John Marston fell in love with you the moment the Van Der Lin gang rescued you from an O'Driscoll hideout all those years ago. Now, after the bitter end to a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship with Arthur, John's feelings have become increasingly difficult to hide from not only you, but Arthur as well.
In 1894, a grief-ravaged Arthur Morgan stumbles into a reckless, emotionally charged relationship with Margaret, a 19 year old widow drowning in her own fresh loss. What begins as a mutual attempt to forget becomes a six-month spiral of intimacy, volatility, and aching dependency, where love grows faster than either of them can manage.
Prologue: Part 1* | Prologue: Part 2 | Month One* | Month Two | Month Three* | Month Four | Month Five | Month Six
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So Easy (To Fall In Love) - ongoing
When Loki and a few other TVA agents wander into a quiet 1960s jazz club in New York, he finds himself drawn to the lead singer onstage for reasons he can’t quite name.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
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Northern Attitude
On a frigid night in Colter, you find solace in someone else's cot, causing tension to boil over.
Pairing: Estranged Husband! Arthur Morgan x F!Reader
WC: 3.5K
Summary: The former Mrs Morgan asks Arthur for a favour.
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, oral sex, premature ejaculation, mutual masturbation, marriage, divorce, fingering, arthur is very pathetic, reader is implied to be a lawyer but can be any job, established relationship, wait and dry humping
photo credits: here, here, here
shapsara's masterlist
A/N: This is brought to you by a night shift and a Tesco meal deal. First part to a series that I hope will be something I can dip in and out of for fun when I'm feeling writer's block. I'm trying to get into the mindset of "it doesn't have to be good, it just has to exist. Title is taken from a poem called "Object Permanence" by Hala Alyan.
"Arthur?"
"What's wrong?" His voice is soft over the phone.
"No. Nothing's wrong." You hesitate and then speak again. "The shower at mine is broken."
He's silent.
"The guy said he could come tomorrow."
"Jesus. That's why you called me?" His voice is harsh. "Wait till tomorrow."
"I have a job interview." You say helplessly. "At a new firm. I—please."
Arthur mutters ferociously in the background, but you can hear the telltale shuffle of his steps and the clink of his toolbox. He's at yours so fast that when you open the door, you are still in your slippers. Seeing him makes your heart jolt and stomach roil. He looks well. Despite the circles under his eyes and the overgrown stubble. He fills out his old brown jacket just the same as he did before—although his stomach looks a little softer and his eyes are bloodshot. Has he been drinking?
"Thank you." You say softly and widen the door to let him in.
Arthur toes off his boots at the front door, second nature from all the times you've shouted at him for tracking mud all over the carpets. He shrugs off his jacket and looks at you, scanning you the way you must be scanning him. His eyes flicker over the curves of your breasts under your pyjama shirt. You cross your arms over them, and he blinks, shaking his head as if to clear it.
It has been months since you have seen him, and perhaps that has dulled the harsh, sharp feeling in your sternum, the pull of your body towards him. His hair sweeps the collar of his flannel shirt. It's new, blue.
"D'you want a coffee?" An olive branch.
Arthur nods, briefly, setting the box of tools down next to his socked feet.
"Nice place you got here." His voice is without judgement.
You'd let him keep the house you'd bought together two years ago. Why foist him upon John and Abigail when you are more than capable of getting your own place? Besides, you never liked the place. It's too dated, the floral wallpaper too gaudy, the red door like a stain of blood over the whitewashed plaster of the walls. The windchimes he'd made you hung over it. This suits you, sleek, modern. A marble kitchen island and a king bed all to yourself.
Arthur clears his throat, breaking you out of the memories of the house. Out of memories of the four-poster bed and the colourful rugs you'd picked out together.
"What's the issue? With the shower?"
"The water just leaks through the head." You turn on your heel and lead him through.
The place looks too small around him, the way he shrugs his shoulders and ducks his head to move through the doorways. You lead him to the washroom and slide open the glass shower.
"It leakin' anywhere else?"
"Sometimes through the tile. It just stopped working this morning."
"Alright." He kneels on the shower bathroom floor, removing the tools from his box. You stand there awkwardly and then remember—coffee. You can make coffee. Even though 6 pm is too late for coffee.
The kitchen is bright white, and the cabinets are sleek, fitted neatly into the walls, their handles tucked discreetly beneath them. You find mugs. Arthur likes it plain, black. What a waste of the fancy coffee machine you bought. Instead of using it, you reach into the cupboard for the bottle of instant coffee you'd bought last week, unthinkingly. Even though you only really use the machine. The mugs are hot, and you pour milk and sugar into yours, a half cup, and fill his to the brim with acrid black coffee. You approach the bathroom and set the mug down beside his knee. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, you cross your legs and take a sip of your coffee.
"Congratulations on the interview." He says, without looking at you.
"It's just a formality. They approached me."
"Thought you liked your firm."
" I'd be stupid not to take it. They're offering double what I make now."
"Well," Arthur says shortly. "You always had better ideas."
You bite back a "hell is that supposed to mean, prick?"
"You're looking well." You say pointedly.
"Been workin', " he mutters. "Got a dog. She keeps me busy."
You'd begged him for a puppy. A German Shepherd. You scowl into your mug.
"Don't look like that. Found her in the gutter." Arthur's voice is wry as he steps back to switch on the showerhead, testing the water. It trickles miserably. "Think it's a burst pipe."
"How long will it take to fix?"
"A couple of hours. Maybe."
Jesus. A couple of hours with him still in your space, and you'll peel your skin off.
"Don't gotta babysit me. Ain't gonna steal your fancy soaps."
You flinch at the jibe. The arch in his brow tells you exactly what he's referring to. That night at your parents' where your mother had stashed every valuable into the house safe upon hearing that your ex-prisoner husband was visiting. She'd made up the couch for him to sleep on, and you'd woken at midnight to coax him into your childhood twin bed. The two of you had curled up together, surrounded by the plush guardians of your childhood, giggling like teenagers.
"How have you been?" He says, looking a little guilty at the no-doubt crestfallen look on your face. "Apart from the job."
"Fine." Lonely. "Good."
"Your hair looks nice." He murmurs, "Different."
"Highlights." Your skin feels hot.
Then you see it, as he moves his hand to test the tap. The gleam on his left hand, the wide gold band unmistakable in the dim lights of the bathroom. His wedding ring. You look down at your own hand, the strip of tan already faded from your finger.
"You're still wearing it." You are unable to keep your surprise out of your voice. Arthur freezes.
"I figured we ain't divorced yet." And he begins to work again, avoiding your gaze.
"Did you get what my lawyer sent you?"
"I did." His voice is rough. "What's mine is mine, what's yours is yours."
"Yeah. Is that okay?"
"'Course. Ain't like I had much to give you in the first place."
"Should look at selling the house too." You say quietly."It's in both of our names."
"Okay."
"Will you be okay?"
"I won't be on the streets. Don't you worry."
"Arthur." You say softly.
"Don't "Arthur" me." He sounds irritable. "I know. It's fine. We can do whatever you like."
His tone makes you shudder. Suddenly, you want to cry. You want to sink to the bathroom floor and press your face into his shirt and cry.
"Okay." You whisper, and his shoulders slump. Silently, you lift yourself and walk out of the bathroom, ignoring his muttered curse.
Arthur comes out, a half hour later. You are curled on the modern leather couch, and you must brace your feet to keep from slipping off.
"S'done. Should be dry in time for tomorrow morning."
"How much do I owe you?"
"Nothin'. On the house."
"I've wasted your evening."
"Weren't a waste." Arthur hesitates, then lowers "Was good to see you."
Pulling his jacket off the rack, he shrugs it over his shoulders. The ring catches the light as he scrubs a hand over his beard.
"If I'm not paying you—there's beer in the fridge."
"Don't need you to pay me with a six-pack either." His tone is flat, but his eyes glint with humour.
"No. No, I meant, if you wanted a drink. For old time's sake."
"I wouldn't call two years old times."
"Jesus. Do you want the beer or not?"
Hesitating a second, he shrugs his jacket back off and nods.
"Glass or bottle?" You ask, digging around in your fridge.
"Bottle." He scoffs.
You open two bottles and pass one to him as he sits down on your stupid leather couch. You sit beside him, an arm's length between you. You are close enough to relearn the creases next to his eyes and the smattering of freckles on his nose. The hard set of his jaw and his pollen-gold eyelashes.
"How are John and Abigail?"
"Good. She's gonna have another baby. Girl."
"She wanted one, didn't she?"
"Yeah. John's real pleased too—even if he won't say it."
"And Jack?"
"He ain't so pleased, but he'll come 'round."
Jack, the sensitive, sometimes acidic boy you had grown so very fond of. With his books and plans to be a lawyer, and all those questions he asks you, answers you'd try to make interesting.
"He misses you," Arthur says, gulping his beer. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows it.
"I miss him." You say softly. "Hold on."
You set your beer on the table and dive into the cupboard under the bookshelf.
"I bought him this for his birthday. Before—"Before you'd served Arthur the papers. Can't live like this, won't live like this. Your cigarette butts are everywhere, and your life is a mess. I hate Dutch and the hold he's got on you. I don't love you.
The book is still wrapped with "To: Jack, From: Auntie" written in your scrawl on the front.
"It's about famous criminal trials."
"He'll like that."
"They'll be okay with it being from me?"
"'Course they will. All Abigail does is scold me for losin' you."
"I think we should talk about splitting assets too. The paintings and dishware and—"
"Take it." He says simply. "I got no use for it."
"But half of it is legally yours," You insist. "You can sell it or—"
"I don't want it." Arthur says, his voice firm.
"There's no reason to make this difficult."
"As opposed to you? You've made it real easy." The harshness makes you narrow your eyes, straighten your posture.
"Oh, God. My mother was right."
"Aw, was she?" He swallows another sip of beer. "Always liked her. Even when she said I was gonna leave you pregnant and broke."
"I'm neither of those things." You snap. "Good thing we didn't have kids, what a fucking mess that would have been."
"Yeah. 'Cause who'd want me as the father to their kids?" He spits.
"Aren't you glad it didn't come to that?"
His jaw tics, and he says nothing.
"Arthur." You turn your voice placating, and you wish. You wish it were nine months ago and you could smooth your hand over his brow and plaster the punched-in walls with a kiss. Reaching out, you lay a hand on his forearm. "Let's just do this my way. Yeah? The easy way."
Arthur looks at you for the first time since he stepped foot in your new life. His eyes are just as you remember them. Only, they are resigned. None of the hot light of battle that used to enter them—the thrill of a skirmish.
"Alright, sweetheart." He breathes. "The easy way."
He touches your hand where it rests on his arm, and you almost withdraw it.
Arthur's eyes follow the line of your bare shoulder, where the shirt slips down, and the curve of your thigh as you hike one foot onto the couch. His eyes flicker to your hand, your thumb caressing his weathered skin.
Arthur lifts his arm, and as natural as breathing, as unthinking as walking, you scoot down the couch and curl into his side. His arms go around you immediately, his breath stirring your hair. Placing his hand on your bare calf, he pulls it forward so you are half in his lap, your head tucked against his collarbone. Reaching for his hand, you bring it up to look at the ring.
"Should take it off." You murmur into his shoulder.
"We ain't divorced yet." Arthur's voice is firm. You prop yourself up a little, staring at long memorised scars on his chin,
"No." Your mouth brushes one, his stubble grazing you. "No, we aren't."
Arthur's hand smooths up your thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing where it meets your ass, under your sleep shorts. The calloused pads of his fingers brushing your soft skin there.
Then, your neck is bent back over his arm, and he is kissing you with all the feverish intensity of the long separation. Your fingers come to brush the soft hair falling over his cheek and ears, to thumb the feathery silk of his thick eyebrows and to fit your nose against the notch in his. You bring his trembling hand up, beneath your shirt to curve at your breast. The cool metal of the ring makes you shudder as he nudges your jaw to kiss your neck.
"Arthur." You gasp as his teeth graze your fluttering pulse. His hand squeezes at your breast, so hard that you are sure it will burst like overripe fruit in the crushing force of his palm. Your breathy whine slips out, and he gentles. Murmuring, he kisses gently at your cheek, your eyes.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to." His thumb strokes against the side of it, circling the hardened nipple. "Want you so bad. I missed you fuckin' much."
"Touch me." You gasp, guiding his hand down into your shorts and making him feel the leaking mess of your cunt. He shuts his eyes and groans into your neck. The two of you find yourselves horizontal on the couch, your foot braced against the arm to keep from sliding off.
Arthur buries his face in the junction of your shoulder, pressing the heel of his palm into your sopping cunt, soaking the gusset of your shorts.
"Will you let me?"
"Let you?" You shove at his flannel, undoing the buttons with clumsy fingers, only to be met with the barrier of his T-shirt underneath it.
"Eat your cunt." He groans. "Please. I missed it so much."
You are already shoving the shorts down, and he is pulling his t-shirt over his blonde-streaked head to slide onto his knees next to the couch.
"Arthur." You whisper as he drags you forward so his breath hits your fluttering cunt.
"Shh. Darlin'. M'gonna eat you out now." Arthur looks up at you, pupils blown wide and his hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it away impatiently. "Gonna make you cry."
"Okay." You whimper. "Okay, Arthur."
Bending his head, he breathes hot air into the soft parting of your cunt. Carefully, he reached between your legs and parted your cunt down the centre. You whine, arching off the couch and into his mouth. He buries his face between your legs, groaning loudly, his beard scrapes against your thighs and down the sensitive centre. Pushing at his head, you mumble for him to be gentle, but he does not take heed of this.
"She missed me, didn't she?" Showing you mercy for one second, he pulls his face away, panting. Arthur runs the tip of his finger down the fluttering red centre of your cunt, fluid streaming from it. "Look at how wet you are."
"I missed you." You mumble, head lolling back on the couch.
"I'll make it all better", He mutters, feverish with want. Arthur takes your ankles and draws them over his shoulders, the muscles in his freckled back rippling with the movement. "I'll fix it."
Bending his head to you again, he drags his tongue down your centre,e and you clutch his hair, twisting it around your fingers, nails scratching his scalp. He grunts, and the harsh noise of his zipper cuts through the fog in your mind.
"Fuck me." You whine as he closes one hand around the meat of your thigh and grazes his teeth against your clit.
"No", Arthur presses a kiss to the bone of your hip" No, you don't want that."
"I want it." You mumble. "I want it so bad."
"You don't." His voice is firm; he presses a big hand to your belly, pushing you back down. "Just lonely. You don't want me. Not really."
Arthur releases your calf and reaches down, palming the heavy bulge in his jeans.
"Arthur, please." Whining, you press your palm to your hot face. "You're so hard. Please."
He shakes his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes and buries his face between your legs again, licking and sucking till you cry out his name, again and again. When you lift your head, he leans back on his ankles at your feet. Slowly, he leans forward and presses the softest of kisses to the round of your kneecap.
"Please." You whisper, and clutching at his shoulder, drag him up from the rug. Arthur draws close to you, his muscles straining. Like a magnet, always pulled north. You lie back on the couch, and he straddles your legs. Fingers trembling, you catch the hem of your shirt and pull it up to your belly. His eyes go dark, and he leans down to press a kiss to every inch of skin revealed. When you finally reach your breasts, you tuck the hem under your chin. Arthur takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks hard.
"Missed these too." He slurs. "Thought about 'em all the time. Thought about doin' this," He bites one gently, making you squirm. "Thought about fucking them too."
Hooking one leg around his hip, he sinks into you. Grinding the bulge of his cock against your thigh. The denim chafes against your overwrought pussy, and he grunts as you reach between your bodies to palm it.
"I got off to it." His mumbles. "You left your underwear in the laundry, and I jerked off to you. I missed you so much."
"Please fuck me." You look up at his flushed back, cupping him in your hand.
"No." He repeats, voice cracking. "You'll regret it."
"I won't. I promise I won't."
"You'll hate me." He groans.
Arthur has an iron will, stronger than your own. You learned this long ago.
"Let me touch it." You whisper. "And then—you can touch me."
Arthur stills, stomach pressed to yours. It quivers with his breaths.
"Just to make it stop." You take your hand and stroke his face, his hair. "Then we can—it'll be a clean break."
"A clean break," Arthur murmurs, and with one hand, he cradles your jaw. Nodding, you suck his thumb into your mouth.
The carousel of your mind is spinning at a dangerous speed. Arthur furrows his brow. He gives in, fumbling with the button of his jeans over the give of his belly. He's so hard, painfully so. You can tell by the way he squeezes a hand around himself, fluid leaking from the tip in a pearly drip. You replace his hand with yours, and Arthur flattens his palm over your belly before returning the favour. The hard flick of his thumb against your clit makes you wince. You stroke upwards, and his eyes scrunch.
Arthur dips his index finger into your cunt and the passage is slick, eased by his mouth. `You hold him in your hand, stroking rhythmically and relearning the veins and ridges of him. Your mouth waters. How good he felt inside of you, all the way up to your ribs. A home, fucked for himself over and over in those tumultuous two years. This was always good, though. A shared language. Any hurt could be soothed with just a touch. Until it could not, until your life together had haemorrhaged and you could not resurrect it.
"Wait." He mutters distantly as you shove your ruined panties aside, guiding the tip of him to rub against you. "Wait—I. We said—"
"I know. I know." Your voice comes out high. "Just rubbing. Don't go inside."
Arthur is kissing you now, his maw opened over yours and the tip of his cock prodding the slick entrance of your cunt. You buck your hips so he sinks in, parting a little, and his teeth gnash.
"I'm gonna come." He grunts. "I'm sorry. I can't stop."
Arthur comes, hot spurts against the soft wet of your cunt. He groans miserably, and his head drops to your shoulder. Blindly, you reach up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair. To stroke his shoulders, relaxed in pleasure. It only lasts a moment. You are left on the couch, dazed. Arthur stands on your carpet, comes on his belly, and his beard is damp with your spit and slick. Turning his head away from you, he tucks himself back into his jeans. You press your cheek to the throw pillow and watch him. The fuzz of hair on his stomach and chest and the way his muscles ripple when he pulls the undershirt over his head. Buttoning his flannel, he looks at you.
ok i know this was months ago when you were going through explaining modern stuff to arthur but as an autistic person who loves collecting niche information in my brain and talking way too much, i think arthur would have a time listening to an autistic reader explaining random shit hes never heard of. catch me giving this man a hands-on course about food and plants hes never heard of. like teaching him how to grow basil indoors and make pesto from it for a mediterranean dish hes never heard of before.
I just want to remind you that sometimes your life really doesn't begin until you are 26+... Romanticizing and obsessing over our youth is harmful. Growing up is beautiful. Discovering who you are and how you interact with the world is a gift. Maturing and learning what you truly want out of life and living in that purpose brings fulfillment and peace. Your life is not over in your early 20's because you haven't figured it out yet, it's just beginning.
dutch van der linde holding an apple (his ego, his “plan”) while a rat 🐀, a wounded wolf 🐺 and a marked deer 🦌 circle him… and if you look close arthur’s watching from inside the apple 👀
𐔌 cw: mostly low honor arthur, possessiveness, some corruption with innocence kink, dacryphilia, tummy bulge and breeding, perhaps dubcon traces .ᐟ
made for lovely @dolliecowboys that can't stop feeding my imagination, four thousand words in and perhaps my biggest fic that shouldn't have to be that long.
there wasn't a square inch in the merciless wild west where he was not known, recognized by that sharp, calculating squint, the broken line his freckled nose had gone as, and the hard, cutting contours shaping his jaw. everything that made up his notorious portrait beneath the bounty offered for his head, for no one intended to bring him in alive, not after all he's done.
there also was no hiding from this legacy, neither in the tall prairie grass nor in the narrowest foxhole, when a man crosses a threshold with a bold gait and a scarred knuckle hooked over a trigger, people don't forget, they go around and talk until hoarse or shot dead.
his name was traded in frightened whispers through narrow alleys and around the circular tables filling crowded saloons, or read from newspapers held by pompous gentlemen who read about his exploits with arrogant, high tilted chins while sipping imported coffee in the sunlit cafés of saint denis bright avenues, entirely confident in their own safety.
outlaws were like coyotes, always hunted as rabid vermin, and coyotes had always been considered nothing more than annoying pests, despite the creature’s grace in adaptation and clever ingenuity. no one ever looked closely at a beast that slipped into territories on the sly, clicking its sharp teeth at whatever caught its fancy, even if circumstances demanded it.
the law’s only oversight was that no one would ever think to look for a man like arthur where the wild grass mingled with sweetly blooming flowers and a gently flowing river, in a cottage where the threshold was swept clean and the slightest speck of dust was wiped from every surface, even though the biggest stain of all always came and went exactly as it pleased.
arthur had rarely been interested in love affairs or the attention of women, if only because most of those he encountered were the corporate sort, women who would say any word and do any deed for a meager sum, even enduring bloody beatings while preferring to keep quiet rather than cause a public stir.
with the only woman who had truly captured his heart, the one who, perhaps unknowingly, still carried a piece of it in her pocket, he had botched with entirely. she was too good, too focused on a respectable life to ever belong to a man out such dangerous caliber, a man whose only dowry was nothing but constant peril and a lingering sense left only by paranoid fear that kept him forever scanning the treeline and crowds.
she possessed an unyielding spine that could not be crushed, one that had frequently made him hesitate and turn weak with an affection that simply did not suit him. back then, it had felt unnerving to notice how his tongue would tie into stutters around her, and how his carefully constructed reputation began to fracture.
raising questions, jokes, and mocking squints from the gang as he tried to become a man who could always be there, even though such a life proved impossible. that was his youth, a time when his features were more delicate, chin clean shaven, and a crimson blush could still find his cheeks, a period remembered by lingering glances from young ladies who giggled behind the thinnest palms.
now, those same respectable women looked at him with nothing but disdain, clicking their heels in a desperate haste to escape his shadowing company. yet, there is an exception to every rule. arthur knew it deep down by the sudden, heavy wrench beneath his ribs and the way his swaying stride slowed abruptly until his spurs jingled in the dusty air.
his aquamarine irises weren't merely tracking the refined line sloping your fit corset or the delicate ruffles at a flawless blouse dancing in the wind, he was staring because you had reawakened something starved inside him, snaring his attention at the lowest, most primal animal level, belly hollowing out.
coyotes are known to have a sweet tooth, and you, whether out innocent ignorance or stubborn avoidance, proved sweet enough to clog his fangs, prompting him to stalk the trail where your footprints still lingered in the dirt and dust before finally approaching, tilting his head like a hound playing at being tame, and wagging his tail.
he could evoke the most delicate delight in you, drawing out ringing laughter as you batted your lashes, bright smile rounding your heated up cheeks whenever he allowed himself to tip his worn out hat with a brusque compliment. arthur's mouth would pull back into a crooked smirk, spiky teeth bared, hooded stare dropping down to watch your chest heave against your collar from breath caught abrupt in the throat, cheeping a response.
he’d sunk his claws into you now, and he wasn't about to loosen his grip, swallowing greedy saliva, keeping a trained eye on you, a frequent visitor to a town that had no desire to see his face. through dense woodlands where grizzly bears and majestic elk roamed beneath looming tall trees, all the way to the serene clearing of manzanita post, the curious local dogs would peek out from their rest on the cushiony grass, lazily watching the trail and waiting for a kind hand.
when a carnivore wanders into a place it shouldn't, an isolated mountain settlement where everyone knows their neighbor's business and recognize every trespasser, the townsfolk typically lock themselves inside their wooden cabins until it leaves, or send armed men to deal with the threat. but arthur morgan wasn't the kind of beast you hunted with a rifle, no sane man in the territory would cross his path with steel out.
so the town chose cowardice, leaving you out in the open, a lamb offered for sacrifice while the folks kept silent, avoiding any mention about the dark truths they knew about him. they let you greet him with a wave and a toothy smile, completely oblivious to the paw closing around you, blind to any suspicion regarding how frequently he had begun to appear here, or how at ease he behaved, as though he truly belonged, owning the place.
leaving his horse tied to the hitching rail, arthur stepped close, landing a heavy hand against your back, mapping your spine until his palm rested flat just above your skirted buttocks. ducking his head, he greeted you with twinkling eyes etched with deep crow's feet that creased when he grinned a lazy smirk.
“was just passin' by, but aah saw ya havin' a hard time with that load” he crooned, his raspy voice carrying a smoky reek as his head tilted aside, nudging toward the heavy, stacked wicker basket slipping from your hands and the brown paper sack crumpled under your armpit, balanced traitorously “ain’t en mah nature to watch a pretty thin' struggle”
it was also far from his nature to follow a pretty thing all the way to her home, a tidied cabin with a welcome rug at the entrance and clusters of flowers that demanded daily attention. there was no dust in sight, only pretty dresses and thin chemises hanging to dry, and it was entirely too easy for a man like him to picture you in nothing but that thin linen, laid out on the sagging mattress with plush thighs wide and crumpling the cotton sheets in your tight fists.
inside, the air smelled like mouthwatering buttery baking and clean laundry, the floorboards groaning heavily beneath his weight and the filthy riding boots he didn't even bother to tug off. he wanted the house to remember he had been there, bringing in the dirt trapped under his fingernails and the clothes that had thoroughly drenched themselves in road grime and pungent sweat.
you were hellbent on showing your gratitude, though the walk from the general store had lasted barely a couple of minutes, accompanied by paranoid gazes drilling relentless holes into his brawny back, the locals wondering how soon the big, bad beast would finally tear into the naive lamb.
yet you merely fluttered your guileless eyes up at him, your sugary lips parting around a chippery inquiry “i’ve got a pie fresh out of the oven, would you care for a slice, mister morgan?” addressing him with total politeness, using his last name even though he’d given you his first the very day he’d taken a liking to you.
a broad smile cut across his rugged face as he nodded, agreeing right away before you could even finish your sentence, stepping past the door you held open for him in such an inviting, attentive manner. the pie was not small at all, it was a classic fruit pastry with a buttery, flaky crust stuffed with sweetly tart cherries.
the bright crimson filling smeared across his chapped lips and lingered on his nicked fingers as a few stray berries escaped, and as he licked his mouth clean, deep voice rumbling “that’s about the best damn pie i’ve ever had” he grinned, thoroughly satisfied to see you bow your head and giggle in tiny, shy gratitude.
arthur had no business stalling at the threshold on his way out, fixing you with that tight, calculating squint. he was playing dumb, eager to see what you would do upon noticing his sudden reluctance to leave. his gaze did not wander to the neat interior behind you, the plush armchair or the lace doilies covering surfaces, but remained pinned strictly to your teeth teased lips.
you took a cautious step, then another, stopping an uneven breath away from his stocky chest before stretching up on your tiptoes. your hands found purchase upon his bunched, muscular shoulders, feeling the flannel shirt beneath, neck angling so you could press a fleeting butterfly kiss to his scratchy, bearded cheek.
he let out a deep, granular grunt that vibrated in his throat, attempting to sound entirely unbothered, until his massive palms, shamelessly greedy, suddenly pawed at your ass. hands clamped over the pert curve, his blunt nails digging into your flesh as he hauled your skirt high enough to leave you nearly exposed, air sneaking underneath.
holding you flush against his weight, and even when an uncontrollable, embarrassed whimper “o—oh!” escaped your throat, you didn't try to jerk out his bounding hold. your limbs went wax and mellow as he planted a wet, smudgy kiss against your jawbone, and only then did he abruptly let you go.
catching his belt loops with his fingers, casting a lazy, arrogant smirk over his shoulder while you stood there like a cornered deer, shivering, your clothes wrinkled, completely paralyzed by the rough, purring tone to his voice “see ya around, sweethear'” then the door clicked shut, leaving you alone to stare at the timber panels and the clumpy mud staining the floor you’d spent all morning wiping bare.
down the trail, the amber sun turned his carob hair into liquid syrup, arthur's fingers gripping his hat and tugging it down against the glare, letting the cool wind wash over his sweat dampened neck as he kept a steady pace down the dirt road, a single calloused fingertip tracing the seam of his own mouth idly, still branded with the memory of how your delicate skin had felt.
arthur did not go to people when he was hurt, it simply was not in his nature. even in camp, if anyone started asking questions about his health, they’d get nothing but a scowl and a curse. to you, he ridden hard through the timber with a white hot ache in his side, bleeding wet from where a lead bullet had grazed too closely beneath his ribs, tearing through both his new shirt and sun baked skin.
he held a palm clamped against the ruby leak when he knocked on your door, letting out pained grunts that were much louder than what he actually felt, playing it up a bit, making it sound worse than it was, he’d survived more than this and had patched up his own entry wounds more times than he could count.
the look on your face was exactly what he’d been starving to see, that pure, terrified panic as you yelped out “gods, arthur, you’re bleeding!” the second the latch clicked. he shoved his way inside, and you caught him in your arms, barely able to support his massive weight, but desperately trying to do so, dainty shoulders buckling under his weight as you hauled him over the threshold.
you ushered him past the tiny living room and into your bedroom, lowering him onto the bed with its straightened sheets, neatly gathered pillows, and blooming floral patterns. leaving him there with breathless, soothing whispers to rummage frantically for bandages, water, and a clean cloth.
the injury did not require a stitch, he wouldn't have come to you if it had been a gut shot, but it took a steady hand to scrub the grime out and roll the bandages tight. fingers trembling and your eyebrows pinched inward as you asked how he felt every few minutes, pursing your lips whenever he hissed “ain’t nothin' but a scratch, missy, don’t fret” but you fretted nonetheless, urging him to lie down while you cleared away the blood stained rags, his square jaw flexing.
never hearing him get up, he crept up behind you like while you were busy putting the medicine back in the drawer, a sharp reprimand nearly left your lips in a wobbly tone, caught as a lump, but his hefty weight slammed you flush against the wooden table, pelvis ground hard into your backside.
you shivered, clutching at at the corded, scarred muscles of his forearm as he nuzzled his chin into your exposed shoulder, thick chest vibrating against your shoulder blade with a deep, territorial purr “ya're too damn good to meh, sweetie. . 'n aah reckon aah haven't paid mah debts fo wah it yet, have aah?”
it was effortlessly easy for him to swoon you. reaching out, he placed his roughened fingers beneath your chin, tipping your head in his direction and grasping your jaw between his thumb and forefinger firmly. his eyes remained riveted to the way your lips parted as he leaned in, sealing his mouth over yours. you accepted him, welcoming all he had to give as the tender, teasing kiss quickly spiraled into a rapacious devouring.
feeling his lips curl into a smile when you let out a breathy whimper into the embrace, your lower lip caught behind his crooked teeth and dragged downward, denting raw divots. arthur swallowed a heavy grunt, chapped lips brushing against the corner of your mouth until his tongue slipped past, forcing your lips further apart so he could curl in your wet, warm mouth, against your teeth.
slumping helplessly against him, chasing the way he cornered you against the table with an insistent pressure, giving a shallow hump to your ass. he scooped you up effortlessly into his muscular arms, carrying you over to the bed to lay you down flat, your cheek smushed into the sheets so he could reach the complex laces on your patterned corset.
watching with narrowed eyes as your spine bowed toward him in surrender, his pupils expanding like pooling ink stains while a few wavy strands of hair fell messily across his wrinkled forehead. sinking his knee into the mattress, the bed groaned under his weight but grew quiet as he leaned closer, the stays of your corset finally giving out and loosening enough for him to tug the fabric away.
warm candlelight glow spilling across your bare skin, and his gaze traced the delicate lines of your body, his ears straining to catch the shaky way you stuttered his name “a—arthur. .” in response, his thewy arm snaked around your waist, hoisting you upward only to whirl you around, your own hands flying to his clothes, fumbling and tugging at the fabric in equal impatience.
arthur shrugged his striped shirt down his hulking shoulders, the fabric leaving a burgundy smudge against your pristine sheets. as your dainty fingers tripped over his belt bucking and trousers, he reached down to help you, enveloping your hands within his own calloused palms. showing you how to strip him properly, the leather belt, the worn buttons at his pants, until his scarred, weathered skin was completely bared for you to gaze upon.
your hand swept down his rippling stomach, tracing the pudgy, slightly thick layer where a brunet trail of hair ran through, down toward his coarse groin. it was there that he stilled your eager touch, gently tugging your hand away to pin it beside your head, his fingers entwining with yours as he pinned you to the linens.
undergarments had already been discarded onto the floor by the bedpost, your combinations soaked through with tacky arousal, and he drank in the glossy sight of just how aroused you were. his heavy palm encouraging your legs to part wider so he could bend over, pressing a trail of burning kisses across your jumpy stomach and heaving ribs, his wiry beard chafing your warm skin and making your pelvis arch in needy squirm.
though your eyes were drawn anxiously to his bandaged side, all distraction melted away the moment his teeth clamped firmly onto your hipbone, the biting kiss quickly soothed with a slow, wet stroke of his tongue, voice dropping into a hoarse, heavy rumble “so damn beautiful. . 'n all fo wah meh”
you hiccup when he studies your pussy too close, a humid breath away with his crooked nose hovering above, ring finger curling to probe at the drooling hole, calloused pad getting sucked in slow, coated by dampening slick. arthur soothes with a coo when his finger slides in fully, stretching you open enough to make you keen, clawing nails into his hand.
the other digging into the pillows above, pussy adjusting slowly, and he chooses a couple shallow strokes, his lips pulling into a slight smirk when you grind back into the press, spasming walls quivering around the intrusion, until there's another digit prodding beside, working you up.
as responsive as arthur expected, keening so loud it rings in the candlelit room, almost sobbing when his swollen cockhead spreads your puffy folds, notching at your gaping hole. his hand leaving yours so he could grasp your legs instead, hiking them up gently, almost to their very limit, before settling separately over his broad shoulders.
he rubbed up and down your calves in a slow, soothing rhythm, folding your body beautifully beneath his weight as he leaned in, his hips jutting forward. heat sticky between your thighs, ankles nearly hooking together across the broad expanse of his shoulder blades, gorged cock splitting you wide, having your tight pussy take more to swallow around the veins and ridges.
eyes drooping, clouded with tears that bead on your waterline, pussy making wet, sloppy noise as he lodged deeper, your kiss swollen lips parting around a soundless moan when plump his tip knocked up, reaching and rubbing that round spot inside you, tapping the gummy curve. arthur’s grip dimpled your thigh as it hung suspended in the air, fingers digging deep nail indents into supple skin.
his sweat slicked pelvis thrusting forward, the thicket of hair at the base of his rudy cock rubbing over your fattened pearl, having no need to stroke you with his thumb right then. instead, he pressed his heavy palm flat against the soft curve of your lower belly, feeling the slight bulge that formed beneath your skin when he bullied in, bottoming out with a satisfied rumble.
the fresh linen around his ribs leaked a dark, blooming crimson, the bloody stain spreading wider with each shift of his weight. his brawny muscles locked tight, shifting under his skin as he dragged himself backward until only his blunt cockhead rested inside, then pushing back in, punching ragged, sobbing hitches, making your cunt spasm in response, more wetness gushing around and dripping down to the crease where your ass met thighs.
heart leaping, hammering violently against your ribcage, despite the heavy heat still coiling thick behind your navel, a dull, thrumming ache that pulled and pulled at your nerves, you reached a frantic, scrabbling hand toward arthur's torso. voice slipping out as a hoarse whimper, thick and molassed with a heavy worry “a—arthur, your wound!” that distracted him instantly, pounding thrusts faltering and cock twitching within your velvety inner walls.
he grunts, reddish chest heaving and sweat catching glittery on the hairs dusted there, some slicking his temples and cutting down his high cheekbone, hand at your tummy retreating away, lidded eyes lingering on still prominent bulge, especially as his cock jerks, skin stretching over.
“reckon aah told ya not to worry, but ya just won’t listen, will ya?” he wasn’t angry, he couldn’t be, not while he had his hands all over you. yet, his fingers reached behind him, blindly shuffling through the tangled sheets until he got a firm grip on a piece of discarded cloth, his long worn, threadbare, and frayed bandana.
it carried the raw filth of the entire west, steeped in his musky sweat, stained with tobacco, and grasped by dirty hands too many times to count without ever being properly washed. he knuckled the fabric into his fist once, then twice, and brought it directly to your mouth, which was already hanging slack from the breathless cries he was wrenching out of you. shoving the grime stained cloth past your wet lips and teeth, he watched closely as your jaw worked around the makeshift gag.
brows troubled into a tight, panicked knot as your mouth instinctively fought the gag, eyes wide and glazed as a muffled, questioning hum escaped your throat. arthur only grinned, turbulent stare glinting with a look of pure satiety, as his deep thrusts suddenly resumed, breaking into a rhythm far rougher than before. hips arching in an exquisite curve beneath him, feeling pleasantly numb as your legs, long since gone limp over his broad shoulders, needed his sturdy support.
his fingers wrapped tightly around your shins to keep them up, toes curling in tight, helpless tremors each time he slammed forward, body jolting beneath his pressing weight. eyes close to become crossed, thin whimpers and moans punched out in muffledly hiccuping “hn—mnn—” every time his hips slapped wet, angled to wedge his leaky cock beneath the plug of your cervix, tears burning in your eyes, walls contracting and slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
arthur had too ill manneredly forgotten about the lush swell of your breasts, which were practically begging for his undivided attention with every tantalizing movement of your body. sliding his heavy frame upwards, hands finally releasing your legs, feeling your limbs remain comfortably heavy and suspended in their place over his shoulders, before he bent his head down.
closing his mouth hungrily around your breast, his tongue swirled in slow, demanding circles around your perking, hardened nipple, breathtaking tears breaking through and sliding down your cheeks as you felt devastatingly overstimulated.
arms shaky when you lifted them to wind around his flush dusted, scalding neck, your palms desperate for purchase on his nape. he drank in the rough, choked back whimpers and warbled sobs vibrating against his ears, watching the gloss of saliva leak from your parted teeth only to stain and dissolve into the grime of the black cloth wedged behind your jaw.
“yeah, hold on meh, gonna cum soon aah bet, aren't ya, hon'?” he whispers raggedly, his own stomach churning, cock twitching from where it sits deep and demanding, his lips finally leaving your swollen nipple, littering a trail of open mouthed kisses up to your collarbone, before his teeth nipped hard into the giving flesh of your throat.
you gave a weak, dazed nod, your head lolling back over the pillows, though your clenching, drooling hole spoke enough. you fought to cry out his name over and over, fingernails biting deep into the scruff of his neck, but the sound escaped your throat as nothing more than a rattling, strung wail, a fine, helpless tremor starting out across your thighs.
pussy walls snug around him, tightening and tightening with rapid clenches, sucking him even deeper, and then erupting, liquid pooling in your belly and out your gaping hole, triggering him, balls drawn up and twitching. it makes you roll your hips, pussy fluttering again, shifting the jolting head of his cock inside, deep thrusts molding to rutting, muscles locking taut, and he knows the exact moment tension releases from the pit of your belly by how your shiny eyes roll back into their sockets.
his freckled nose pressing to the shell of your ear, howling loud and letting the sound slink down your spine, humping shallowly into you. sloppy thrust after sloppy thrust into your oozing, wall tight cunt, pulsing cockhead catching against the bump at the front, as his cum spurted out in milky, hot ropes inside. his shuddering body curled heavily over yours, strength spent as he couldn't hold himself up.
heat bloomed beneath your heart and ribs, dewy hole foaming in slick, milky rings around his thick length, yet, his hips continued to move in a slow circles, drawing obscene, filthy squelches from your joined bodies, plugging you with his seed. it took him a breath, perhaps more, before his spine stretched slowly, tired joints popping and large palms returning to your body, hands smoothing downward from your sensitive breasts to still twitching hips.
you had stopped making any sound at all, nostrils flaring with ragged breaths and eyes hardly open, requiring him to gently tap your blistering cheek just to see them focus back on. his hand hovered over your mouth for a lingering second before he finally freed you, pulling his damp bandana out from past your teeth with stretching strings of saliva.
your jaw flexed and ached as you tried to slur his name, but he gently shushed you, knowing you would let out a incoherent mewl the exact moment he pulled his hips back, his softened length slowly slipping from your pussy. immediately, a frothing, pearlescent white mixture of your shared release pooled out, oozing lazily onto the crumpled sheets beneath. chilling too quickly against your sticky thighs, making you reach down in discomfort.
arthur, however, was quicker, gently pushing your hand away, turning back and letting it fall limp at your side while he murmured, breathing turning less labored “easy, love, deep breaths. . i’ll do it myself” and he did, using that very same filthy bandana. reaching down, gently dabbing it against your sore pussy, mindful of the way you hissed and winced, allowing the wet mixture of your blended cum to seep into the fabric until nothing shimmered on your skin.
he didn't discard the rag onto the floor or fling it toward a dark corner of the wall. instead, he brought the wet cloth up to his face, pressing it directly against his nose to cover his mouth and jaw, thick chest rumbling with a deep, territorial sound as he took a filling whiff with the smell and taste of you.
your lips wobbled at the sheer intensity of the sight, achy hole giving a helpless, pulsing flutter that oozed fresh slick. it was a display that bordered on the utterly deranged, but you could only twist your head away, hiding your burning face deep into the pillow, which drew a thundering, satisfied laugh from his lungs.
“i—it’s disgusting” you had managed to burble, peering up at him as he already crawled back over you. his limp length dragged purposefully through the slick warmth of your folds, a lazy friction that drew a soft breath from your lips. his mouth found yours in a slow, lingering kiss, no longer trying to devour you, but seeking only to soothe, turquoise irises captivatingly serene.
laying nose to nose, forehead to forehead, as his wavy strands fell softly into your eyes. you let your wispy eyelashes flutter shut, tender hands framing the rugged lines of his jawbone, rubbing up and down to let his coarse beard scrape your skin pleasantly. offering no resistance, completely silent in response to his low, telling whisper “yeah. . 'n so am aah”
