hi friends, i’m bunny. below is some info about who i am, and what I like to write about !
♱ im in north america, and i am an artist & aspiring writer. this is mostly for fun! but i do post short horror stories on other forums. come say hi! (unless you are a minor. 🥲)
♱ requests are… ! OPEN ! ask away !
༺♱༻✧ ˚ ༺♱༻ ˚ ✧༺♱༻✧ ˚ ༺♱༻ ˚ ✧༺♱༻
♱ what i WILL write ;
AOT, JJK, RDR2, TLOU, MCU
I’m pretty flexible in terms of media, but I won’t write about a character I don’t know well. I tend to lean towards smut but fluff and just good ol’ fashioned fiction are welcome here. If you’re not sure, please ask!
♱ what i WON’T write ;
I will not write for any fandom that’s fan base is majority children. IE; Steven Universe, Adventure Time, Owl House, AATLA, ETC.. but if you’re not sure, please ask.
{ Summer Wine } Outlaw ! Arthur Morgan x Highway Robber! Reader
⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘
⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘
Summary; Based off of Nancy Sinatra’s song’ Summer Wine’, a rugged, weary, low-honor Arthur cozies up with you, at a cabin.. but Arthur soon realizes things aren’t quite what they seem..
WC; 2.3k
Tags & CW: nsfw/18+, Arthur Morgan’s POV, Journal Entry, Violence, Blood, Mentions of drinking/ getting Arthur drunk, Arthur brings a gun to a knife fight, enemies to lovers, whole house mad, reader uses she/they, reader & Arthur physically fight & you whoop that ass.
A/N; this one has marinated in notesapp for a while.. shall i post the associated playlist for the fic? O_O; eek !
enjoy !
- b.b
⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘
⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘
June 14th, 18XX
Now, I’ve titled this accursed tale with the intent of it bein’ a nod to an especially cunning character, and a particularly rotten drink that I pray to never, ever, sip upon again.
This tale begins some months back while I was making my way through El Paso. I was real beat up, courtesy of some gutless dolts who’d bushwhacked me—- a couple a days prior. Prized, goddamn idiots.
Anyway, I figured I deserved a warm bed and a strong drink, maybe someone pretty to bandage me up. I’d planned to get me some well-earned rest— but hell, I wish I’d slept that night.
I found myself at a saloon called ‘The Silver Stallion.’ Psh, more like the ‘Rusty Nag’. I tied my horse up on a hitching pole, kicked the dust off my boots and went inside. Fat plumes of cigar smoke bubbled round a lazy, creaking fan. The man smoking it stood behind the bar, scraping foam from a beer. “Hey Mister!” My voice rattled in my throat. “Y’all closing soon?” “No sir.” The cigar-man said. Well ain’t that grand. I thought. I ordered a whiskey and limped over to one of the tables while I waited. It felt good to sit. I was dead tired. Every inch of paint in that place was peelin’, probably on it’s way to rot. A few thin candles sat atop rickety chandeliers, dripping wax onto the floorboards.
Mysterious… stains in some spots, grease in others. Wasn’t much to look at, til’ there was. Boy, were they pretty. Plump and soft-lookin’…. big doe eyes and a neck— long like a swan’s. The barmaid came over with drink in hand and I thought Salvation. “Sorry ‘bout the wait. It’s a quarter for the gill of whiskey.” They said. “Keep a tab open instead, will ya?” I replied. It felt good to wash the trail dust off my gullet. I finished my drink and had another. I was thoroughly sated; in one sense, at least. It ain’t help much neither when that little bar-whatever came back with the bottle, and all that body, bouncin’ and bubbly and so chatty. “Some fine spurs you got on.” They hummed, taking the glass.
“‘preciate it.’” A grunt.
“Real fine.” I stopped then, lookin’ at em. “They ain’t for sale.” I grumbled. “I’m not lookin’ to buy ‘em. Just makin’ small talk.” She giggled.
“Well I’m not lookin’ to talk much tonight, alright?” At that, they huffed and glared at me. “Suit yourself you old battle-axe.” They muttered, and walked off.
I admit I choked. Old? Little brat. I’m gettin a little long in the tooth, sure— but OLD?
They stifled a laugh from behind the counter, cleaning dishes and.. I could only be so angry at such a creature. Maybe it was the liquor, but boy, were those teeth just awful pretty.
Pretty teeth, pretty eyes, real pretty face. A bit ornery, but I don’t mind. There are worser ways to be.
I’d been starin’ at nothing but sand and rock for weeks. It was nice to look at somethin’… nice, for once. When they returned with the tab, they asked— “What brings you to town anyway, Mister?”
“I’m just passing along.”
“Goin where?” They queried, wiping the table with a rag.
“Nosey one, aint’cha??? You always chat up strangers?” I crooned my neck, watching them & they shrugged.
“Just makin small talk.”
“You oughta be more careful.” I said.
“You’re the one limpin around by your lonesome. Easy pickin’s I say.”
“That so?” I chuckled, amused.
“Uh-huh.” “I appreciate the concern, but I can handle myself juuust fine, don’t you worry.” I paid my tab and left the Saloon, on the hunt for an Inn.
Word must’ve got around that a stranger was in town, cos’ alll of the sudden I started getting charged ‘stranger prices.’ You ever heard of $5 for a room? I figured I’d just hunker down and camp…..again but, to my surprise I saw the barmaid, locking up shop at the ‘Silver Stallion.’ They was walking home from their shift, I figured.
I rode up and they greeted me with a smile. “What are you doin’ out so late still?” They asked.
“Lookin’ for a place to stay, you know one that’s gonna charge me fair?”
They nodded their head. “Come stay at mine. My Pa’s farmhouse is just outside of town.”
Damn it all to hell. I admit I was a bit shocked. Stayin’ in an inn was one thing but at a strangers house? The invitation left me weary if anything, but— at the same time.. I was curious. “What sorta business do you have invitin’ strangers into your home?” “I was raised to be hospitable. Besides, you’re probably the least scary fella I’ve seen wander in here.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you’re just invitin’ me to stay for free?”
“Well, my Pa won’t be back til tomorrow night, and I’d feel safer with company. You keep me safe, and I’ll feed and host you for the night.” It seemed a reasonable offer as any. I’d be their muscle for the price of a warm bed. It wasn’t like I had many options, and I didn’t wanna be roughin’ it on the prairie with busted ribs so, I agreed. They seemed harmless enough. They climbed up on my horse, and we rode a half-mile outta town. They sat in front and gave directions, and I followed without a word.
It wasn’t long before at last, we’d arrived. I was grateful, really. For most of the ride, their thick backside was bumpin’ against my belt-buckle, eliciting a… pulsing discomfort in my nethers. I will not elaborate further. I hopped off of my horse and readjusted myself real sly like, and they led me through the brush and up the hill.
I walked behind as I was led to the stable, where I put up Boadicea and fed ‘er some oatcakes. I had a short tour of what I assumed was their family’s property.
It was a small farm- I figured they were in the business of raising livestock, as the land surrounding it was barren and without crops. A barn sat nearby, locked up— and I could hear the soft braying of sheep. “What’s your name anyway?”They queried, peering over their shoulder as they walked. “Morgan.” I answered. “Your Christian name.” They insisted. I swallowed thickly. “Arthur. Arthur Morgan.” “I’m (Y/N.)”
I didn’t reply.
We entered the farmhouse, and it was just about as ramshackle as you’d expect. Dusty furniture ate up by moths— and all manner of scuffing and scratches on the floor throughout. There was a pair of men’s’ boots by the front door. Their Pa’s? Maybe ? I was sat down, and they cooked some stew for us.
It was a meager portion but I was grateful nonetheless. They’d cut up some onions and salt pork and emptied out a few cans of beans into a big ol’ brass pot. I waited, they cooked, and we ate our fill.
When we were full up, they ran off and.. returned with two glasses and a jug— filled with a mysterious, ruby-colored liquid. “You opposed to a nightcap?” (Y/N) asked.
“I don’t see why not.” I replied. I’d never thought of myself as a lush much but— the liquor was acting as a sort of medicine for the pain in my ribs, and I was eager for another fix.
I admit, I’d let my guard down at this point.
(Y/N) sat in the rickety chair across from me, and undid the cork with a ‘POP!’ Our drinks were poured, and when they passed the glass, I took a sniff.
Phew, that was liquor alright.
The look on my face must’ve been real ugly, they couldn’t help but snicker.
“The hell is that?” I asked, inspecting the glass wearily.
“I call it ‘Summer Wine.” (Y/N) chimed.
“I’ve had my fair share of wine, kid. I know it when I see it. This here is… is a damned potion for all I know.”
“Well if you must know, the secret ingredient is an angel’s kiss in Spring.” They purred.
(Y/N’s) florid words did nothin but make me laugh. Liquor is liquor, I figured, and against my better judgment, I knocked back the entire thing.
Hell’s fire! I sputtered and coughed, and stamped my foot with all my might- rocking in my chair.
“CHRIST!” I hissed, shaking my head wildly. “You like it?” They queried, taking only a sip.
“I ain’t partial- *cough* to wine, much. But hell, if that don’t put some hair on your chest I dunno what would.”
“What happened to you anyway?” They asked suddenly, sat across from me and sipping the potion.
I scoffed. “Got licked. That’s what.”
“You’re an outlaw.” (Y/N) stated. I s’pose it was obvious and so— I didn’t honor them with a reply. They continued— “I don’t gotta worry about someone coming here, looking for ya— Do I?” She raised an eyebrow.
I took another loooong sip.
“No. You don’t.” My words hung in the air like a noose. There was a shared knowing between the two of us I think— I don’t leave witnesses.
It wasn’t long ‘fore my eyes grew heavy. I struggled makin’ words, but they poured me another… and moved closer— who am I to turn down a drink from such a creature? I remember them rubbing on my chest— laughing at my jokes. So I had another, and another. Wasn’t long before I was drunker than a Virginia fence, and they kept pourin. another…
and another…. and another………..
and before I knew it, I blacked out.
I cannot recall what had happened afterward, but I got a pretty good idea when I’d come to. I had awoken with a god-awful headache. The room was spinning. When I had finally gotten myself upright, I’d noticed an unusual lightness to my body. Outta habit, I went for my gun but, It wasn’t in it’s holster. Matter o’ fact.. my fuckin holster was gone. My bandolier, my satchel, my boots, my poncho…Everything, right down to my silver spurs was gone, nabbed! That schemin, lyin’ brat had robbed me blind. I was ‘bout ready to curse that little shit to kingdom come, but it seemed Lady Luck was on my side. I heard somethin’ then, somewhere in that house. They were still here. Silent as could be, I crept down the hallway towards the sound. I peered ‘round the corner and saw them, crouched over while rummaging through my shit with a lantern at their back. I saw the glint of steel in the firelight, my pistol was on the floor behind them. Idiot. I thought. They didn’t notice me, and they sure as hell didn’t see that I’d grabbed my gun from behind them, til-
CLICK.
I had the barrel flush against the back of their head, with my finger itching for the trigger.
“Lookin’ for somethin’?” I said and they froze, silent as the grave. “Hands up, now.” They hesitated. “Do it. Or I pump your skull full of lead.” I hissed.
Trembling, they raised their hands, worn with work and calloused. I went bolt upright, doing my best not to stumble.
“D-Dont shoot. I’m listening alright??“ She quavered.
“Maybe I oughta, turn around.” I ordered.
They obeyed, and faced me— steely eyed and wild looking. I thumbed the hammer expecting to rile them but they were calmer than you’d expect. Snake eyes bore at me, watching— or glaring more like.
That’s somethin you don’t see every day.
“Like a stone cold killer you are— I take it this isn’t your first time.”
They shook their head, slowly. Just my luck.
“You’re awake.” (Y/N) began. “ I dunno how.. you was drunker than a fish..” They said, staring.
“I’ve probably been drinking longer than you been alive, kid.” I’d never felt so dizzy.
“I’m in my twenties.” They hissed.
“Hah! You got more guts than sense, you know that? Fuckin’ thief… Is this even your house?”
Like lightning they jabbed at me then— and with what I didn’t know. I lurched aside and a blade sliced my cheek and I felt it split like ripe fruit. Startled, I’d squeezed my fist and a—
BANG!
went off. Darkness enveloped us. I’d fired at the lantern. “Damn!” I cursed. We scrambled over eachother in the dark and in the madness they knocked the gun from my hands. The blade she was clutching sliced at my chest wildly and then my palms. I grabbed her knife and it cut down into my fingers— I wrenched it from her hands, and kicked them off— into the metal frame of a shaggy bed behind ‘em
A dull THUD, their shriek of pain rang in my ears. With bloodied fingers I felt around in the darkness, Get your gun, get your gun..
Only to be interrupted when her booted-foot kicked twice at my head, and again in my throat. I fell on my back wheezing— when I heard the heavy thud of running feet, dashing past me and out the front door.
Finally I felt cool steel. I grabbed for my pistol, and pounced out of the bedroom, after the little shit.
“GET BACK HERE!” I hacked, voice hoarse from her kick.
“Eat fucking shit!” they screamed back.
I heard whinnying— and a the gallop of hooves. By the time I burst out the front door, (Y/N) was riding off into the desert on Boadicea.
Away from the cabin and fast. She ran off. Away with my silver spurs, my satchel at her side, and with every penny to my name and laughing— all the while.
And strangely, In all my misery— all my rage— all I could think of was how thirsty I felt, and how badly I was craving her Summer Wine.
Werewolf! Wolverine/ Logan Howlett x Lamb-Herder, Reader 🐑
༺♱༻✧ ˚ ༺♱༻ ˚ ✧༺♱༻ ༺♱༻✧ ˚ ༺♱༻
༺♱༻✧ ˚ ༺♱༻ ˚ ✧༺♱༻ ༺♱༻✧ ˚ ༺♱༻ ˚
Summary: A little Shepherd realizes she’s a few sheep short. She goes out into the woods to hunt for the big bad wolf that might’ve taken them and well?— He’s big alright. (Chasing scene included.)
Tags & CW: nsfw/18+, MCU AU, MEDIEVAL AU??, Werewolf! Logan, Monsterf*cking, LOGAN CHASES U THROUGH THE WOODS, coercion, Unprotected p-in-v, breeding kink, overstimulation, rough sex, 🪢-ing, tw for descriptions of slight blood & gore that is sheep related.
WC: 2.5k
A/N: first post, hii. this came 2 me after watching Van Helsing .. Pls enjoy muuuahh !~
- xoxo
B.B
༺♱༻✧ ˚ ༺♱༻ ˚ ✧༺♱༻ ༺♱༻✧ ˚ ༺♱༻ ˚
There it was again, that familiar.. euphoric rush. It coursed through every icy vein in Logan’s body, bubbling in his chest as if it were booze.
Blood, the very taste of it had left him in a drunken state, eerily still as he rode that blissful high.
He stood there, chest to the sky and head crooned back in visible ecstasy— his maw wet with crimson. Logan had just slain a lamb- a few lambs, actually.
Their emaciated corpses lay strewn and sliced, scattered here and there across the forest floor. Gore painted his twitching arms and the wet grass beneath him.
Poor, poor lambs.
They’d foolishly wandered from their pen, away from their shepherd, away from you. And you in all your goodness, went out to look for them. You’d known your lambs since they were stumbling babes. You delighted in the way they sniffed at the sweet grass, in how their sparkling eyes gazed up at you. They were so sweet, so gentle, but so foolish.
It wasn’t long before you’d realized some were missing. During evening count back at the pasture, your heart sunk when you noticed you were short four lambs.
With haste you nudged the remaining lambs into their pen, and went barreling into the woods, lantern in one hand- and shotgun in the other.
Worry soon set in alongside the bitter cold. You rested your hand flat against your chest, in an attempt to soothe the ache that had settled there. Oh, the dread.. the worry… “Where have you all gone?…” You whispered to yourself. It was then that a gust of wind came, making the old oaks groan and sway. It startled you— and the brutal chill cut at your cheeks, eliciting a hiss from your lips. In a flurry, you wound your cloak tight, and turned away from the wind before trudging on.
Unbeknownst to you, at that very moment, your scent stretched faaaaaar across the sky…..
Logan’s nose twitched.
‘Somethin’ sweet?...’ He mumbled. An intoxicating perfume had carried on the wind. It stirred something within him— a voracious hunger that made the fur along his back bristle.
Now, Logan was no glutton— and although he’d had his fill of carnage— that little whiff was enough to snap him out of his potent high, leaving him starved for more… more…more…
Something juicy, and pulsing with red, hot blood was someplace, somewhere in these woods. Where are you? He thought. Another sniff.
Mmm.. it was somethin’ like fresh cream… Logan could practically taste you, and you rolled around so nicely on his tongue.
A few sniffs, he tried to pinpoint just exactly where you were and then—
Gotcha.
The beast ran off. He glided through the woods, following the trail you’d so willingly left in your stead. You’d worked up quite a sweat in all your searching, and Logan reveled in that enchanted aroma. Was he drooling?
Meanwhile you were up against a tree, only a few miles away. You needed to recoup, to think.. come on.. think !
Your eyes flittered up to the moon, and you could feel yourself biting back tears. Aloud, you mewled—
“I don’t understand. I’ve seen no tracks… and it’s been so quiet. Nothing— how is there nothing left of them?” Exhausted, you slid down into the grass, chest heaving as you readied a cry when— a sound. A distant SNAP interrupted your wallowing, and you went bolt upright.
On instinct, you went for your gun.
One finger on the trigger, and the other clutching the fore-end. The butt of your shotgun went flush against your rib, just beneath your chest. You slowly scanned the treeline with bated breath. Watching. Waiting.
The distant coo of a mourning dove made you flinch.
Where are you?… you thought.
What felt like breath tickled the back of your neck & you could’ve sworn your spine turned to jelly. Fast as polished steel, you turned on your heel and cocked your gun— but before you could squeeze the trigger, the shotgun was yanked from your hands and cast aside.
With a pitiful cry, you fell backward into the earth. That thing lumbered over and when it came near, it brought with it the stench of blood.
Cold, steely eyes peered down from a goliath of a shadow. It loomed over your trembling form and in an instant you were cloaked in darkness, shielded from the buttery glow of the Full Moon.
Terror soaked your insides— you didn’t even dare to breathe.
In desperation you pawed backwards through the mud in an attempt to get away- to— It lurched forward, and you slammed your eyes shut, jerking your head away as you prepared for the bitter sting of death when…..
It sniffed you?
“Thought I forgot one.. ” The beast rumbled.
Its baritone voice tickled your eardrum, and when its hot breath fanned across your cheek, a shudder needled your spine. Shaking, you kept your eyes shut tight til you felt it’s heat pull away.
Only then did you force your eyes open, to gaze at it in the moonlight. The beast was revealed right before your very eyes— and your stomach felt full of lead.
Werewolf..
You’d only heard stories.. but to see one in the flesh shook your very spirit. The beast stood a little over seven feet tall, and every inch of his hulking form was carved with muscle. He was human mostly, but the rest of him was that of a beast.
Long, pointed ears, and an abnormal amount of hair or fur?— on the monoliths you might’ve called legs. Massive paws.. hands? and between each knuckle a bloodstained claw.
Your heart broke a little when you saw some wool snagged on one of blades.
“I should’ve assumed it was somethin’ else…”The beast continued. You could’ve sworn you saw him lap at the air. “S’ too good.. That smell.” He was looking you over now. You were ovulating, and he could smell it.
“That smell…’s drivin’ me crazy.” A vein bulged in his neck and his head twitched.
You were certain. He was going to eat you, tear you to shreds like he did your lambs.
He sniffed again suddenly, as if he noticed something. You flinched.
“What’s that? No way, you’re in heat too?” He muttered.
In ‘heat?’ Huh?
He circled you, studying you as if you were some sort of specimen. You mustered up the courage to speak,
“You.. You killed my lambs.”
“Yeah, but… that smell.” He said. “That ain’t just sweat.” Desperate to feign bravery, and blind to his true intentions, you pressed him further.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I know I should gut you for what you did to my—“
“You won’t do shit shepherd.”
His tone frightened you. You felt small again.
Logan took another greedy inhale. His chest puffed out, his eyes fluttered into his skull. The aroma that oozed from your cunt had his head spinning like a fucking top. How in the world were you this oblivious? This stupid? Logan couldn’t believe how lucky he was.
“But if you know what’s good for ya.. you’ll run.”
Naturally, you did as you were told. You took flight— running as hard, and as fast as your legs would let you.
He didn’t chase right away and you assumed he’d given you a head start.. how cocky.. how cruel.
Horror sucked the air from your lungs when you finally heard his pounding footsteps. A panorama of the twisted wood whirled past as you went. Grass whipped at your ankles as you wove between the trees.
You choked out a scream as his cruel taunts rang out while he chased behind you, nearing you and then falling behind, as if he was teasing you.
‘I can get you.. anytime I like..’ He seemed to say.
Logan reveled in your fear, laughing banefully when your cape snagged and tore on a nearby branch, making you stumble with a squeal. Doped up on adrenaline, you barely hesitated before tearing it away and fleeing, crying as he neared you.
Fear had gnawed away what stamina you had left, and it wasn’t long before you fell— and hard. A gnarled root that jutted from the ground caught you off guard and you went crashing into the earth.
It was only a few seconds before Logan came, panting and lacquered to a shine with sweat.
“Whew, talk about haulin’ ass.” He huffed out. “Almost lost ya there for a second.” He said, kneeling down to where you lay.
“Please, let me go. Don’t eat me— okay??? I— I’ll make you sick if you eat me.” You cried, covering your head with your hands.
“I swear if you let me go I’ll never come into these woods ever again.” You pleaded.
Blubbering and bargaining for your life, Logan watched, amused. “You think I’m gonna eat ya?” He laughed. And your head rose, frozen— If he didn’t want to eat you.. What did he want with you?
“But you?? I thought—?“
“How’s this, shepherd—“ He spat the title as if it were venom. “You let me blow off some steam, and I let you go. Easy.”
His words settled in your mind. What could he mean? ‘Blow off some steam?’…
Oh.
You scoffed at first. You thought to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it, at the utter gall.
“C’mon, bub. Lemme sate both our appetites, yeah?” He grinned.
“I’m plenty sated.” You cut. “No. You’re not.” He kneeled down and crawled over to you. “I can smell you’re not.”
Could he actually fucking SMELL your bluff?? Sure you’d had poor luck in dating but…. Christ !
His eyes locked on to your groin, and you swallowed thickly. He snaked himself closer and closer before diving in— nose first, right into the crotch of your panties. You watched in surprise as his arms coiled ‘round the underside of your thighs and held you in place while he kissed, and licked on the dampness there, reveling in your scent with a groan.
It was almost too much, him rutting into the earth, the heat of his maw against your most private parts. It turned your tummy to knots and to your utter despair, had your cunt throbbing against his tongue.
He’d soon rutted the pants off himself, whimpering like a dog all the while— and when the beast straightened, you saw what bobbed between his legs. Thick as your forearm and ending just below his belly button.
A fat, petal pink tip that faded to a fine bronze, and at the base, thick locks of chocolate brown hair.
If that ended at HIS belly button.. Where in God’s name would it go inside you?…
“I don’t… there’s no way.” You droned, staring at that bobbing, throbbing, thing. His absurd size would’ve split you in half, no doubt.
“Ohh.. c’mon. You gotta let me try at least, Please?” he cooed, his glowing eyes like embers.
Logan rutted against your flesh desperately begging “Please baby, Please… Lemme in, yeah?”
“It’ll make you feel so good baby, you’ll see.” He cooed, humping your sticky heat teasingly.
Dumbly, and with eyes that might as well of had hearts in them— you looked up and nodded. “Uhuh..”
Breathlessly, he palmed his dick and eaaased on in. “That’s it.” he rasped, watching without blinking as he sunk into you. He was only halfway in before you were pawing at his torso. “Ssloowdown—“ you mewled.
Your jaw went slack when he finally bottomed out and the stretch left you dumbfounded.
Logan bucked into you on impulse. How couldn’t he? You felt like a dream— He had to have more— every little bit of you and then some.
His strokes were slow at first, but it was hard to resist with how wet you were. So fuckin’ messy—~ He whimpered. Soon enough his pace grew greedy and pointed. Clearly he was on a mission to leave you limping,
“Mine, Mine, Mine,…”
He foamed, and at the base of his cock, a gelatinous, creamy ring had formed, crowning his knot.
The squelches of your syrupy pussy mingled with the wet clapping of skin and your pleading cries for more.. more.. more..
With every stroke he wound that ever-winding ball of ecstasy tighter and tighter til you were dizzy. You’d never felt so full. His hands retreated to your hips, “Wanna.. give ya all of me, baby. Can you take that?” he hissed between kisses against your neck and nipping at your earlobe a little too hard.
Logan clawed at your hips for purchase as he worked the bulging knot beyond the sore folds of your pussy.
“Tooo m-much..!” You babbled.
His head crooned backward. He was drooling again— “Maybe next time you won’t go into the fuckin’ woods alone, yeah??”
“MmN—h!~..soo-OorRyyY—”
You wailed, overwhelmed with pleasure.
“Oughta put a pup in ya.” He ground into you then, a shaky laugh rumbling in his chest as his fingertips reached for the slight bulge beneath your belly button before diving for your neglected clit.
A pitiful “Oh” dribbled from your lips as he swatted at the tender nub, rubbing circles there til’ you were weeping.
“Or two.. hell— maybe a whole litter?”
Logan drew his hips back, the ridges in his thighs taut like bowstring before drilling right back into you again, and again, and again— til he was pounding your cervix to what felt like mush. “Rrright there… hh..ouh.. Pplease..” You begged.
That little ball of pleasure might as well of been a pit, the way you were disappearing-- melting into him, fucking him right back til you were cumming on his cock with a cry. “Atta girl..”
He cooed, fucking you still and the aftershocks were sweet, sweet punishment.
God, he’s swimming in it. Your pretty little pussys’ got spring like its elastic, and when Logan notices you starting to fade away he pulls back, bottoming out of you with the sort of wet POP you’d hear in a brothel.
“I wanna see you..” You babbled, and of course he obliged, flipping you on your back and folding your knees to where they were touching your ears.
You might as well or been on another planet, and with the intent to bring you back to Earth, Logan slapped the heavy crown of his penis against your abused clit and your brain went static.
He rubbed himself on your abused nub before sinking into you once more. You could feel he was close— the way he twitched inside of you.
“Mnh.. G-Gonna cum— Sugar.” He panted against your ear, kissing hungrily at your neck. Your arm wrapped ‘round his neck and pulled him close, you whispered against his cheek.
“Inside.. inside p-please—“ You yelped.
“Yeah?? Man i’m lucky.. hah.. Fuck..” He hissed.
“Pussystoofuckinngnggood.. fuck..” He babbled, gritting his pointed teeth.
Logan’s thrusts grew sloppy— you could hear the loud ‘POP’ every time his knot dribbled in and out of your sticky folds, eliciting a shriek from
you when he brushed past an especially abused bit of nerves. His large, barrel arms wrapped around you, Logan pulled you close as he could, burying himself to the hilt— and forcing that fat knot inside— you felt dizzy. A few more messy pumps before at last, he let slip a shaky, animal groan as he came, flooding your insides with semen so thick it felt like yogurt. So warm..
Logan lay there, his sweaty head against your chest, panting, whimpering— whining, and eeeever so slightly humping you still as he kissed your chest. He must’ve really wanted that load to take, huh?
“Mine, Mine.. Mine..” He muttered against your skin.
You would definitely be spending a lot more time in the woods.
Summary: A suffragette campaigning on the streets of Saint Denis, you witness Arthur commit an act of violence that awakens something within you.
Tags: nsfw/18+, reader pov, LH Arthur being a menace, canon typical violence, description of blood/wounds, smut, sexual tension, rough sex, face slapping, choking kink, scratching, cis reader, gendered language
A/N: Dividers are by @saradika-graphics, and header images are my own. [Ao3 link]
Taglist: @stupidgaynerd @gingibred
They’d warned you about the Saint Denis heat—the soup of the atmosphere that holds every foul scent of the city captive in humid droplets that stick to any bit of exposed skin—but experiencing it is something else entirely. The muggy air drapes over you, heavy as a freshly washed quilt weighing down a clothesline.
You pull a handkerchief from your pocket, dabbing your brow in a losing battle against the sweat that trickles down your forehead. Having survived the day of campaigning on the streets, countering jeers from men and women alike, the suffocating walk back to your apartment feels like a punishment rather than a reward. Turning down a side street, you will your tired feet to lift a little higher, afraid your weary shuffle might result in a trip over the cobblestone, which would truly be the insult added to the injury of a day you’d had.
Your dull, heat-induced daze is interrupted by the rapid beats of boots striking the ground, and a man sprints around the corner, headed straight toward the alleyway you’re walking by. Before you have time to move out of the way, two hands connect roughly with your back as you’re shoved to the ground, tumbling forward hard onto your hands and knees. Palms skinned raw and shockwaves of pain shooting through your legs, you whip your head to look after the man, who you now realize is being chased.
Another man races around the corner toward you, his thick legs pumping and propelling him in pursuit at an astonishing pace.
"The money or your life—you choose!" He bellows down the alley before darting around your sprawled form and taking a wide stance, his movements calm, practiced, and steady.
Dressed in all black save for an embossed ruby leather vest, long, golden brown hair peeks out from the back of his worn gamblers hat. You didn’t see his face, but his shoulders are broad, and his imposing presence fills the shaded, confining passageway.
He pulls a revolver from the holster at his hip, raises his arm, and exhales before firing a single shot.
The muzzle flashes, and you barely have time to look away from the spray of blood ejected from the back of the first man’s head. Breath hitching and shuddering in shock, your hear a body fall limply to the ground, and your vision vibrates and blurs as you stare straight ahead at the worn and step-polished cobblestones framed between your hands. Your brain screams at you to push yourself up and run, but your limbs are heavy and frozen in panic.
Hazarding a glance back down the alley, you see the man in black crouching next to the body. He flips the dead man over with remarkable ease, grabbing a stack of money from the slack hand of the deceased before searching his pockets and pulling out a gold watch and another small bundle of bills. Raising himself slowly from the ground—his eyes hidden by the hat he’s wearing low over his face—he turns in your direction and begins to approach you with casual, relaxed steps.
You try to scramble away, but your battered knees scream immediately in agony, so you flip over and push your back against the brick of the building behind you. Your skirt is dirty with jagged holes ripped from where you fell, and your palms pink and stinging, the fresh scratches from your fall embedded with small, sharp rocks and packed with grime.
The shadow he casts grows larger and darker until you feel entombed by his form looming above you. Tracking his hands carefully for any movement toward his guns, you crane your neck to meet his eye.
Intense sapphire pools study you from underneath knitted brows, and you can feel them deliberately crawling across every inch of your hunched figure. His expression is curious, and the corner of his mouth opens in a sly smile.
He offers you a gloved hand smeared with the dead man’s blood. Gripped by fear and uncertainty, you hesitate to move at all. The ease with which he had taken a life was startling, appalling…and yet somehow the power of it was thrilling and arresting to a shrouded part of your soul. You know he could kill you just as easily, but you decide to wrap your fingers around his palm anyway, and he effortlessly pulls you to your feet.
Your back is still pressed against the coarse masonry of the building which towers above you both, the sun shielded by its bulk and your faces cast with shadows. The alley feels more cramped and claustrophobic than ever as he closes the remaining distance between you and grips your jaw firmly in his hand.
"You didn’t see nothin’." His voice is deep and rough, as if abraded by the same elements that have carved his rugged, weather-worn features. “D’we understand each other?”
"Y-yes, of course, I-"
"Good girl." He cares for nothing but the affirmative response and quickly cuts you off. Releasing your chin, he gently pats your cheek, leaving behind tacky fingerprints of blood that send electricity arcing through your skin.
Leaving you bewildered and immobile in terror, he’s unrushed as he heads down the alley, stepping over the body as if it were as inconsequential as a puddle in the road. You hear the shrill cry of a policeman’s whistle, your wits finally return to you, and you realize you’re holding your face where his deceptively soft touch awoke something dark in you. Reluctantly tearing your gaze away from him, you turn in the opposite direction to escape the scene before the arrival of anyone who would ask questions that you’d be unwilling—or unable—to answer.
"Women and men both deserve to decide the future!"
The sun beats down on you as you entreat disinterested passers-by. Lemoyne is more resistant to women’s suffrage than most, but you’ve reminded yourself time and again that’s what makes your work here even more important.
"Don’t walk away from history being made!"
But walk away is exactly what everyone does, sparing a roll of their eyes at best, and a biting heckle at worst.
The bruises on your knees had lingered for days. Every time you stand or sit, the throbbing pain in your legs takes you back to that alleyway and the man in black. Cold, precise and unfeeling on the surface, something about how he had peered at you with those blue-green eyes betrayed something different. Something hidden, something wanting. You spin every moment around in your thoughts like a roast pig rotating on a spit, but any conclusions you come to about the man, or even your feelings about the harrowing experience never manage to cook all the way through.
He is still on your mind as you stand there in your familiar spot on the sidewalk, trading off days petitioning with Dorothea Wicklow, the old friend of your mother who offered to take you under her wing after your graduation from Bryn Mawr.
It’s discouraging work.
At first, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity—a cause you were passionate about, a family friend as your mentor, and even the use of your uncle’s vacant pied-à-terre while you stayed in Saint Denis. But you hadn’t been prepared for the abuse that has become a persistent part of your days. Dorothea never appears at all perturbed by the indifference, cruelty, or even the threats of violence you’ve both received, but you have struggled to adopt her particular brand of resilience. Now faced with the consequences of your naivety, you could easily take the train back home to Philadelphia…but as of yet, you’re stubbornly unwilling to admit defeat and, tail tucked between your legs, face the shame of returning home.
You adjust your sash—proudly emblazoned with “Votes for Women”—and mop up the sweat that has started to drip down your face. The perspiration stings and burns your eyes, and you squeeze them shut as you take a moment to collect yourself.
"Women votin’?" a familiar voice asks.
You slowly open your eyes to see the man from the alley skeptically regarding the a-frame sign next to you. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and raises his head to look at you. In the bright light of the midday sun, you can see him properly for the first time.
His powerful shoulders are offset by narrow hips, and one thumb is hooked into a gun belt that menacingly holds the revolver you’ve seen in action as well as a sawed-off shotgun. Now dressed completely in black, his stand collar overshirt is rakishly unbuttoned, but his exposed chest is covered by a black bandana that—while it hangs loosely now—you are certain is often used to obscure his identity. His thick, muscular forearms are on display thanks to sleeves that have been rolled neatly to his elbows, and a black vest completes his outfit. You shudder at the thought of how much heat his dark garb must absorb in the southern sun.
Even under the shade offered by the brim of his hat, his blue eyes shine brilliantly—the flecks of green scattered across his irises visible when they catch the light—though they smolder with a specter of something dark and desolate. With the complexion of a man who has lived many years sleeping under the stars and honey brown stubble that’s deceptively well-groomed, the way he looks at you peels away the layers of armor you wrap yourself in each day that you head out onto the streets to campaign.
As your dumbfounded silence gives way to a nervousness buzzing with impatience in the pit of your stomach, you attempt to activate the script you’d use with anyone else who stopped to engage.
"Well…what do you think of women’s suffrage, Mr…?"
"Morgan. Arthur Morgan. And sure, why not?" he offers with a shrug, speaking as easily as if he was conversing with an old friend.
“Well I must say I appreciate and am surprised by your progressive stance." And, you honestly are, but—uncomfortable with his overly familiar tone and remembering Dorothea’s advice to always project your voice to the masses—you use the opportunity as a soapbox for one of your well-rehearsed speeches. "Women’s suffrage has already been enshrined in Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and-"
"Yeah, anyone dumb enough to wanna vote, I say go for it," he interrupts you in a loud voice.
Taken aback by the unexpected interjection, you turn back to Arthur, feeling your brows furrow in dismay.
"What a pathetic, cynical point-of-view." You aren’t looking to provoke him, but you’re feeling confused and wrong-footed, and the truth of your feelings spill from your mouth.
He scoffs and slowly looks you up and down as you feel warmth pooling in your cheeks.
"Almost as pathetic as you standin’ there in that sash, lookin’ like some prize cattle in a state fair." His antagonism takes a different tone, and the insult feels calculated as it leaves his lips in a mocking drawl.
The heat, his cruelty, weeks of discouragement, and your aching knees all conspire to rob you of self control. Before you know it, you’ve taken a long step toward Arthur and slapped him hard across one stubbled cheek.
You’re shocked how good it feels, your hand stinging and ringing with catharsis as it violently makes contact with his face. The anger and frustration boiling up in you just a moment prior releases itself entirely.
And then reality hits.
Just days before, you watched him kill a man in cold blood, and now you’ve made the foolhardy choice of assaulting him in broad daylight. Jaw slack, your eyes widen as you anxiously look down at your hand and then up at Arthur.
Head still twisted to the side in the wake of the impact, he slowly turns to meet your eye again and rolls his shoulders back. Still within an arm’s length, he takes another step toward you, standing close enough now that the heat of his breath caresses your face, the hint of brandy sweetly distinct from the sticky Lemoyne air.
"Now you’re speakin’ my language…" His husky whisper is miles from a threat, his thinly veiled desire exposing a suggestion melting and mixing together with proposition.
Your heart starts to pound, and all speech leaves you, your breath shallow and rapid in the fever of his proximity.
"Pardon me…Mr…Morgan, I-" You stumble over your words and stop to inhale deeply to compose yourself. “I think the weather has me feeling a bit faint. If you’ll excuse me.”
He tilts his head to the side, his expression still full of lewd, playful provocation, but just tips his hat and steps back, gesturing for you to head on your way.
With a small nod, you hurry past him, walking briskly down the street to find a spot in the shade to catch your breath.
Late evening is your favorite time of day in Saint Denis. The activity and noise that usually fills the street with a chaotic din tapers to a peaceful hum, and the sun no longer hovers close and stifling on the back of your neck. Only the occasional sounds of hooves on cobblestone, or the laughter of other evening revelers break through the quiet of the night, and the cool light of the moon swirls together with the warm glow of the street lamps. Free of responsibilities to the movement for the day, it is also a time you can take for yourself.
The balcony of the Bastille Saloon is the perfect place to savor that time. Your fingers grip a glass of whiskey tightly in your lap, a half-eaten bowl of lobster bisque sitting on the table in front of you. Your parents would be appalled, seeing you sitting alone at a saloon, drinking whiskey like some tart, but the subtle rebellion is one that helps you feel in control. Dorothea is a fine mentor, but the loneliness of your work has felt relentless, and the fruits of your labor are an abstract, infinitesimally small portion of a greater whole that can be hard to keep in perspective.
Taking another sip of your whiskey, you relish the heat that fills your mouth before it bites the back of your throat. It’s a tiny thrill that you can contain, a stark contrast to the wild thoughts of a dangerous man that have been dogging you for days on end. The things you’ve imagined you wouldn’t dare speak aloud, even solely for your own ears.
You wonder whether you’ve strayed too far from your lofty goals, the promises you made your family, and the future you envisioned for yourself, but just as you start to follow that dark train of thought, the balcony is suddenly no longer empty and still.
To your right, the French doors of one of the guest rooms open, and a man emerges with a cigarette in one hand and a match in the other. His features are hard to make out, only his silhouette distinct in the low light. As he strikes the match, the small flame illuminates his face and you realize it’s Arthur, as if you yourself had conjured him with the sheer potency of your wicked thoughts.
The glass of whiskey slips from your fingers, falling onto the wooden floorboards with a loud clatter, the noise ripping through the still of the night.
Arthur turns toward you, and you see him shake his head with a chuckle of recognition. Inhaling two short puffs from the cigarette, he starts in your direction with a confident, leisurely gait.
"Nice spot, ain’t it?" He nods to the view of the street and the sparkling stars that are now visible against the ink blue that has saturated the sky.
"Indeed," you respond curtly, "But it’s one I prefer to enjoy alone."
He ignores this and lowers himself onto the other chair, ashing his cigarette in the glass tray in the middle of the table.
Leaning back in his seat, he pulls in another mouthful of smoke that he blows straight up into the night, while the two of you sit together in a silence that seems easy on his end, but is spinning you up with an unbearable tension. Afraid that anything you would say would betray the way in which he has occupied your mind, you try to ignore his presence as the coiled spring in your stomach twists ever tighter.
"You seem t’think highly of yourself, out there makin’ a buncha noise over somethin' nobody cares about," he finally says.
It’s not anything you haven’t heard before, but you wonder why he came over to antagonize you at all. You know his name, his face, and could easily point the police in his direction if you felt threatened enough. The smart decision would be to take your leave, but instead—now too intrigued to hold your tongue—you decide to bite.
"Women’s suffrage is cared about by a great many people, Mr. Morgan. It’s just your own performative apathy and nihilism that cloud your perspective on the matter," you retort, privately thrilled by the ease with which you could jab back.
"It’s just Arthur," he corrects you, shifting in his seat and pulling the cigarette out of his mouth to let it smoke lazily between his fingers. “And those are some big words. Bet you feel real special, believin’ you’re makin’ a difference, puttin’ that education t’use. But I see the way people look at’chu. They think you’re a damn fool.”
These words hit you much differently than the casual contempt you’re accustomed to out on the street. It’s like he’s decided to pry open your chest and find a way to poke at your deepest insecurities. Determined to keep your cool, you breathe in deeply before responding.
"Well, Arthur, some people looked at abolitionists the same way, but their fight was one this country will never forget."
Laughing spitefully, he takes one last long drag of his cigarette before extinguishing it in the ash tray.
"Delusions of grandeur as well, I see…" He’s not looking at you, but you see him derisively roll his eyes.
Tendrils of hurt and anger are crawling up your throat, and you can feel yourself nearing the edge of losing control as you wonder how much of his cruelty is an act, meant to steer you in a certain direction. You stand up, ready to leave, but he stands as well, blocking your path.
"Get the hell out of my way," you hiss softly, trying to get around him, but he just sidesteps to follow your movements.
“Come on now, that’s no way for a lady to talk,” he purrs, holding his hands wide in an open, apologetic gesture. You’d been mocked plenty in your life, but the way he does it is more potent and biting, somehow.
Anxious to escape before things escalate, you try to play along, give him what he wants. "Get out of my way. Please."
"Oh, so that fancy education daddy bought you did teach you some manners."
He knows exactly what he’s doing, and by now, you do too. You draw your hand back, preparing to slap him again, but he catches your wrist this time.
"Not here," he growls, and he moves closer to push his body into yours.
You tremble from the pleasure of his dense form pressed against you, and his scent—smoke, brandy, leather and sweat—fills your nostrils. In the still of the night, you can feel his heartbeat racing as quickly as your own.
"Not ever," you seethe through clenched teeth, just one impulse away from pressing your lips against his.
"Tell yourself whatever ya like, princess." As he says this, his eyes dart around your face and his chest heaves as if the mental and physical demands of restraining himself have captured his breath.
Seconds crawl by before he releases your wrist and finally steps out of your way. Straightening your blouse and smoothing your skirt, you exhale sharply and walk past him, heading to the doors leading back into the saloon. When your hand reaches out for the doorknob, you hesitate. A black-burning fire has been ignited within you, and you can feel yourself allowing the flames to consume you. Far too late now to put it out, you cede control to it.
You turn your head over your shoulder—not daring to meet his eye—before calling back one more thing.
"Rue de la Diligent, above the florist. Come through the courtyard."
Mind racing and an aching want burning between your legs, you pull open the door and head inside.
You wait for him every night for nearly a week. After each long day out in the heat, you return back to your uncle’s empty apartment, light the perfect number of lamps, change into your dressing gown, and listen for a knock at the door.
And yet, the knock never comes. You know you shouldn’t be surprised, and one part of you is deeply relieved. He’s coarse, cruel, and ruthless, and you could have been throwing your life away by telling him where you live. You even wonder if you’d finally lost all sense, pushed to the brink of reckless madness by the hard work, long days, and time away from home.
Another part of you aches for him, fantasizing endlessly of his hands on your body, feeling a deep confidence that he wouldn’t dare harm you. After all, he’d had multiple chances already, and he only seemed keen to spin you up.
The disappointment of it all adds to a familiar pile of failures, and you feel no choice but to try to forget him…and your invitation.
On an otherwise routine afternoon full of catcalls and insults in your usual spot by the tailor, a summer rainstorm blows in. You should’ve anticipated it, having watched the high, cotton-white clouds above grow closer, denser and more threatening over the course of the day, but somehow the downpour catches you off guard.
Without an umbrella, you abandon your post to hurry home, trying to scurry between awnings and balconies on your familiar route, but by the time you make it back to the apartment, you’re completely drenched. Wrestling off your damp skirt and blouse as you trudge through the parlour—weaving around the opulent, upholstered couch and abandoning your sash to the chaise lounge—you hang the garments over the side of the clawfoot tub in the white tiled bathroom and change into a fresh set of drawers and a dry, clean chemise. Though you’d hoped to take your dinner at the Bastille that night, there’s no indication of the weather letting up anytime soon, so you decide to settle in for the rest of the day.
Just as you sit down at the bedroom vanity to brush out your wet hair, you hear a fist pounding on the courtyard door downstairs. You freeze, wondering if one of your uncle’s business partners might have mistakenly believed he was in town. Not at all dressed or prepared to receive an unknown visitor, you hold your breath and wait another moment, hopeful that perhaps they’ll give up and go away.
The caller is more determined and persistent than that, and they pound again, louder and harder this time—enough to rattle the door on its hinges. Avoiding the floorboards you know to be the squeakiest, you quietly walk through the parlour and into the kitchen, which has the best view of the courtyard. Pushing open the small window as noiselessly as you can, you look down and immediately recognize the top of a black gambler’s hat which has collected an impressive pool of rain water while its wearer stands unprotected in the deluge. Arthur somehow senses your eyes on him, and cranes his neck to meet your gaze, tipping his hat with a wink despite the heavy droplets that must be pelting his face.
Quickly pulling the window shut, you grab your dressing gown from the bedroom and hastily wrap it around yourself before you run down the narrow stairwell to the door, opening it without a word and gesturing for him to get inside and head upstairs. You peek your head out into the courtyard to check for any prying eyes–especially of those neighbors who are well-acquainted with your uncle–before locking the door and heading back up into the apartment.
You find Arthur standing casually in the parlour, inspecting his surroundings in mock awe as if he’s just stepped into the Metropolitan Museum of Art
"Real nice place you got here," he remarks. "Daddy pay for all this, too?"
Still reeling with shock at his appearance at your doorstep in the middle of the afternoon, you choose to ignore this particular barb.
"What are you doing here?!" you demand. "Anyone could have seen you!"
"Well, I didn’t know your invitation had such strict conditions." His clothes are soaked, the dark fabric of his shirt and pants sticking tightly to his body. You can see the outline of every muscle…and more.
"I...I can’t fathom what little sense you must have to come over in broad daylight." Your admonishment sounds absurd, and your ears grow abruptly hot with embarrassment.
He saunters over to the seating area and gently picks up the damp ribbon of your sash—still draped over the chaise lounge—and rubs it between his fingers. "Oh come on, I can’t be the first strange man you’ve invited over for some fun..."
This time, when you go to strike him, he makes no attempt to stop you. Your hand collides with his jaw more than his cheek, causing your fingers to tingle with pain as the sash falls from his hand.
"That’s more like it," he croons, moving toward you with a hungry look in his eyes.
He soon has you nearly backed against one of the built-in bookshelves lining the walls, and your eyes drop from his intense blue portals to his lips as you lean forward to try to kiss him. Before you make contact, he stops you with two fingers pressed firmly against your mouth.
"It ain’t like that," he tells you firmly, his voice oddly cold.
"Then what is it like?" you ask, impatient and stinging from the rejection.
Instead of responding, he grabs a handful of your wet hair and yanks your head to the side, pressing his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder. His lips follow a trail down your bare chest, and he slides your dressing gown and the strap of your chemise off your shoulder, yanking them down to free your breast. Taking it in his hand, he moves his lips to the other side of your neck. He reaches up to pull the other side of your clothes off your shoulder, but you forcefully shove him away before he has the chance.
His own eyes now shine with hurt and anger as he looks you up and down with knitted brows and visible tension in his jaw. You fix your chemise and pull the dressing gown back up over your shoulder.
"Maybe it’s not like that, either," you spit out.
"You got some nerve, I swear," he sneers with a shake of his head, and turns toward the stairs, as if to leave.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" You try not to sound invested in his staying, but your voice leaks the desperation that has suddenly welled up in you at the sight of his imminent departure.
He laughs scornfully. "I’d call you a tease, but that’s givin’ you too much credit. You’re jus’ a coward, hidin’ behind some idea of who you think y’are."
His provocations are too pointed to be casual cruelty, his only satisfaction seemingly found when he pushes you past your own point of control. The steps of the dance he’s chosen were foreign to you, but you’re quickly catching up as he tries to leave the ballroom floor.
You allow yourself to feel angry, again.
Grabbing his arm to pull him back toward you, you slap him again, this time as hard as you dare. It’s enough for needles of pain to shoot through your palm, and he brings a hand to his face before rolling his jaw a few times as if to set it back in place.
Observing him carefully this time, you notice two distinct changes from a moment prior: the skin of his cheek is reddened where your hand made contact, and as your eyes drift downward, you can see he’s growing hard, his trousers straining as his cock swells.
"Y’understand now?" he hums in his rumbling baritone as soon as your gaze locks back onto his.
For a moment, you’re held captive by his stare, and the only sounds to be heard above the rain outside are the shallow breaths you each draw.
"The bedroom is through here," you inform him, turning away and letting your dressing gown slide off your shoulders as you walk out of the parlour. It flutters behind you and softly falls onto the floor.
There is a moment of still silence before you hear his heavy footfalls on your heels, the spurs on his boots like distant tambourines lazily tapped with the rhythm of his steps. Once in the bedroom, you pull off your chemise and untie your drawers and let them slide down your legs. As he enters the room, his eyes widen at the sight of you, and he makes a move toward you, but you just shake your head.
Not speaking a word, but eying him from head to toe, he takes your meaning and begins to undress. His hat and gunbelt come off first, which he hangs on the coat rack in the corner, and then he pulls off his boots and kicks them to the side. He meets your gaze as you watch him begin to unbutton his vest and then his shirt. The vest slides easily over his shoulders, but the shirt—soaking wet and adhered to his skin—has to be peeled away slowly. As more of his bare skin is revealed, the warmth you already feel between your legs is accompanied by a shiver you make no effort to conceal.
Arthur sees this and rumbles as he manages to get his second arm out of the damp sleeve of his overshirt. His chest heaves with arousal and you can see he’s straining even harder in his trousers. You nod at him to continue, and he unbuttons his pants and unties his drawers to allow him to pull them off together.
Bared to you fully and still glistening from being so thoroughly soaked-through in the rain, the hair on his chest and stomach is ever so slightly stuck to his skin. Powerful thighs hold his form in an enticing contrapasto, his weight resting on one leg.
He raises his eyebrows in a question—seemingly asking what’s next—so you gesture to the bed. Obediently sitting on the edge of the mattress, he wraps a broad hand around the back of each of your thighs to pull you down with him, your knees spread wide on either side of his hips. You move to grab the shaft of his hard cock, but he intercepts you, guiding your hand up to his neck instead. Responding to his unspoken request, you wrap your fingers around his thick neck, his Adam’s apple hard against your palm.
"Harder," he commands, and you tighten your grip as he takes his own length in his hand, teasing himself with long, firm strokes.
You can feel him swallow—the rolling of his throat thick with strain against your grip—and you squeeze a little more, eliciting a deep groan that vibrates through your fingers. His hand pumps faster while his cock starts to weep, and you want nothing more than to sink down on it, aching to take him inside you. He must see you watching because he brings his other hand to your chin, tilting your head back up to meet his eye.
"That all you got?" He chokes out in a deep growl, his eyes fiery and challenging. Your forearm has started to burn from holding your grip, but his taunting spurs you on as you adjust your hand higher and tighter on his throat.
"Is nothing enough for you?" The whisper brushes past your lips with an ire you’d collected for weeks and tucked away from view. Your fingers contract with as much force as you can muster.
"Jesus…" Arthur releases his swollen member and pushes you roughly off his lap to lay back on the bed before beckoning you back over.
Crawling over the mattress to straddle him, you’re greedy for your own satisfaction, so you don’t wait for any invitation or instruction. Folds throbbing and glistening with slick, you guide the tip of him to your entrance, dropping your curves to bring him fully inside. His hips rise to meet yours, penetrating you with his heat.
"Did I tell you t’do that?" His objection is feeble and breathless, and you respond with a hard slap across his cheek.
His hips jerk involuntarily, driving him even deeper as he rolls his head back into the pillow and moans loudly.
"I don’t think you’re giving orders here," you pant out, rocking your hips slowly, nearly allowing him to slide out before taking him back in all the way to the hilt.
He wraps his hands around your waist, subtly following your movements with the pressure of his fingers and thumbs, but careful not to direct you.
Soon carried away with his own pleasure, he begins to thrust upward to meet every motion of your hips, and this time you strike the other side of his face with a quick backhand, which—as your knuckles protest from the blow—only makes him buck harder and faster. His thick length fills you to bursting as you spread your knees to sink lower, the friction of him gliding against your walls filling your head with a crackling haze.
Planting your hands on his chest, you dig your fingernails into his dense pecs, easily breaking the skin as you slowly rake your hands down to his stomach. Pink welts follow in the wake of your nails, and Arthur’s breathing and heartbeat grow feverish beneath your touch.
You continue to ride him with your arms stiff and braced against his chest, moving ever so slightly faster with every minute that passes. His pupils are blown, darkening his bright blue eyes, and you watch his face carefully. The wry defiance has left his expression, replaced now with something softer, and you feel yourself tumbling towards that softness—and him—and away from your own anger.
By now, you’re getting so close that the heat has spread so far down your thighs and up into your belly, and you can’t tell where you end and his throbbing cock begins. Nearing his own climax, he twitches inside you and suddenly that’s all it takes. You cry out as you feel yourself contract and spasm around him, your mind shot through with the white hot lightning of pleasure.
Vision still spotted and your breath not yet returned, you feel Arthur lift your hips off of him like you weigh nothing at all. As he groans, you look down to watch him spill onto his stomach in hot, sticky ribbons as he groans with eyes screwed shut in ecstasy.
Letting your head fall back, you try to steady your breathing while the aftershocks of your climax ripple through your body and finally dissipate. You haven’t quite yet collected yourself when you feel a gentle pat on your hip, a signal for you to dismount. Instinctively, you oblige, rolling off to lie down next to him on the bed. But before your head hits the pillow, he stands up, pulling a handkerchief out of his discarded trousers to clean himself off.
You sit up from the bed and watch as he dresses himself in silence, struggling to get himself back into his damp clothing. Eventually he manages it all, buckling his gunbelt around his hips and putting his hat back on while he hovers next to the bed, as if hesitating…or waiting for something.
"You don’t have to leave." Your offer is almost more of a request than anything. “It’s still raining, your clothes are still wet, and…” you trail off, your voice quiet with uncertainty and vulnerability.
He reaches down to the edge of the bed and wraps his fingers around your hand, giving it a slight squeeze.
"Whatever it is y'think you want from me…you don’t. Trust me." His lips purse in something short of a smile, and he turns to walk out of the bedroom.
You hear his boots carry him through the parlour and down the stairs. When he opens the door to the courtyard, the sounds of thunder and heavy rainfall rush in and roar up the stairwell for just a moment before you hear the latch click closed.
With the door shut again, the apartment is returned to an unsettled quiet—the absence of the tempest stark and troubling despite how briefly it filled the space.
now some oc writers are using the “x reader” tag and giving the excuse that “it’s just a different perspective.” it doesn’t matter if you use that tag IF YOU’RE NOT INCLUDING THE READER! YOU have your own tag, leave us alone.
the “x reader” tag exists so that readers of any background, appearance, or identity can immerse themselves in a story and feel included as the main character.
when you write a story centered around your own original character, with a defined name, personality, and often a specific appearance, you’re no longer inviting the reader to step into that role, you’re writing about your character, not the reader. that’s completely fine! writing oc content is valid and has its own space.
but misusing the “x reader” tag to gain visibility or clicks is misleading. it sets the wrong expectations and excludes readers who were looking for stories where they could truly see themselves in the narrative. if your story focuses on your oc, label it honestly.
use the “oc x canon” tag or “original character” there’s no shame in that. but please stop co-opting a space that’s meant to be inclusive and flexible for all readers, especially those who are often underrepresented in fiction. the “x reader” tag is not a blank slate for oc projection.
it’s meant to include everyone, not just your creative vision.
respect your audience. tag responsibly.
NOTE: writing in another point of view like “SHE/HE went to the market” instead of “YOU went to the market” does not count as “x reader.”
(not 100% but most of the time) don’t try to be clever or sneaky about it.
NOTE 2: by the way, regarding the second image, it’s great to see more asian, black, and mixed oc’s! but even so, that still doesn’t make it a reader insert, let alone fit the tag. the reader needs to be the main character.
