puts his hand around his jaw and pretends to look thoughtful. “What was that book called again? Somethin’ about… bein’ punished by blue collar doms?”

“I’m sure that my friend who left her book on blue collar doms here very much enjoys them, if that’s what you’re referencing.”

He merely chuckles indulgently as he continues to fix the cabinet. You watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he drills new holes into the wood and sets the new hinge in place. As he works the power tool with a soft grunt, you find yourself idly wondering if he’d make the same sound as he drills you —

“Y’know,” he comments, stepping back as he tests the alignment of the door. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is the most work I’ve ever had to do for a single apartment, barring natural disasters.”

“Wow. Comparing a girl to a natural disaster. Are you this charming with all the tenants, Mr Morgan?”

“You gonna be jealous if I say ‘yes’?”

The alcohol makes you honest. “Extremely.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter and hauls himself back to his feet. “If this is the amount of property damage you cause normally, then I’d hate to see you angry.”

He takes another step forward. You take a step back reflexively, but find yourself pressed against the wall. He leans his forearm against the drywall and he’s close enough now that you can smell sweat and machine oil. Your heart beats hard in your chest. 

For once you’re lost for words. No quip comes to mind, for your brain is emitting sparks. “I, uh– I’m not–”

“You’re not what, exactly?” 

“I don’t know,” you say weakly.

He raises his hand to your jaw, tips your chin up with two fingers. “The answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” he says quietly. “It’s just you.”

Morgan looks like he’s going to kiss you. The expression on his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it, all his gruffness melted away. You tentatively tug at the fabric of his jumpsuit and stand on your toes to–

But he puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down. “Goddamn,” he says, frowning. “You’re really red.”

Huh. What.

“Listen, I ain’t one for takin’ advantage of drunks, even if they got themselves into this mess.” He picks you up as if you weigh nothing at all and sets you down on the couch. “Now, I’m goin’ to get you some water, and yer goin’ to sit here and sober up while I finish this cabinet. Alright?”

“I’m not even that drunk,” you protest loudly.

“Yer about the color of a fire hydrant right now.”

When you press the back of your hand to your cheeks and forehead, your skin feels feverish. Begrudgingly, you sink down into your couch cushions and cross your arms.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, patting your head affectionately.

***

You slouch on your friend’s comfy couch with Sebastian sitting regally in your lap as if you were his loyal subject.

“Hey Sebastian, I think I did something really stupid.”

Sebastian stretches and yawns. 

“I hit on the maintenance man.”

He meows. It sounds almost disapproving. Even the cat is judging you. 

“It gets worse.” You loll your chin downwards until it touches your chest. “I was sloppy drunk.”

Sebastian tilts his head at you and blinks.

“Okay, one bottle drunk.”

He sniffs haughtily.

“Right? Pathetic, I know.” You move to pick up Sebastian, but he begins to arch his back and you stop, leaning back against the cushions again. He relaxes and maintains his regal position.

“Well, maybe YouTube will keep my mind off him for the next two days…”

***

You return from your friend’s place, having used her cat and your friend’s YouTube Premium as your therapy sessions. You feel better about things now, and life should return to normal. Right?

The washer’s inner mechanism gives a promising rattle as it swallows your last six quarters. There’s a low rumble of moving parts, the click of something slotting into place— and then silence. The drum of the machine sits sedately in place. Your dirty clothes sit inside in a quiet, unsoaked heap.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath. 

You try out a couple different methods: Turn the knobs to various settings without success. Jiggle the handle to try and unlock the washer door. Yell at the machine, call it a worthless piece of shit.

But where discourse fails, violence often prevails. It’s a lesson that has offered a decent measure of success in your dealings with vending machines, keurigs, and lawnmowers. So it’s not merely anger that guides you to kick the washer. No, this is… this is a strategic use of force.

The first kick yields no results. The second kick produces an interesting sputter. Perhaps , you reason, a more precise method is needed here . You raise your fist.

Before you can punch the machine, someone grabs you by the wrist.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Morgan asks, exasperated.

“Laundry,” you answer matter-of-factly.

“What part of laundry involves fightin’ inanimate objects?”

“The part where I get this piece of shit to finally work.” You attempt to give the washer a last parting shot out of pure anti-machine sentiment with your other hand.

Before you can continue to perform percussive maintenance, he grabs your other wrist too.

You tug on both your arms, but he is ridiculously solid; it’s like trying to break free of handcuffs.

Of course my mind goes there.

Looking up at him, he’s realizing at the same time as you of how suggestive this looks. His eyes widen a bit, and you take that as a look of surprise and embarrassment. Yet neither of you moves for a full minute.

“Well,” you say finally. “Are you gonna let me go? Or are you gonna make me submit?”

His eyes narrow for a moment before a smirk slowly grows on his face. “Sounds like that’s what you want.”

He pulls you away from the machine and instead pushes you up against the closest wall. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of your sundress. He traps your wrists against the cold surface and presses his whole body against yours. 

“Mr Morgan—”

“It’s Arthur,” he interrupts. “Call me Arthur.”

You whisper his name, beckoning. His expression darkens ever so slightly as his desire for you manifests in a slight twitch of his lips, a crinkling of his brow.

Then he kisses you hard, his tongue lashing against yours before lightly nipping your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and his pupils are blown out with desire.

Letting go of your wrists, he reaches for the hem of your sundress and hikes it up, his calloused hands stroking upwards from your thighs to your hips. He shifts his knee between your legs and nudges them apart before grinding against you. You can feel how hard he is, how big he is, and you moan softly. Burying his head between your neck and shoulder, he begins to suck on the delicate skin there—

The door creaks open. Mrs. Smith, the septuagenarian from down the hall, walks into the doorway with a hamper of laundry in her arms, then pauses when she sees the two of you.

For a second, everyone stands tense and still as participants in a shootout.

“Well,” Mrs. Smith says mildly. She doesn’t look surprised or scandalized. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. “I can see you two are busy. I’ll come back in an hour or so—”

“No! It’s fine,” you say before laughing nervously. You yank your skirt back down. Arthur immediately releases you and begins intensely inspecting the washing machine. “I was actually just leaving. This, uh, this machine’s broken.”

Morgan’s face is red as he makes a noise of confirmation and nods.

“That certainly seemed a novel means of repair,” Mrs. Smith says. The smile on her face is benign, but knowing.

“Anyway!” You pick up your empty laundry basket. “I really must get back. I have a…that is, I… I think I left my oven on.”

You barrel out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Smith over in your escape. You run down three flights of stairs and into your apartment, slamming the door shut. Marching to your couch, you put a pillow over your face and scream .

***

Watching her leave, Arthur stands in shock at first, then glances over at Mrs. Smith and turns himself towards one of the washing machines, examining it with great focus.

A soft chuckle reaches his ears and he turns his head to look at the old lady, steadily pulling out one piece of laundry at a time from another machine. Under the pretense of examining all the machines, he notes that she also slowly and methodically loads the dryer.

“You should just go after her,” she says quietly, throwing a pair of large pink underpants into the dryer. “She’s a nice one, that girl.”

Arthur can only mutter, “I got work to do.”

“Come now, we both know that’s a lie.”

He sighs. It’s bad enough that John is on his case, but now 705 is giving him grief. 

“Do you like her?”

He’s silent. He does not want to be having this conversation.

“Because a girl as pretty as her…”

“I know, I know,” Arthur grumbles. “I’m goin’.”

As he walks past her, Mrs. Smith grins knowingly.

[lusus--naturae]

Mutuals... make bunnie tag game

LINK

@belzrgr @dekarios @minscofrashemen @ice-cweam-sod4 @obeythebutler @eigenfunctussy @gonuclear @verai-marcel

[twola]

im just wondering if you could do a short story with arthur getting ‘jealous’ of you at a bar for flirting with other men? 👀 and he later makes you regret pissing him off? *wink wink*

Learning The Hard Way

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

In which Arthur needs to teach you a lesson.

CW: There’s a bit of back and forth in this one… that devolves into physicality. Obviously, I do not condone any type of domestic violence. So we’re gonna go with that this type of play is consensual.

Many thanks to my meowdy pardners - @verai-marcel, @shootybangbang, and @redwritr - for helping me shine this one shot until it gleams!

Your voice rings out in the night through the camp, where Lemoyne’s heavy humidity hangs low. “You ain’t my husband, you ain’t my daddy, you ain’t anyone to tell me how to do my job!”

“You listen here- ”

You burst out of the tent and stomp toward the lakeshore, away from the orange firelight glowing toward the center of camp. Fortunately, the night is loud enough, and your voice doesn’t jar the entire camp, drowned out by cicadas and the rumble of men drinking after dinner.

Not that you’re particularly concerned about making a scene. No, you couldn’t give a shit about that. Your temper flares and your boots slap against the muddy grown as you clench your fists, skirts swishing at the speed of your gait.

But even with your artificially elongated stride, the loud footsteps that follow you eventually catch up to you as you reach the wood line away from the glen. 

You’re yanked back by your elbow and turned around to come face to face with an equally aggravated outlaw, wrinkles set deeply in his frown as his eyes narrow under the brim of his dark hat.

“I’ll damn well tell you when you’re bein’ stupid about a job. Coulda got yourself picked up by the law on that last stage,” he hisses, and you scowl in return as you yank back your arm from his grip, “Ain’t no way you’re doing this one.” 

“No, Arthur. Just because we’re sleepin’ together doesn’t mean you can order me around like some little housewife.”

Arthur Morgan’s scowl deepens. “You ain’t comin’ on this job and that’s final.” 

“Fuck you.” You seethe, turning on your heel before he grabs at your arm again, yanking you backward.

“Get your ass back in that tent, you little-”

He doesn’t see the whip-fast arc of your other hand before it connects with his cheek. It sends his hat flying to the ground and he immediately lets go of your arm, reeling from the blow.

“It’s over. I’ll get my things out of your tent and back to my own. You ain’t gonna treat me like I’m some prissy little thing. I don’t need this and I don’t need you.” You enunciate the last word with venom in your tone, spinning on your heel again to walk in the other direction, along the wood line, skirting the edge of the camp toward where the horses are hitched.

You needed some kind of outlet to quell the hotness of your blood after the fight, and stomping around camp wasn't doing it.

Hiking your skirts, you hurry toward your spry little gelding, dapple coated and one boy you know you could always count on. He neighs softly as you untie his rein frm the hitching post. You run your hand through his black mane.

“C’mon now boy. Let’s get outta camp to blow off some steam, sound good?” 

As if he can understand you, he nudges against your shoulder with his nose and you laugh as you move to pull yourself up into his saddle. You tighten the strap on the holster mounted on his saddle, your repeater at the ready should you need it.

Without a look back, you guide him into the freshly-borne night, at a gallop before you even hit the main road.

-

But alas, breathless riding through Scarlett Meadows can quell your aggravation but so much. As the moon rises in the sky, you slow your gelding down upon the red-dirt path leading into Rhodes - the Parlour House in the distance is lit up, beckoning visitors with its warm glow.

A drink or two. That would certainly help you unwind. 

Laughter and music waft into the warm night as you slide down from your horse, hitching him to the post right outside the main porch. You straighten your skirts before tucking back stray hairs along your temple as you step onto the porch and push your way through the door.

Indeed, the saloon is full of people tonight gaily drinking away their wages. You weave your way through the crowd to the bar, where you order yourself a whiskey from the bartender, tossing him a few coins when he slides the glass to you.

The drink goes down far too quickly to alleviate your frustration. Barely takes the edge off. It’s not the first time you and Arthur have gone at it - but you know, you know you were right. You were robbing stages before Arthur was your bedmate, before you joined the gang. He’s just going to have to learn to give you your space to do your work.

Hell, no one ever told him not to go on a job. Damn double standards.

Though… you can’t lie to yourself too much. There is a corner of your heart that is warmed by the fact he’s concerned for you - that he wants you safe. No one has wanted that for years.

No. You were an outlaw first. And damned if Arthur Morgan makes you some camp filly to warm his bed.

“Why, ma’am, you look like you could use another drink.”

You turn your head toward the man. His cheeks are flushed with drink and the starched collar of his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck. A silken waistcoat. Probably a Gray or a Braithwaite cousin. Pomaded dark hair and a clean-shaven face. All of the trappings of a feckless rich boy who had never seen a hard day’s work in his life. 

Completely the opposite of Arthur. 

You give a smile, leaning on your elbow, “Suppose I could…”

He nods to the bartender immediately, and a glass of whiskey appears in front of you at the bar.

You sip at it slowly as he steps closer, his elbows nearly touching yours. A subtle air of fancy cologne; of bergamot and southern jasmine, wafts off of him as he begins to engage you in conversation. 

One drink turns into two. Turns into three.

The man’s arm wraps around your waist, landing on your hip, pulling you to near sit in his lap on the barstool. “Pretty little thing like you - we don’t get that much here out in Rhodes.”

You lean into him. Who knows where this could lead. Maybe you could have a little fun tonight. Maybe you could rob him after. Maybe he was just what you need to get a certain brooding outlaw out of your system.

“What do you say about headin’ upstairs for the night?” You whisper as you toy with the lapel of his waistcoat. The golden chain of his pocket watch glints under the lanterns. A sly smile creeps across your face.

He can barely contain himself, grinning from ear to ear, and leans in to nip at your jaw. You giggle in response. He helps you slide off of his lap and presses his lips to your ear, whispering things he wants to do to you all night as he squeezes your hip.

“Just you wait here, sweet thing - I’ll get us a room and we can continue on.”

You smile a roguish, knowing grin that betrays your intent as you return to the barstool. The bartender pushes another glass of whiskey in front of you, which you down quickly, sucking air between your teeth as it burns on the way down.

You tense up as you feel a body moving too close behind you, a man with a large frame leaning into the bar behind you, crowding you in.

The tang of tobacco and whiskey wafts into your nose before you’re yanked from your seat.

-

By the time you’ve regained your bearings and your footing as you’ve been dragged out the side door of the Parlour House, you recognize what’s going on.

Just like you recognize that black hat.

“Get off me, Arthur.” You yell but are fairly helpless to do anything but be dragged along the path to the empty stable.

The outlaw gruffly snorts in your direction, his large hand clamped on your upper arm. As you reach the stable, your shoulders slam against the wooden wall of the workroom he had cornered you into.

“Your goddamn mouth - I need to remind you who you belong to.” Arthur hisses, groping roughly at your breast with one hand. The other grasps at your skirts and starts hiking them upward. You’re forced face down on the workbench, Arthur’s hand across your back to hold you down, your bucking unable to move against his strength. You squawk indignantly as your bloomers are yanked down your thighs and puddle near your ankles.

“Sure as fuck, ain’t you-”

The loud smack of skin on skin cuts you off, and you yelp in painful surprise at the sting of his palm on the bare, pale skin of your behind.

“Wanna try again?”

Your ass throbs as he removes his large hand from your skin, but with his other placed down hard against the small of your back, you’re unable to move from where he has you pinned to the table.

“I said, sure as fuck ain’t you-agh!”

You cry out, louder, as he swings again, hitting you square across your rear with a searing smack.

“Honey, ain’t making me happy to do this, but you gotta learn your lesson, and seems like this is the only way to get through that thick head o’ yours.”

You hiss at him, glaring daggers. 

Smack.

“Changed yer mind yet?”

“Fuck you.”

Smack.

After the fifth blow, tears start to leak from your eyes as you clench your fingers on the table. You aren’t going to be able to ride for a week at this rate - your ass is red and hot, but you also can’t deny the moisture accumulating just below, starting to trickle down your inner thigh. Goddamnit.

“You belong to that man you were battin’ your eyes at?” He seethes behind you, and you growl in response, unwilling to give him satisfaction.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

The eighth blow makes you cry out in pain, and Arthur falters. When he removes his hand from your rear, he slides his palm down to trail over your thigh for a moment. He pauses, pulling back up and rubbing his palm over your behind almost tenderly. But you know, you know, that he felt your slick as he swept his fingers across the backs of your thighs.

“Y’ready to stop all this nonsense?” Arthur drawls, softly, slowly, as if he were trying to calm a skittish horse. The circles he’s gently rubbing on your sore ass feel almost pleasant, and you don’t clench your fingers nearly as hard on the edge of the table. Your tears have stopped, leaving a drying trail down your cheeks.

You don’t respond - you can’t - because at that moment, he slips his hand down, down between your thighs to caress your glistening folds, and you gasp in surprised pleasure as he presses his knuckle against your clit. You widen your legs without thinking, giving him more access. 

“Think you are…” he rasps, and gently moves his fingers against you, placing one arm on the table next to you to lean over your frame. His large frame smothers yours, clothed hips brushing against yours gently.

You whine and shiver beneath him. You know you’ve already lost.

“What d’ya need, sweetheart?”

“I-I… agh- I need-” You stumble over your words, your knees shaking as he pushes that finger within your cunt, suckling on your earlobe as he leans further over you. You can feel his thickening cock against the back of your thigh as he gently presses his hips forward against you in time with the strokes of his finger.

Arthur presses a second finger inside you and a needy cry escapes your throat, your hand shooting forward to grab his, forcing your fingers through his free hand. His breath is warm against your ear and he chuckles, curling his fingers as you moan. God, his hands are so big, his fingers filling you so much better than your own.

“F -fuck …” you stutter out, pressing your hips back against his hand, “A-Arthur… I need you.”

The outlaw extricates his hand from between your legs and you whine in dismay at the loss. Strong hands encircle your waist and lift you from where you are laid out on the table, and through no small feat, he turns you and winds his hands under your thighs, guiding you to wrap your legs around his waist, your arms wound around his neck. 

It’s then that you look at him, for maybe the first time all day, caught drowning in the pools of his blue eyes. You can barely feel him stepping forward, carrying you, his hands firm under your thighs, careful not to touch the inflamed skin of your rear.

Your back is pressed against the wooden wall of the barn, but he doesn’t crowd you in at all. He leans in, and uncontrollably, you do too. When your mouths meet, you give a little sigh, opening your lips and permitting him to enter, his tongue pressing against yours as a rumble bubbles up from his chest.

“Shouldn’ta yelled at you,” he breathes against your lips, and as much as you can, you shake your head at him.

“Shouldn’ta run off,” you whisper in between kisses, the wet sounds of lips meeting nearly drowning out your low reply.

“Shouldn’ta hit you.” 

“You know I liked it.” You whisper with the hint of a smile ghosting across your lips.

“Little spitfire, you are.”

Arthur presses his hips forward into yours, and the long, full column of his cock in his pants presses against your bare folds, and you moan and throw your head back, gyrating your hips against him. He swears under his breath, one hand leaving your leg and furiously working the buttons of his fly as he retracts his hips just enough to work his pants open.

It's only a moment more before you feel the hot head of his cock press against your weeping opening, and he presses his lips to yours desperately as he juts his hips forward, greedily swallowing your moan as he quickly pushes himself inside you.

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers interlaced with honeyed locks, and his hand returns to your thigh as he starts to retract his hips and thrusts them upward in a slow rhythm, the wet noise of skin joining loud and stark in the night.

“ ‘M yours, Arthur.” You breathe as your eyes flutter with the slow, languorous rhythm he’s set. He leans in and takes your lips in a passionate kiss as he presses himself deeper within you.

“Was never a question,” he replies with a smirk, as he draws back enough that his forehead still leans against yours as he rolls his hips upward.

You frown slightly, but Arthur leans in for another kiss that steals your breath away. He’s a natural, of course, in the art of stealing. Your breath, your heart. Everything.

“You’re mine, Darlin’,” Arthur whispers against your lips, “You’re mine, ‘nd I’m yours.”

[unparalleledtomes]

Quiet Reverence (18+)

AO3 Link

Pairing: Gale x OC Female Character

Summary: Professor—and Mrs.—Dekarios needs to grade papers, but her husband's intent on torturing her instead.

Warnings: vaginal fingering, inappropriate use of mage hand, smut. minors dni.

Word Count: 719

A/N: hi, everyone. apologies in advance as this is my first bg3 piece and i have no dnd experience. but i fell in love with yappy rizzard and here we are. also, huge shoutout to @lenavis and @verai-marcel for beta reading

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

Gale lifts his middle finger, a flick of his tongue given before he turns the page.

The Blackstaff Academy reading room is all but abandoned at this hour, nothing but the smell of mahogany and thousands of spines aglow with the soft amber of firelight. Mage hands, silent and focused, sort books or drift toward the ceiling to retrieve tomes for yawning students, and Gale watches one soar behind Noa’s head.

She squirms in her seat opposite him, a mess of half-graded papers in front of her. An ink blotch bleeds through the pages from her stilled quill head and she pinches the bridge of her nose with her other hand, every breath a struggle.

He quirks a brow and the quill snaps.

Two fingers of his summoned mage hand curl between her legs, its torturous worship buried beneath her teaching robe. When she glares at him he only wears a smug grin, eyes on her as he flips another page. For a moment the world disappears, her pupils swept to her temple before she exhales and blinks the world back into existence. She bites her lip, barely enough time to catch her breath before he commands the fingers deeper.

She jolts. The chair scrapes across the hardwood and draws attention from a stray apprentice two tables over. She meekly raises a hand in silent apology and he turns back to his book. Her eyes land back on Gale. The bastard softly chuckles into the pages of his tome.

She inhales a deep and choppy breath, glancing over her shoulder as the hand continues its affections. The wrist curls toward her slender body, its heel grinding against her clitoris in tandem with those slow, experienced fingers. Beneath the table Gale runs his boot up the length of her calf, his fingers frozen on an unturned page.

She closes her eyes and mouths, “Stop it.”

He smirks, and turns the page.

She exhales and balls fistfuls of her robe, straightening in her seat with a subtle swirl of her hips, as if to wriggle free from the pleasure between her legs—but with another inhale she opens her eyes to meet the licks of firelight in his, and is undone completely.

The smallest noise spills from her parted lips. Pleasure charges like chain lightning through her veins and she grips the edge of her seat with enough force to splinter it, a crack buried in the sound of her laboured breaths. She can’t help but envision Gale’s skin pressed against hers, their bodies tangled on a bed somewhere as his lips meet the dew on her neck, the gentle sting of teeth on her earlobe when he whispers, “Gods, you’re beautiful.” The fantasy wrings out another release.

He folds the book shut with a puff of satisfied laughter, patiently waiting for her return.

By the time her eyelids flutter open, the reading room is too hot, her robes too itchy, and she curses everyone and everything that forbids her to ravage him. Her eyes flit to his and for a moment they merely watch each other, eyes locked until they trail over every inch of skin the other plans to kiss first.

Neither dare to peel their gaze off the other, or hear the apprehensive footsteps that shuffle toward them. “Mr. and Mrs. Dekarios?”

Noa blinks first, glancing at the halfling with an armful of tomes and a curious look. “Yes?”

“I hate to impose, but we are closing momentarily.”

She glances at the clock hanging above the entryway, its pale face wide as a distant moon and about to strike one a.m. “Of course, our apologies.”

“No need to apologize. I’d just hate to see two of our most revered professors earn a scolding from the librarian.”

She and Gale share a knowing grin and thank the assistant for her warning, allowing her to shuffle back between the bookshelves.

Tomes snap shut around them and wisps of smoke curl from several hanging braziers, the odd one extinguished as if by magic. Noa watches the students who stagger to their feet and make their way through the double doors, her limbs still too rubbery to join them.

Gale rises, reaching out to her with a grin. “Need a hand?”

“...You’re going to pay for this.”

“Gods, I hope so.”

[goodmorgan]

What’s your favorite Arthur smut(s) 👉👈 besides your own of course

Thank you for asking! 💖

Here are some of my recs:

Fics on Tumblr:

Out of Touch by @redemptionbaby

Neighborly Affection series by @verai-marcel

Seven Deadly Sins series by @twola

Loss of virginity by @amorgansgal

Fics on AO3:

The Debt by louderthanbombs

Desire of the Wolf by Talkin_to_a_Lady

The Scenic Route by crispywriter

Please be mindful of each fic's tags and enjoy! :)

[clareguilty]

WIP Whenever

i was tagged by @beaconfeels <3 thankuuuu

Here is a Stetopher project I started an abandoned forever ago but then yesterday decided to flood with my usual whumpiness. No whump in this snippet tho

"Hey you get laid, right?" Stiles asks as he skids to a stop in Peter's living room, huffing and puffing even though he would have had 45 seconds in the elevator on the way up to the 8th floor to catch his breath. Though Peter realizes he'd never heard the ding at the end of the hall and it's entirely possible that Stiles ran up the stairs to let himself into Peter's apartment and ask such an inane question.

Peter doesn't dignify it with a spoken answer, just raises an eyebrow.

"Of course you do," Stiles barrels on, gesturing at Peter with splayed hands. "You're like one of the sexiest guys ever."

Peter is much more willing to engage now that flattery has been thrown into the mix, but he's still skeptical of where Stiles is going with this.

"Anyways," Stiles sinks into the nearest armchair, melting into a pile of gangly limbs and defeated posture, "I need help."

Both of Peter's eyebrow are raised now, because Stiles' last three statements together sure do sound like a proposition. He allows himself a brief moment to consider it.

The moment is interrupted when Chris wanders back in from the bedroom, finally dressed for the day at eleven am. It's Saturday, and they’d risen late.

"Oh good!" Stiles seems unfazed by his presence or the fact that he just walked out of Peter's bedroom. "You're here too. You can help."

"Hello, Stiles," Chris greets calmly. He doesn't show his confusion, but he does shoot a quizzical glance at Peter. The sudden, unannounced arrival isn't unusual for Stiles - he's shown up at Chris' house at odd hours with odder questions - but it's impressive how quickly he's made himself at home.

"Let me guess," Peter finally speaks up. "You struck out at the club last night. And after feeling sorry for yourself all morning over breakfast, you had the wonderful idea to come to me for advice."

Tagging @takaraphoenix @thetwnsweets @demialwrites @verai-marcel @gaqalesqua (show me what ur working on!)

[reddeaddufus]

WIP Teaser

I can't remember the last time I posted on here - but when @redwritr tags you, you step up. ❤️ @verai-marcel, your turn.

No smut, but here's our courageous heroine getting the shit beaten out of her by a goose.

Photo credit to the talented @saiyan-druid-art

There was a hysteric edge to Nathalie’s responding bark of a laugh. “And you need him back because..?” Voice strained, she began to advance. The water slipped to her groin. 

“Because he’s our guard goose,” The girl replied caustically. 

Nathalie stopped. “So he’s aggressive?”

“No, keep going.”

The bird took a stalking, perilous step closer. 

The water dropped an inch. Nathalie took another step, then two more. The bird’s hiss was a low constant. The water fell to her knees, sloshing loudly at every stride. It was at mid-calf when Maurice reached her. 

In a blur of wings and with a horrible trumpeting, Maurice launched himself directly at her face. 

Nathalie screamed bloody murder. A dense, wet body slammed into her chest. Powerful wings walloped her arms and back. In one, terrible second she saw the eyes of the thing, merciless and glacier blue, as the bird struck at her chin. 

He missed, and the first strike yanked at the tender skin of Nathalie’s neck before a lucky flail of her arm ripped him free. She toppled backwards in a smear of orange, white, and surging pond scum and flailed in abject terror.  

The splash of cold water soaking her ass was nothing to the vision of Maurice tunneling in. Louder even than the sound of her own screaming was a horrible clang of throaty, infuriated honks. Scuttling backwards with a ringing skull left her as vulnerable as a child. The bright orange bill struck like a snake and Maurice connected successfully with her jaw. The blaring screech of him rattled through her bones as he whipped his skull back and forth. When she could breath the strange, sour musk of wet waterfowl was suffocating. 

“Grab the neck!” The girl hollered. 

Sobbing, Nathalie kicked blindly. Something connected, and the blinding pinch on the square of her jaw ripped free. She scrambled to her feet just in time for Maurice’s return. 

Time froze. Second by second, her field of view narrowed into a slow, glaring burst of detail. A red haze was her only obscuration from the glint of light off of the needle-like projections lining Maurice’s beak. Hell was a clammy, barbed tongue and the black pit of an esophagus. With horrific suspense it began to descend towards her face. Terror was forever going to taste like moldering down. 

Just below the bird’s head, a gap began to open for Nathalie’s arm between beating wings. Nathalie took the chance and struck.

The world hurtled back into blurring speed. A desperate scream ripped through the air as her hand slammed into the bird’s throat. Maurice’s eyes bulged. She could feel the vibration of his honk as it blared out of the incensed bird’s throat. Gasping, Nathalie swung the goose away from her body and well out of range from her skin. Orange legs thrashed and flailed as he continued to buffet her body with his wings.

[vixstarria]

Last Sentence Challenge

I was tagged by @verai-marcel

Last sentence you wrote in a fic, count the number of words in the sentence, and tag that many people - go.

Mine is "I think I've earned a reward." - I think I can get away with 5.

P.S. More smut soon.

Tags: @spacebarbarianweird @littlejuicebox @opensorcerygames @emraev1212 @ineadhyn

[shootybangbang]

WIP Tag

Tagged by @verai-marcel, @redwritr, and @readingcoco to share a line from a WIP-- thank you guys for sharing your own work! Here's a humble contribution from the upcoming Talking Bird chapter:

------

Three years ago, the streetlamp beneath Yulong’s bedroom window had still been cracked. The glow it cast had stretched a spiderwebbed shadow of fragmented glass across your bare back as you laid over his sheets. Shifting grid of black and gold, with a dark eyed girl caught in its strands. 

《Cheating bastard,》 you seethed.

《C’mon, Lee. We talked about this. 》

《I don’t care.》

《Told you before we ever got involved that I was gonna keep sleepin’ around. And that you were free to do the same. 》

《You fucked the baker’s wife.》

《And you said you weren’t the jealous type.》

《… you fucked the baker too, I was told.》

Yulong’s lip curled. He looked away, clenched his jaw to keep stifled the wince that twitched through the muscles of his face and neck. 《You know what I am. Told you that, too. Remember?》

[wintersongstress]

Hello friends, it’s that time of year again ♥ I want to thank some of you for still reblogging my occasional gif sets and leaving sweet comments, for creating your own art and sharing it for the joy of others, and just for the sense of friendliness that oozes from your familiar icons. You are all such a delight to follow and I’m super grateful to be able to come onto this site and interact with you. It makes me smile and warms my heart, and I wanted to take a moment to give a shout out to my favorites. You deserve to know that your presence in talking about and sharing the things you like is valuable. Thank you all for being so wonderful. 

Happy New Year and best wishes! 🤗💖🎉🎊 

a-d: @actuallyhansolo 🤍 // @ammihan 🤍 // @apocalypsekid //  @theashenphoenix 🤍 // @ayrennaranaaldmeri // @bonniemacfarlane // @boozerman // @dicax-asina

e-k: @fettboba // @foundynnel  // @galerion // @thegunslingerstragedy 🤍 // @halfwayriight // @the-halo-of-my-memory 🤍 // @hereticstations // // @hoovesmadeofsteel​ // @in-darker-dreams​ // @itspapillonnoir 🤍 // @jacobseed // @kazanyamaokas // 

l-o: @littlestarofthewest // @liurnia // @mary-marion // @miss--river 🤍 // @miyku // @nocticulas // @nonewingedangel // @onewingedangels  🤍

p-s:  @pagonyban 🤍 // @prairiemule // @preciousgyro  🤍 // @raccoonscity // @rivetingrosie4 🤍 // @rxkuyo // @a-shakespearean-in-paris 🤍 // @shallow-gravy 🤍 // @shandrias // @sillygamingartghost // @snowthroat // @stedebonnets 🤍 // @sternbagel 🤍 // @stonemasons // @sweeetestcurse​ 

t-z:  @tendersugarr // @tobiasrieper  🤍  // @traceylader // @ugh-my-back  // @vault21 🤍 // @verai-marcel // @vindicia  🤍

[koalamuffin]

Q&A tag game

I was tagged by @brain-rot-central. I’m tagging @verai-marcel and @luna-in-disguise. No pressure, of course loves.

Last Song: Flicker by Poppy (but I’ve also been obsessed recently with Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan)

Favorite Color: Pink 💖 (I’m such a pink bitch, no shame.)

Currently Watching: So I don’t really watch tv. I watch like a lot of YouTube, like a lot a lot. So I’m currently watching Neil Newbon’s latest VOD playing BG3. But if we’re talking tv, Yuri On Ice is on my list.

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Yes? I like them all except that when it comes to sweets, I prefer to drink sweet drinks instead of eating sweet things.

Relationship Status: Single

Current Obsession: Still after all these months, Astarion. You wouldn’t be able to tell from my second page (@koalamuffin01) since I haven’t posted in a hot minute, but I’m just struggling with writing, not my love for the character lol. I still read fics everyday, all the time, it’s literally almost the only thing I do.

Last Thing I Googled: “[My area] Animal Control” There were a couple of dogs running around my apartment complex without tags and I had to get to work, so I couldn’t help. I called so hopefully someone would go out there and help the poor babies. I live near a highway so I was worried about them getting hit.

[twola]

do you have any other red dead fic writers you would recommend? Tbh since you are such an amazing author yourself I’d trust your sources without question!! <3

Oh goodness - there is such a plethora of amazing rdr writers out there that are so much more talented than I am! These are some of the ones I am subscribed to and eat up everything they post 🤠

@redwritr / Doc_Friday on ao3

@shootybangbang / peonylanterns on ao3

@reddeaddufus / RedDeadDoofus on ao3

@verai-marcel / Verai on a03

@cheesewedge / Cheesewedge on ao3

@serawritesthings / serawritesthings on ao3

@cowboydisaster / cowboydistaster on ao3

@margowritesthings / margofiore on ao3

@ghoulishly-yours / ghoulishly_yours on ao3

[lusus--naturae]

@illithiad @verai-marcel

If this guy gave you an astral tadpole, would you eat it?

[clareguilty]

Last Line Tag Game!

I was tagged by @kordyceps who is also in Steter hell with me 💖🥰💖🥰

My last line is from a BDSM Stetopher fic I'm working on:

A blindfold, rarely used, was folded next to their softest, gentlest paddle and a spool of silky rope. Stiles was the only one of the three of them that could handle ropes, and even then he usually preferred the padded set of cuffs.

Tagging @ivymarquis @gaeadene @moonlit-jellies @verai-marcel and (knocking on a stranger's door here) @darkisrising

No pressure but i'd love to see what ur working on 💖

[playstationmademe]

Kaleb Aren (SW)

Leliana Knight (RDO)

Tagged by @simonxriley to try this cute picrew, thank you!! 💜💜 Just two of my babies this time, they've been on my mind heaps lately 💜💜

Tagging @florbelles @teamhawkeye @nightwingshero @unholymilf @writingandsins @cybersmallz and @verai-marcel to try if you want to! 💜💜

[mel-0n-earth]

@mythrae tagged me in the last sentence challenge, so here is the last sentence I wrote:

I was lucky to walk out of that temple with my mortal coil intact.

[It's for little a gortash x durge thing that I've been picking at]

So that's 14 words which means I need to tag 14 other writers, but I don't follow many here so I didn't quite make that number. A few here aren't mutuals, hope that's okay:

@verai-marcel @darethshirl @textsfromthefifthbasement @bluerose5 @fergus-cousland @dreadfutures @cheeseandstrawberrytartlover @oxygenforthewicked @indeath-sacrifice @fuzzyizmit @imfoldingstuff-andthatsok