photo creds to ★ | divider by me with images from pinterest
masterlist⋆˚꩜｡
[ nsfw 🦢 ]
★ arthur morgan:
bound by the chase — arthur morgan x fem!oc / longfic
🦢 in my bone marrow — arthur morgan x fem!reader
🦢 a matter of confession — arthur morgan x nun!reader
🦢 gentle hands — arthur morgan x fem!reader
steady now — arthur morgan x fem!reader
the things he doesn't keep — arthur morgan x fem!reader + dutch van der linde x fem!reader
a study in softness — arthur morgan x fem!reader
the making of a gentleman — arthur morgan x fem!reader
the luck of it — arthur morgan x fem!reader
🦢 bad habit — arthur morgan x bath girl!reader
the company you keep — arthur morgan x fem!reader
he who wore the sun — knight!arthur morgan x princess!reader
🦢 a ribbon for your thoughts — arthur morgan x fem!reader
★ dutch van der linde:
🦢 favorite little thing — dutch van der linde x fem!reader
★ joel miller:
🦢 talk me through it + 🦢 delayed arrival (2/2) — joel miller x fem!reader
🦢 main attraction (2/4) — joel miller x stripper!reader
yesss i promise 🙏🏻😁 working on it as we speak to post sometime this week! IT'S TAKING ME AGES TO FINISH THE SERIES UNFORTUNATELY but i hope it's worth the wait 🤍🤍🤍
"But even when I'm quiet / I love you, baby, I promise"
— Olivia Rodrigo / "honeybee"
Arthur photo cred ★ | other photos and dividers are from pinterest
⟢ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
⟢ warnings: smut (18+, mdni), consensual sex, p in v, emotional smut, mutual pining, tenderness, YEARNING!!!, acts of service, Arthur Morgan fell first, awkward Arthur Morgan, emotional intimacy, reader caught snooping, Arthur hides little keepsakes of you
⟢ word count: ~2.1k
You hadn't meant to go rummaging through Arthur Morgan's things.
You're a curious girl; you couldn't help it. That's what you'd tell him if he caught you crouched beside his cot anyway, one hand buried in the old wooden chest he kept at his bedside.
Dutch had sent him out with Javier just before sunrise, and you thought Arthur left behind the book you'd been searching for—the one he swore he hadn't taken, despite seeing him with it tucked beneath his arm not two nights ago.
The book wasn't in the chest, but a small tin was. Hidden beneath an old shirt and tucked so far in the corner, you almost missed it at first glance.
You recognized it instantly. Arthur carried it everywhere he went, guarding it with the same quiet possessiveness as his journal and the guns at his hip. You never asked what was in it, and he never offered to tell you.
You knew better than to open it, better than to invade his privacy.
You did it anyway.
The lid gave way with a soft metallic click, and for a moment, all you could do was stare.
Curled inside was a faded ribbon, pale pink and fraying at the edges. Beneath it sat the wrapper from a piece of peppermint candy—your favorite. The kind you always liked to share with him when you could remember to buy them in town. There was also a pressed wildflower, one you'd given him well over a month prior, and the stub of a pencil you had lent him once that he'd never given back, namely cause you'd forgotten to ask.
Small, ordinary things. Your things.
Your fingers hovered over the ribbon, the tip of your forefinger running along its worn edge. You remembered wrapping it around his wrist one morning, just before he set off on a train robbery you thought might take him from you.
He complained about the sun beating down on the back of his neck as you tied it into place, and you laughed as he grumbled that he felt foolish wearing it. He tore it off just before leaving. You didn't think he'd kept it all this time.
"You got a good reason for diggin' through my belongings?" Arthur's voice sounded from behind you.
You froze, turning slowly toward him, the tin tucked behind your back.
"Hiya, darlin'," you said with a smile, but that waver in your voice gave you away. "What brings you back so soon?"
You hid the tin to little avail, and when he stepped in close, near pinning you to the post, you let him take it without a fuss.
He looked at it, flipped it open to see the contents—untouched, just as he left them—then tucked it into his pocket.
"You gonna explain yourself?" he asked, shifting on his feet and crossing his strong arms against his chest.
"I was just—" you stammered. "Didn't go lookin' for it. Reckon it found me instead."
He huffed. "You expect me to believe that?"
Seeing him like that, heckles raised, made something in you falter, and you gripped his forearms before you could think better of it.
"Oh, Arthur. Don't look at me like that," you implored, thumb smoothing along his skin. "Didn't mean no harm."
The tips of his ears were pink as daisies, his eyes downcast. He looked more like a scorned child than a grown man caught guarding his private affairs.
When he didn't speak, your mouth opened in his stead.
"...Why'd you keep 'em?" you asked, looking up at him with inquisitive eyes he couldn't quite look away from. "My things. Ain't nothin' special about 'em."
"Didn't seem right," he muttered.
"What?"
"Throwin' 'em out."
You stared at him then like he'd said something out of sorts. Such unimportant little things, and he was holding onto them like they were worth something all on their own.
After the silence grew uncomfortable, and he still looked awfully ashamed to have his secret uncovered, you stepped around him.
"Well," you said, hands clasped idly in front of you. "I oughta get back to work, else Miss Grimshaw will never let me hear the end of it."
He nodded. "Yeah."
You felt every bit as awful as he looked then, your mind scolding you for never knowing when to keep your hands to yourself. You wondered if you'd ruined the fragile thing between you as you went on to do the washing, his eyes never meeting yours for more than a second afterward.
It made your heart feel heavy as stone, made your eyes prick with an emotion you seldom thought to show.
When night came, the moon hanging its dreary head over camp, you waited for the rest of the gang to retire. You watched Arthur throw himself onto his cot, watched him drape an arm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling with slowing breaths.
You crept over to him after a while, careful not to make a sound, and sought to rouse him gently.
"Arthur." You whispered, giving his arm a careful shake. "Wake up."
He let out a low grunt as you nudged his shoulder.
"...Mm."
"Arthur."
He frowned, brows knitting together before one eye cracked open. "S'matter?"
His voice was thick with sleep, gravelly enough to sound almost unfamiliar to your ears. When he realized it was only you, kneeling beside his cot in your underclothes, the tension in his shoulders eased.
He ran a hand over your hair, seemingly forgetting that he hadn't spoken a word to you since mid-day. "You alright?"
"'M alright," you murmured, taking his hand from your hair and kissing his knuckles. "Gotta relieve myself. Didn't wanna go by my lonesome, 'case the wolves get me," you teased quietly. "Will you walk with me?"
He didn't say a word for a moment. Only grunted, pushed the blanket down his legs, then tugged on his boots.
"Which way we goin'?" he asked, doing up his belt.
"Whichever is fine," you answered in earnest.
Side by side, you headed in a direction you couldn't quite distinguish as being east or west, north or south. All you knew was that the camp was quiet, the fire nearly gone out, and the crickets sang louder the farther you went.
You wrung your fingers in front of you as you thought up what to say, shivering slightly from the wind in your chemise. Arthur draped his jacket over your shoulders without a word.
"Reckon we're far enough now."
He shifted his weight, turning away to give you privacy. Before he could take another step, you rose onto your toes, and your lips brushed his cheek. Quick as lightning in a passing storm, it was gone before he'd even realized what had happened.
Arthur froze, his shoulders going rigid in the moonlight.
"...What was that for?"
You were suddenly very interested in the toes of your boots, and the mud slick beneath them.
"I... just wanted to say I'm sorry. For snoopin'."
He frowned, and in his silence, you huffed. His jacket still hung from your shoulders, nearly swallowing you whole.
"Well? Say somethin'," you urged, still not looking up.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Wasn't nothin'."
Your brows shot up, gaze meeting his in surprise. "Oh, it was too. You ain't hardly looked at me since."
"I'm lookin' now."
"But you're angry with me," you chided, lips pulling into a pout.
"Wasn't nothin' you did," he said with a sigh, his thumbs hooked beneath his belt. "Foolish of me to be holdin' onto such things."
"Ain't foolish to care," you said then, lifting your chin high in defiance. "I thought it was awful sweet of you."
He scoffed. "I ain't a sweet man."
"Could'a fooled me."
He didn't argue, didn't utter a word in response. Only looked at the ground and scratched at his beard like he couldn't think of anything to say.
You reached up and smoothed the collar of his jacket, giving your fingers something to do when he asked, "You goin' or not?"
You shook your head. "Don't need to."
"...No?"
You shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I lied."
"To make me come out here?"
You nodded slowly. He only sighed in return and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Come on then. Let's get back—"
Your fingers curled around his wrist just enough to stop him. "Don't wanna leave things the way they are," you murmured.
His shoulders dropped a little, and he turned his glance to your fingers against him. His thumb ran absent circles over the back of your hand for a moment.
"Neither do I," he said—so quietly, you could've mistaken his voice for the wind rustling the leaves.
Before the courage could leave you, you kissed him once. His lips were rough against yours, his stubble scraping your chin. He held his breath until your arms went round his neck. Then he let out a sharp breath, and his hands, which hovered awkwardly at his sides a moment prior, settled on the curve of your waist like it pained him.
You pulled back just enough to look at him when his lips stayed still against yours. "You gonna kiss me back?"
He blinked in confusion. "Thought I was."
"You ain't," you said, your amused breath ghosting across his mouth. "You're still as a deer that's 'boutta be made supper."
His fingers shifted against your waist, the tips of them slipping beneath the hem of your chemise and resting against your bare skin. The sensation drew a quiet gasp from your lips. He swallowed it a heartbeat later.
You gave ground without realizing it, one slow step at a time, until the rough bark of a tree caught against your back. He followed without meaning to, one hesitant step for every one you took, until there was nowhere left for either of you to go.
His lips had long since left yours, brushing along your cheek, your jaw, trailing down to your neck and collarbone just before the thin line of your chemise. He lingered there, breath warm against your skin, as though anticipating you telling him no.
When the word never came, and your fingers threaded gently through his hair, urging him lower, his hesitation began to leave him.
His hands lingered at your waist a moment longer, thumbs grazing the fabric gathered there. Slowly—as though giving you every possible chance to stop him—they bunched the cotton up.
What came next surprised you in its gentleness. His mouth descended upon your breast, his tongue working over the bud with the care of a man at risk of losing his composure.
Your heart beat quickly beneath his hand where it rested, and you felt him harden against your stomach.
"Arthur, please," you breathed, fingers curled tight around his shoulder, the others settled along his nape.
"You're alright," he mumbled, nipping lightly.
There was nothing hurried about the way he took you, there against the old oak.
He held your hips, helping you move against him as you found your rhythm. Your soft moans had his breath hitching in your ear, accompanied by low groans that betrayed his pleasure. The wetness between you had him hissing low through clenched teeth.
"Need more," you whined, arching into him for a better angle.
He shifted you onto him with a firm tug, hitting right where you needed him. He pressed kisses to your shoulder, hands settling against the tree to keep it from digging into your back. "I got you."
You buried your face in his neck, whimpering when his calloused fingers moved between your thighs to work you over. He didn't let up, rubbing tight circles against you that had your hips bucking against his palm, chasing the friction he provided.
He watched your face contort, watched your chest heave as your muscles drew up tight.
"That's it," he encouraged, voice raspy and thick. "Let it happen."
Your pleasure crested over you like harsh waves against a shore, your thighs trembling against his sides, slick with your arousal. You cried out against his shoulder, nails biting into his back.
He took it all in stride.
Just a couple more thrusts on his part and he went still, hips stuttering with a muffled groan as his forehead fell to yours. He hummed as he filled you, eyes blinking open to see yours staring right back.
"...You okay?" he asked, and you nodded.
"I'm right where I wanna be," you said, stifling a yawn.
He brushed your hair back after tucking himself away, pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders when the wind picked up, then kissed your forehead in silence.
He didn't need to say another word. Somehow, you understood him all the same.
The tin would find its way back beneath Arthur's shirts before sunrise, nestled into the corner of the chest where it belonged.
In time, there'd be more ribbons.
More flowers.
More little things tucked away beside the rest.
a/n: i loved writing this sooooo much ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆ thank you to the lovely @risingtripletaurus for the request. you're the best ever and i hope i did your vision justice!
i've been writing a lot less than i expected so i hope you'll all forgive me. but thank you for trusting me to write Arthur; i adore him so much and i'm glad i get to bring him to life with my writing and share it with you. love you all sm!!! 🤍🤍🤍
"But even when I'm quiet / I love you, baby, I promise"
— Olivia Rodrigo / "honeybee"
Arthur photo cred ★ | other photos and dividers are from pinterest
⟢ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
⟢ warnings: smut (18+, mdni), consensual sex, p in v, emotional smut, mutual pining, tenderness, YEARNING!!!, acts of service, Arthur Morgan fell first, awkward Arthur Morgan, emotional intimacy, reader caught snooping, Arthur hides little keepsakes of you
⟢ word count: ~2.1k
You hadn't meant to go rummaging through Arthur Morgan's things.
You're a curious girl; you couldn't help it. That's what you'd tell him if he caught you crouched beside his cot anyway, one hand buried in the old wooden chest he kept at his bedside.
Dutch had sent him out with Javier just before sunrise, and you thought Arthur left behind the book you'd been searching for—the one he swore he hadn't taken, despite seeing him with it tucked beneath his arm not two nights ago.
The book wasn't in the chest, but a small tin was. Hidden beneath an old shirt and tucked so far in the corner, you almost missed it at first glance.
You recognized it instantly. Arthur carried it everywhere he went, guarding it with the same quiet possessiveness as his journal and the guns at his hip. You never asked what was in it, and he never offered to tell you.
You knew better than to open it, better than to invade his privacy.
You did it anyway.
The lid gave way with a soft metallic click, and for a moment, all you could do was stare.
Curled inside was a faded ribbon, pale pink and fraying at the edges. Beneath it sat the wrapper from a piece of peppermint candy—your favorite. The kind you always liked to share with him when you could remember to buy them in town. There was also a pressed wildflower, one you'd given him well over a month prior, and the stub of a pencil you had lent him once that he'd never given back, namely cause you'd forgotten to ask.
Small, ordinary things. Your things.
Your fingers hovered over the ribbon, the tip of your forefinger running along its worn edge. You remembered wrapping it around his wrist one morning, just before he set off on a train robbery you thought might take him from you.
He complained about the sun beating down on the back of his neck as you tied it into place, and you laughed as he grumbled that he felt foolish wearing it. He tore it off just before leaving. You didn't think he'd kept it all this time.
"You got a good reason for diggin' through my belongings?" Arthur's voice sounded from behind you.
You froze, turning slowly toward him, the tin tucked behind your back.
"Hiya, darlin'," you said with a smile, but that waver in your voice gave you away. "What brings you back so soon?"
You hid the tin to little avail, and when he stepped in close, near pinning you to the post, you let him take it without a fuss.
He looked at it, flipped it open to see the contents—untouched, just as he left them—then tucked it into his pocket.
"You gonna explain yourself?" he asked, shifting on his feet and crossing his strong arms against his chest.
"I was just—" you stammered. "Didn't go lookin' for it. Reckon it found me instead."
He huffed. "You expect me to believe that?"
Seeing him like that, heckles raised, made something in you falter, and you gripped his forearms before you could think better of it.
"Oh, Arthur. Don't look at me like that," you implored, thumb smoothing along his skin. "Didn't mean no harm."
The tips of his ears were pink as daisies, his eyes downcast. He looked more like a scorned child than a grown man caught guarding his private affairs.
When he didn't speak, your mouth opened in his stead.
"...Why'd you keep 'em?" you asked, looking up at him with inquisitive eyes he couldn't quite look away from. "My things. Ain't nothin' special about 'em."
"Didn't seem right," he muttered.
"What?"
"Throwin' 'em out."
You stared at him then like he'd said something out of sorts. Such unimportant little things, and he was holding onto them like they were worth something all on their own.
After the silence grew uncomfortable, and he still looked awfully ashamed to have his secret uncovered, you stepped around him.
"Well," you said, hands clasped idly in front of you. "I oughta get back to work, else Miss Grimshaw will never let me hear the end of it."
He nodded. "Yeah."
You felt every bit as awful as he looked then, your mind scolding you for never knowing when to keep your hands to yourself. You wondered if you'd ruined the fragile thing between you as you went on to do the washing, his eyes never meeting yours for more than a second afterward.
It made your heart feel heavy as stone, made your eyes prick with an emotion you seldom thought to show.
When night came, the moon hanging its dreary head over camp, you waited for the rest of the gang to retire. You watched Arthur throw himself onto his cot, watched him drape an arm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling with slowing breaths.
You crept over to him after a while, careful not to make a sound, and sought to rouse him gently.
"Arthur." You whispered, giving his arm a careful shake. "Wake up."
He let out a low grunt as you nudged his shoulder.
"...Mm."
"Arthur."
He frowned, brows knitting together before one eye cracked open. "S'matter?"
His voice was thick with sleep, gravelly enough to sound almost unfamiliar to your ears. When he realized it was only you, kneeling beside his cot in your underclothes, the tension in his shoulders eased.
He ran a hand over your hair, seemingly forgetting that he hadn't spoken a word to you since mid-day. "You alright?"
"'M alright," you murmured, taking his hand from your hair and kissing his knuckles. "Gotta relieve myself. Didn't wanna go by my lonesome, 'case the wolves get me," you teased quietly. "Will you walk with me?"
He didn't say a word for a moment. Only grunted, pushed the blanket down his legs, then tugged on his boots.
"Which way we goin'?" he asked, doing up his belt.
"Whichever is fine," you answered in earnest.
Side by side, you headed in a direction you couldn't quite distinguish as being east or west, north or south. All you knew was that the camp was quiet, the fire nearly gone out, and the crickets sang louder the farther you went.
You wrung your fingers in front of you as you thought up what to say, shivering slightly from the wind in your chemise. Arthur draped his jacket over your shoulders without a word.
"Reckon we're far enough now."
He shifted his weight, turning away to give you privacy. Before he could take another step, you rose onto your toes, and your lips brushed his cheek. Quick as lightning in a passing storm, it was gone before he'd even realized what had happened.
Arthur froze, his shoulders going rigid in the moonlight.
"...What was that for?"
You were suddenly very interested in the toes of your boots, and the mud slick beneath them.
"I... just wanted to say I'm sorry. For snoopin'."
He frowned, and in his silence, you huffed. His jacket still hung from your shoulders, nearly swallowing you whole.
"Well? Say somethin'," you urged, still not looking up.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Wasn't nothin'."
Your brows shot up, gaze meeting his in surprise. "Oh, it was too. You ain't hardly looked at me since."
"I'm lookin' now."
"But you're angry with me," you chided, lips pulling into a pout.
"Wasn't nothin' you did," he said with a sigh, his thumbs hooked beneath his belt. "Foolish of me to be holdin' onto such things."
"Ain't foolish to care," you said then, lifting your chin high in defiance. "I thought it was awful sweet of you."
He scoffed. "I ain't a sweet man."
"Could'a fooled me."
He didn't argue, didn't utter a word in response. Only looked at the ground and scratched at his beard like he couldn't think of anything to say.
You reached up and smoothed the collar of his jacket, giving your fingers something to do when he asked, "You goin' or not?"
You shook your head. "Don't need to."
"...No?"
You shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I lied."
"To make me come out here?"
You nodded slowly. He only sighed in return and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Come on then. Let's get back—"
Your fingers curled around his wrist just enough to stop him. "Don't wanna leave things the way they are," you murmured.
His shoulders dropped a little, and he turned his glance to your fingers against him. His thumb ran absent circles over the back of your hand for a moment.
"Neither do I," he said—so quietly, you could've mistaken his voice for the wind rustling the leaves.
Before the courage could leave you, you kissed him once. His lips were rough against yours, his stubble scraping your chin. He held his breath until your arms went round his neck. Then he let out a sharp breath, and his hands, which hovered awkwardly at his sides a moment prior, settled on the curve of your waist like it pained him.
You pulled back just enough to look at him when his lips stayed still against yours. "You gonna kiss me back?"
He blinked in confusion. "Thought I was."
"You ain't," you said, your amused breath ghosting across his mouth. "You're still as a deer that's 'boutta be made supper."
His fingers shifted against your waist, the tips of them slipping beneath the hem of your chemise and resting against your bare skin. The sensation drew a quiet gasp from your lips. He swallowed it a heartbeat later.
You gave ground without realizing it, one slow step at a time, until the rough bark of a tree caught against your back. He followed without meaning to, one hesitant step for every one you took, until there was nowhere left for either of you to go.
His lips had long since left yours, brushing along your cheek, your jaw, trailing down to your neck and collarbone just before the thin line of your chemise. He lingered there, breath warm against your skin, as though anticipating you telling him no.
When the word never came, and your fingers threaded gently through his hair, urging him lower, his hesitation began to leave him.
His hands lingered at your waist a moment longer, thumbs grazing the fabric gathered there. Slowly—as though giving you every possible chance to stop him—they bunched the cotton up.
What came next surprised you in its gentleness. His mouth descended upon your breast, his tongue working over the bud with the care of a man at risk of losing his composure.
Your heart beat quickly beneath his hand where it rested, and you felt him harden against your stomach.
"Arthur, please," you breathed, fingers curled tight around his shoulder, the others settled along his nape.
"You're alright," he mumbled, nipping lightly.
There was nothing hurried about the way he took you, there against the old oak.
He held your hips, helping you move against him as you found your rhythm. Your soft moans had his breath hitching in your ear, accompanied by low groans that betrayed his pleasure. The wetness between you had him hissing low through clenched teeth.
"Need more," you whined, arching into him for a better angle.
He shifted you onto him with a firm tug, hitting right where you needed him. He pressed kisses to your shoulder, hands settling against the tree to keep it from digging into your back. "I got you."
You buried your face in his neck, whimpering when his calloused fingers moved between your thighs to work you over. He didn't let up, rubbing tight circles against you that had your hips bucking against his palm, chasing the friction he provided.
He watched your face contort, watched your chest heave as your muscles drew up tight.
"That's it," he encouraged, voice raspy and thick. "Let it happen."
Your pleasure crested over you like harsh waves against a shore, your thighs trembling against his sides, slick with your arousal. You cried out against his shoulder, nails biting into his back.
He took it all in stride.
Just a couple more thrusts on his part and he went still, hips stuttering with a muffled groan as his forehead fell to yours. He hummed as he filled you, eyes blinking open to see yours staring right back.
"...You okay?" he asked, and you nodded.
"I'm right where I wanna be," you said, stifling a yawn.
He brushed your hair back after tucking himself away, pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders when the wind picked up, then kissed your forehead in silence.
He didn't need to say another word. Somehow, you understood him all the same.
The tin would find its way back beneath Arthur's shirts before sunrise, nestled into the corner of the chest where it belonged.
In time, there'd be more ribbons.
More flowers.
More little things tucked away beside the rest.
a/n: i loved writing this sooooo much ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆ thank you to the lovely @risingtripletaurus for the request. you're the best ever and i hope i did your vision justice!
i've been writing a lot less than i expected so i hope you'll all forgive me. but thank you for trusting me to write Arthur; i adore him so much and i'm glad i get to bring him to life with my writing and share it with you. love you all sm!!! 🤍🤍🤍
Dutch photo cred ★ | other photos and dividers are from pinterest
⟢ pairing: Dutch van der Linde x fem!reader
⟢ warnings: smut (18+, mdni), oral sex (m!receiving), oral fixation, toxic relationship, age gap (reader is in her 20s), younger!reader, possessive Dutch, power imbalance, emotional dependence, canon-typical Dutch, this is not healthy btw, but it's hot so go nuts, praise kink!, touch-starved reader, manipulation, pet names, i fear this one got me good
⟢ word count: ~1.2k
You've got yourself a quirk.
At least that's what Dutch calls it, just before he cups your chin between his fingers and swipes at your lips with affection.
If you're not sucking on mint leaves until they fall to pieces in your mouth, you're nibbling on pencils trying not to catch a splinter, or worrying your thumb until the skin wrinkles.
You don't know why—only that your jaw hurts every so often, and you always need something between your lips to soothe the ache.
But Dutch? He doesn't mind it one bit.
Says it makes you even more darling in his eyes.
That you're his favorite little thing.
Abigail keeps telling you the way you two go about things ain't healthy, that Dutch is using you. But if that's true, why does it feel so good?
Tonight, you're unsettled, squirming in bed while he tries to read, classical music drifting through the tent from the phonograph.
With a sigh, he puts the book down, glancing at you over it.
"You alright, sweet girl? You're putting up a fuss."
You meet his gaze through your lashes, lips pulled into a pout, fingers fiddling with the hem of your chemise.
"Mouth's hurtin' again," you mumble, looking down like you can't bear to see the look in his eyes when you say it.
He's never judged you for it, always reminding you to come to him for anything—that he'll take care of you.
And you believe it.
Anytime you need something, Dutch is there.
You can always count on Dutch.
"There now, sweetheart. Come here," he says, coaxing you onto his lap, his big hands settling around your hips.
His head tilts as he looks you over. Like an equation he's already learned how to solve. There's something soft there, accompanied by something predatory you've grown familiar with.
"I know what you need. You've gotten real good at it."
Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, fiddling with the buttons as your cheeks go red. "You think so?"
"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "Bet it makes your mouth feel better, too, don't it?"
"Yeah," you mumble.
You won't admit it outright, won't say the thing you know he wants to hear.
That you like the way his fingers curl in your hair, guiding your mouth onto him. That you like that he gives you praise when he's halfway down your throat, calling you his pretty girl, his sweet little thing. That you like how proud he gets when you swallow him down without spilling a drop.
But the thought of it alone makes your hands go clammy all the same, your lashes fluttering, the words getting lost on your tongue.
"Can I?" you ask quietly, lifting your gaze to search his face.
He smiles, warm enough to melt away your worries. "You've been a good girl. Earned a little kindness, haven't you?"
You nod, fingers stilling against his chest. "I've been good."
"Anything you ask of me, if I can give it, it's yours." He brushes back your hair, hand stilling where it rests firmly across your nape. "So... What do you want?"
You learned quickly that with Dutch, there's no use hiding the truth. He has a way of coaxing it out of you anyway—and he always smiles when you finally give it to him. Like you've earned it.
You slide your fingers down from his shirt, resting them over the growing hardness in his pants.
"I wanna..." You mumble, pouting again. "Do I gotta say it?"
"If you want it, you'll ask me proper. Won't you, darlin'?"
His fingers dig into your skin, holding your head in place.
"Wanna use my mouth on you," you stammer out, feeling your face burn from the top of your brows down to the tip of your chin.
"There she is." He quirks his head, rubbing gently at your neck before moving his hand down to rest atop your thigh. His fingers massage at your bare skin, drawing a quiet sigh from your lips.
"See?" he asks. "Wasn't so hard, now, was it?"
"No," you say softly, shaking your head. "Can I?"
"'Course you can." He chuckles, thumb brushing your cheek. "I ain't ever denied you much, have I?"
"There now," he says, lying back and watching as you settle between his legs, undoing his pants with shaky hands. "Go on. Let me take care of you."
You hesitate once you've got him freed, feeling him heavy and hot against your palm, bigger than you remember.
But the moment you slip him between your lips, tongue dragging along the underside of him, the tension slips from your shoulders like water off a bridge. You exhale slowly from your nose, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers tangle between the soft strands of your hair, pulling just shy of hurting.
"That's my girl. Take it all the way."
He guides your head down onto him, pushing himself against the limits of what your throat can take. You gaze up at him through glassy eyes, blurry and unfocused. He murmurs his approval.
"Good girl. Look at you."
He brushes away a tear that slips down your cheek. "Easy, darlin'. You're alright."
His praise goes straight to your head, warm and intoxicating all at once. That's the danger of Dutch van der Linde. He whispers sweet nothings until you're praying at his altar, even after he's done you wrong.
And you find yourself praying time, and time, and time again.
The ache in your jaw settles to a mere throbbing the more your mouth relaxes around him. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip as you work him deeper, whimpering softly.
"Mmm, that's it."
His low, velvet drawl reaches your ears, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine while the wet heat of your mouth works him over.
"I'm right there, sweetheart. Don't you go anywhere," he commands, tugging at your hair hard enough to sting.
When your eyes prickle with tears once more, he groans, his hips jerking unexpectedly. You take him deeper, your nose brushing against his stomach.
Your hands find purchase on his thighs, feeling the muscles twitch beneath your fingers as he swells against your throat. He inhales sharply, eyes dark with pride as he watches you take him.
He's right there on the edge. You know he is from the way his body is tensing, the way his breaths are going ragged. You redouble your efforts, sucking him down with quick bobs of your head.
With a final thrust, he holds himself buried in your throat as he spills into your mouth. You feel him throbbing, taste his release on your tongue.
He holds you there, forcing you to swallow every last drop, chest heaving as he comes down. You do so without hesitation, licking your swollen lips clean when he finally pulls himself free.
"You always do so well when you trust me," he murmurs, tucking a stray lock behind your ear, still catching his breath. "Your mouth's feeling better now, ain't it?"
You think about it for a moment. Then you feel it.
Nothing at all.
No pain, no ache, no soreness.
Just peace—and a quiet sort of satisfaction. You nod before you even realize you have.
"I feel better," you say, leaning into him and resting your head against his chest.
He drapes his arm around you, drawing you closer.
"See? Told you I'd take good care of you," he murmurs, like he'd known all along.
You giggle, smiling into his shirt.
"You always do."
a/n: hello, hello, i'm back!!! did you miss me? say yes, quickly! i was in a slump for a while, battling imposter syndrome and trying to focus on some personal projects, but i'm finally feeling better. who knew all it would take was writing some Dutch smut to pull me out from the trenches 💯 anyways, thank you for the continued support and i hope you enjoy this fic! it was such a joy to write, and it was based on this request. thank you anon, mwah!!! love you guys 🤍
Dutch photo cred ★ | other photos and dividers are from pinterest
⟢ pairing: Dutch van der Linde x fem!reader
⟢ warnings: smut (18+, mdni), oral sex (m!receiving), oral fixation, toxic relationship, age gap (reader is in her 20s), younger!reader, possessive Dutch, power imbalance, emotional dependence, canon-typical Dutch, this is not healthy btw, but it's hot so go nuts, praise kink!, touch-starved reader, manipulation, pet names, i fear this one got me good
⟢ word count: ~1.2k
You've got yourself a quirk.
At least that's what Dutch calls it, just before he cups your chin between his fingers and swipes at your lips with affection.
If you're not sucking on mint leaves until they fall to pieces in your mouth, you're nibbling on pencils trying not to catch a splinter, or worrying your thumb until the skin wrinkles.
You don't know why—only that your jaw hurts every so often, and you always need something between your lips to soothe the ache.
But Dutch? He doesn't mind it one bit.
Says it makes you even more darling in his eyes.
That you're his favorite little thing.
Abigail keeps telling you the way you two go about things ain't healthy, that Dutch is using you. But if that's true, why does it feel so good?
Tonight, you're unsettled, squirming in bed while he tries to read, classical music drifting through the tent from the phonograph.
With a sigh, he puts the book down, glancing at you over it.
"You alright, sweet girl? You're putting up a fuss."
You meet his gaze through your lashes, lips pulled into a pout, fingers fiddling with the hem of your chemise.
"Mouth's hurtin' again," you mumble, looking down like you can't bear to see the look in his eyes when you say it.
He's never judged you for it, always reminding you to come to him for anything—that he'll take care of you.
And you believe it.
Anytime you need something, Dutch is there.
You can always count on Dutch.
"There now, sweetheart. Come here," he says, coaxing you onto his lap, his big hands settling around your hips.
His head tilts as he looks you over. Like an equation he's already learned how to solve. There's something soft there, accompanied by something predatory you've grown familiar with.
"I know what you need. You've gotten real good at it."
Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, fiddling with the buttons as your cheeks go red. "You think so?"
"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "Bet it makes your mouth feel better, too, don't it?"
"Yeah," you mumble.
You won't admit it outright, won't say the thing you know he wants to hear.
That you like the way his fingers curl in your hair, guiding your mouth onto him. That you like that he gives you praise when he's halfway down your throat, calling you his pretty girl, his sweet little thing. That you like how proud he gets when you swallow him down without spilling a drop.
But the thought of it alone makes your hands go clammy all the same, your lashes fluttering, the words getting lost on your tongue.
"Can I?" you ask quietly, lifting your gaze to search his face.
He smiles, warm enough to melt away your worries. "You've been a good girl. Earned a little kindness, haven't you?"
You nod, fingers stilling against his chest. "I've been good."
"Anything you ask of me, if I can give it, it's yours." He brushes back your hair, hand stilling where it rests firmly across your nape. "So... What do you want?"
You learned quickly that with Dutch, there's no use hiding the truth. He has a way of coaxing it out of you anyway—and he always smiles when you finally give it to him. Like you've earned it.
You slide your fingers down from his shirt, resting them over the growing hardness in his pants.
"I wanna..." You mumble, pouting again. "Do I gotta say it?"
"If you want it, you'll ask me proper. Won't you, darlin'?"
His fingers dig into your skin, holding your head in place.
"Wanna use my mouth on you," you stammer out, feeling your face burn from the top of your brows down to the tip of your chin.
"There she is." He quirks his head, rubbing gently at your neck before moving his hand down to rest atop your thigh. His fingers massage at your bare skin, drawing a quiet sigh from your lips.
"See?" he asks. "Wasn't so hard, now, was it?"
"No," you say softly, shaking your head. "Can I?"
"'Course you can." He chuckles, thumb brushing your cheek. "I ain't ever denied you much, have I?"
"There now," he says, lying back and watching as you settle between his legs, undoing his pants with shaky hands. "Go on. Let me take care of you."
You hesitate once you've got him freed, feeling him heavy and hot against your palm, bigger than you remember.
But the moment you slip him between your lips, tongue dragging along the underside of him, the tension slips from your shoulders like water off a bridge. You exhale slowly from your nose, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers tangle between the soft strands of your hair, pulling just shy of hurting.
"That's my girl. Take it all the way."
He guides your head down onto him, pushing himself against the limits of what your throat can take. You gaze up at him through glassy eyes, blurry and unfocused. He murmurs his approval.
"Good girl. Look at you."
He brushes away a tear that slips down your cheek. "Easy, darlin'. You're alright."
His praise goes straight to your head, warm and intoxicating all at once. That's the danger of Dutch van der Linde. He whispers sweet nothings until you're praying at his altar, even after he's done you wrong.
And you find yourself praying time, and time, and time again.
The ache in your jaw settles to a mere throbbing the more your mouth relaxes around him. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip as you work him deeper, whimpering softly.
"Mmm, that's it."
His low, velvet drawl reaches your ears, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine while the wet heat of your mouth works him over.
"I'm right there, sweetheart. Don't you go anywhere," he commands, tugging at your hair hard enough to sting.
When your eyes prickle with tears once more, he groans, his hips jerking unexpectedly. You take him deeper, your nose brushing against his stomach.
Your hands find purchase on his thighs, feeling the muscles twitch beneath your fingers as he swells against your throat. He inhales sharply, eyes dark with pride as he watches you take him.
He's right there on the edge. You know he is from the way his body is tensing, the way his breaths are going ragged. You redouble your efforts, sucking him down with quick bobs of your head.
With a final thrust, he holds himself buried in your throat as he spills into your mouth. You feel him throbbing, taste his release on your tongue.
He holds you there, forcing you to swallow every last drop, chest heaving as he comes down. You do so without hesitation, licking your swollen lips clean when he finally pulls himself free.
"You always do so well when you trust me," he murmurs, tucking a stray lock behind your ear, still catching his breath. "Your mouth's feeling better now, ain't it?"
You think about it for a moment. Then you feel it.
Nothing at all.
No pain, no ache, no soreness.
Just peace—and a quiet sort of satisfaction. You nod before you even realize you have.
"I feel better," you say, leaning into him and resting your head against his chest.
He drapes his arm around you, drawing you closer.
"See? Told you I'd take good care of you," he murmurs, like he'd known all along.
You giggle, smiling into his shirt.
"You always do."
a/n: hello, hello, i'm back!!! did you miss me? say yes, quickly! i was in a slump for a while, battling imposter syndrome and trying to focus on some personal projects, but i'm finally feeling better. who knew all it would take was writing some Dutch smut to pull me out from the trenches 💯 anyways, thank you for the continued support and i hope you enjoy this fic! it was such a joy to write, and it was based on this request. thank you anon, mwah!!! love you guys 🤍
Summary: River Daniels has a story—a life of suffering and violence she never asked for. The blood of her mother and her brothers staining her hands red, alongside the others she's hurt along the way. They call her Phantom Jane, an outlaw who's made a ghost of herself in the mountains. A price on her head, and a trail that never stays warm long enough to follow.
Arthur Morgan's just another outlaw doing what he does best, making do where he can. Until he's tasked with bringing her in—for a man who wants her, with a name too important to speak aloud. For a while, that's all it is: a job. One he's determined to get done, and one she's hard set on not letting him finish. But some things aren't done so easy, and by the time it stops feeling like a job, it's already too late for both of them.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!OC
Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2
Tags: longfic, Arthur Morgan x female OC, Reader POV, Arthur POV, River Daniels, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, enemies to lovers (ish), hunter/hunted, outlaw/outlaw, angst, hurt/comfort, canon divergence, Arthur Morgan does not have TB, forced proximity, eventual tenderness, morally gray people trying their best
a/n: posting an unpublished fanfic turned novel i started 3 years ago on tumblr dot com, at the height of my imposter syndrome as a writer, is definitely a choice! this project is my baby, my sweet cherub, and i'm so excited to let you all read her. i'm counting this as exposure therapy for my creative writing degree btw. hope you love River and Arthur's story as much as i do :) xo
hiya! just wanted to say hello and that i love your stuff (main attraction is soooo good)! do you have a specific fandom that’s bringing you a lot of joy at the moment? 😊
hi friend!!!
thank you for dropping in to say hello and for reading my work ♡ that makes me so happy, and i'm so glad you're enjoying it! i honestly got really into house of the dragon again, so i've been working on a medieval novella in my free time since i've been inspired. other than that, i haven't been too into any other fandoms as i've been in a bit of a slump over the past few weeks.
what are you reading/listening to/watching these days? i'd love to know!
thank you for reaching out . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
"And there's no remedy for memory / your face is like a melody / It won't leave my head."
— Lana Del Rey / "Dark Paradise"
⟢ pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
⟢ warnings: provocative themes (18+, mdni), pre-outbreak Joel Miller, strip-club setting, private dance, age gap, sex work, stripper!reader, hurt/comfort, slow burn, protective Joel Miller, affection-starved reader, acts of service, emotional repression, no outbreak AU, flowers, mutual pining, first date vibes, emotional intimacy, caring Joel Miller
⟢ word count: ~3.1k
ACT I: East of Eden | Masterlist | ACT III: The Fall (TBD)
lips divider by me ♡ / lace divider and photos are from Pinterest ♡
TWO DAYS LATER //
"Had a good day off?" Poppy asks, swiping mascara through her lashes.
You pull on your bra, clasping it at your back. Sequins and fringe today, the kind that swish and glimmer with every step, catching on the lights.
"I did. Thanks," you say, glancing up at her with a smile.
Just then, Diamond enters, holding a bouquet of flowers in front of her face.
"Scarlett, babe," she exclaims, peeking around them. "You've got a secret admirer."
You blink, hands stopping where they were doing up your bra. "What the hell."
"Jenny said some guy came in and left them for you. There's no note."
Before you can dwell on it, Lacey's voice chimes from where she sits at her vanity and interrupts the thought.
"Do you think it's that guy?"
Poppy gasps, sitting upright so quickly the mascara wand nearly flies out of her grip.
"The knight?"
You frown, shooting Lacey a questioning glance.
"What guy?"
"Oh, yeah," Diamond adds. "The private dance guy. He came back yesterday asking for you."
You straighten, taking the flowers into your arms, shoulders rigid.
"He give a name?" you ask carefully.
"Yeah. Joel something."
You would ask more questions if you could think of something, anything meaningful that springs to mind, but all you manage is—
"Cool... Thank you."
You bring the flowers to your nose, inhale the sweet scent of the lilies before setting them on your vanity.
While you fill a glass to set them in water, Poppy watches you.
Catching her watching you, you ask, "What?"
She comes up behind you, resting her chin atop your head when you settle into your stool, meeting your gaze in the mirror.
"He gets a dance, then comes back asking for you, then he brings you flowers—no questions asked."
She lifts her head, plucking a lip gloss tube from your bag.
"He totally has it bad," she says with a finality that brokers no argument.
You roll your eyes with a huff. "Come on, he does not. He just wants to sleep with me or something," you reason, and the thought settles in your stomach like a brick.
Maybe, you think to yourself.
Maybe not.
You've had admirers before, sure. But they've never brought you flowers. They've never come and gone just to do something nice for you.
This is different and you know it, but how?
"Look," Poppy says, perching on the edge of the table. "I'm not saying to marry the guy, but if he wants to treat you," she shrugs, "Let 'im."
With a sigh, you relent, offering her a lip gloss that better matches her eyeshadow.
"Always the voice of reason, Poppy."
She grins, blowing you a kiss. "And don't you forget it."
All night, your thoughts linger.
On the flowers in the dressing room. On the door, wondering if he'll come in any moment now and take you by surprise. On him.
You go through the motions.
Dance, sway, grind, repeat. Your calves are sore by the time you finish your second number and you're itching for a cigarette.
"Where you goin'?" asks Lola, watching you approach the door. You tug at your robe, pulling it shut, smokes in hand.
"Taking a break. I'll be back in a minute."
"'Kay," she chimes. "Just don't take too long. You know Richie hates when we come in smelling."
"Yeah, well," you slip one between your lips. "Richie can kiss my ass."
She barks a laugh, shaking her head. "Somethin' tells me he wouldn't say no."
You groan, gagging playfully as you head outside. Your lighter clicks. Again, again, again, until you stare at it with a scowl.
"Damn thing," you mutter.
"Need a light?"
You shouldn't recognize that voice, shouldn't remember it like a hymn, but you do. "Sure," you say, turning towards him.
Your eyes don't leave his as he brings the lighter to your lips, setting fire to the tip of the cigarette held between them. As soon as it cherries, he draws the flame away, clicking the lid shut.
You take a drag, draw the smoke deep into your lungs until it burns before blowing it out in a slow breath.
"This is getting creepy now," you tease, gesturing between the two of you. "First, you come on my day off. Then you leave flowers. Now you're loitering."
"Wouldn't call it that," Joel says.
Maybe you should feel unsettled that he's putting in the effort to cross paths with you. Instead, you're elated.
"Guess the flowers were pretty nice," you hum, tapping the cigarette over the ground. You watch the ash flutter down, crossing your arms against the chill in the air, cooling the sweat lingering at your nape.
"Wasn't sure what you'd like."
"And that matters?" you ask, studying him.
He holds your gaze. "'Course it does."
You smile as you look him over. He just came from work, if the dusty boots and flannel are any indication. The cigarette burns steadily between your fingers.
"Well, I liked 'em plenty."
He clears his throat, nods once. "Good."
Your fingers reach out before you can help it, swiping at his shirt just beside the collar, brushing away lint that isn't there. "You back for another dance then?"
"That what it's gonna take?" he asks quietly, enough that you almost miss it.
Your brows furrow, confusion flickering across your face. "What?"
"To talk to you. I gotta pay?"
"Yeah. That's how it works."
Taking another long pull of the cigarette, you put it out on the ashtray beside the trash. "Gotta get back in."
Halfway to the door, you toss him a glance over your shoulder. Still standing in place, looking entirely out of his element.
"You coming?"
"Yeah," he sighs. "I'm comin'."
In the club, the air smells like sweat, cheap liquor, and desperation. It's familiar enough to be comforting—this you know. Not flowers, not sweet words, not whatever it is Joel's trying to offer.
Then you remember his expression, that sheepish look on his face that says he's learning as he goes just like you are.
You turn to face him so abruptly, you nearly collide with his chest. Rising on your toes, like you have any right to, you press a kiss to his cheek.
Quick. Chaste. A barely there brush of your lips against his tired skin.
Watching his ears flush with color, you lean in and murmur, "For the flowers."
Patting his chest, you make for the dressing room. Along the way, the robe slipping from your shoulders, you catch Poppy's eye.
"Oh my god," she mouths.
"I know," you mouth back.
At your vanity, you're halfway through touching up your makeup when Diamond pokes her head in. "Scarlett, baby, you—"
"Have a dance," you finish, already rising from your seat. "I know."
Diamond laughs. "Damn, okay! Go get your man."
"He's not my man."
"Mhm. That's why you're fixing your tits like you care."
You glance down, your hands stilling where they were adjusting your bra. "He's not mine."
"Get your ass to the room already," she exclaims, swatting your ass as you walk past her.
"I'm telling you he's not," you call back. But the way you walk down the hall with renewed energy, heels clicking as you go, betrays you with every step.
He's already settled in by the time you slip inside, watching him fidget with his shirt, shift in the seat like he has no idea what to do with himself now that he's here.
"Didn't think you'd go through with it. Not gonna lie," you tease, stepping further into the room, swaying to the music that filters through the speakers.
He doesn't stare at your hips, doesn't watch you like a piece of meat. Instead, he averts his gaze entirely.
"You don't gotta dance," he says as you climb onto his lap.
"You paid for it," you murmur, staring at his lips for longer than you'd care to admit, bringing his hands to your waist.
"Not the dance. I paid to talk to you."
"And why would you do that?"
You're watching him now, head tilted like he's a puzzle you're keen on figuring out, but half of the pieces are still missing.
"'Cause I wanna know."
"About what?"
"About you."
That makes you freeze, staring at his face and searching those hazel eyes that are looking straight through you. Your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart against your palm.
You want to believe him, but your mind keeps telling you things like this don't happen to girls like you. Still, against your better judgment, you choose to believe him.
"You're serious."
"Said I was," he mutters gruffly.
When the song changes, the momentary lapse between beats filling the room with quiet, you move off of his lap to sit beside him. Thighs touching, his denim-clad leg warming yours.
"What do you wanna know?" you ask cautiously. "I don't think I can give you much."
"Whatever you wanna tell. Why you work here, what you like, what you don't."
You laugh quietly, wryly. Too good to be true.
"Sounds like a date."
"If you want it to be," is all he says, and your pulse thumps a pattern you don't recognize in response.
Swallowing, you glance down at your outfit. A skimpy two-piece covered in fringe and tacky sequins, itchy beyond belief. Heels that leave you blistered after an hour, that dig into your skin until it's mottled and bruised.
"Ain't exactly dressed for one," you murmur, pulling lightly at a strand of the fringe.
He looks at you then, fingers finding your chin, tilting it until you're forced to meet his gaze.
"Think you look pretty."
Without meaning to, your fingers curl against his nape. His hand settles on your thigh, warm and steady.
Not moving. Not trying to grab more than he deserves. Just touching you to feel close to you.
"I don't have a favorite color," you say quietly. "I like multiple, I guess. Pink, green, purple. Things like that."
You watch him for silent permission to continue, and he hums, nodding his head only once.
He doesn't interrupt, doesn't act surprised that you aren't the woman in front of him now all the time. That there are days when you have no sex appeal at all, and you wear granny panties for the sake of comfort.
You tell him you like to read, that you watch old romance movies and pretend you're the heroine the guy falls in love with. That you think falling in love is something that only happens in cinema and not real life.
You talk about how you have days where you feel disgusting and can barely pull yourself out of bed, and only when you feel too vulnerable to continue do you stop.
"I don't know what else to say. No one ever really asks me this kinda stuff."
He leans into your touch, your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp as they comb through his hair.
"S'alright," he says, voice low. "You tell me when it comes to you."
Your lips move before your mind can catch up. "Okay. I will."
The men in the club cheer loudly, the sound spilling through the crack beneath the door, drawing your attention to it. One of the girls must be performing—Poppy, maybe Lacey.
"It's not all bad working here," you admit suddenly, feeling the need to justify your decision. "I need the money, but it's a decent job."
For some reason, you think he'll tell you you're a fool. That this job is degrading, not good enough for a girl like you. Or maybe it's just right, and this is all he thinks you're worthy of doing.
"Never said it wasn't. A job's a job."
"Yeah," you smile. "Yeah, it is. The girls treat me like family, y'know? And the money's something, at least. That's all I can really ask for."
"I know what you mean," he says, and it feels like you parted the curtains on a dark, gloomy day and sunlight filled the room.
He tells you he's a contractor. That he has a daughter. That he struggles often, but does what he can for her. It makes you look at him differently.
"You seem like a good man," you murmur, fingers leaving his nape to toy with the hem of his shirt.
"Don't know about that," he chuckles.
"C'mon. Don't be modest."
A smile teases his lips. "Ain't that either."
You hardly realize how much time has passed until someone knocks at the door. "Scarlett? You have another request."
He looks away without a word, patting your leg. "S'alright. Go on."
You untangle yourself from him, withdrawing your legs from across his lap, watching him stand from the couch in silence. He holds out a hand which you take without reluctance, lifting you up easily.
Adjusting your bottoms, you're about to thank him for coming when he asks, "You got a ride home?"
"What?"
"Could give you one... If you wanted."
You shift on your feet, sore and aching in your heels. "You sure?"
He reaches out to steady you, hands hovering for a moment before settling at your sides, pulling you closer. "Yeah," he rubs lightly at your skin. "I'm sure."
You smile, smoothing his hair back. "Alright. But no funny business."
He snorts. "None of that."
"I don't get off for another hour though," you say apologetically.
"I'll wait."
You snicker despite yourself. "God, you're so weird."
He releases you finally, leading you to the door. "Yeah, you said that last time."
"And I meant it."
"That why you're blushin'?"
You straighten, cheeks burning hot when you press the backs of your hands to them. "I am not."
The corner of his mouth lifts, enough to have you staring at his mouth in disbelief. "Sure," he says, thumb brushing your cheek so gently, you'd think you imagined it. "If you say so."
And then he's leaving the room, gone before you can think of a response. You're left standing there with nothing but the rapid jump of your heart to keep you company.
As you and the girls head outside, the parking lot empty save for a few sedans and the bartender's SUV, you spot Joel's pickup truck instantly. It's a little beat-up, but well maintained despite its age.
He gets out when he sees you hobbling over, feet covered in blister patches beneath your socks.
"Need a hand?" he asks, opening the door for you.
"No, it's okay—"
He lifts you up easily, gripping your midriff to help you into the passenger seat.
A giggle escapes you. "I could've gotten up myself."
"You're limping. Don't mind helping," he says quietly.
It's so kind, the words sweet in your ears, you can't help but sigh softly in response.
"Thanks, Joel."
He shuts you in, rounding the truck to climb into the seat with a grunt. He throws it into reverse, pulling out of the spot and heading onto the main road.
"I'll guide you. Just straight from here, then make a left at the light."
"No problem."
The silence stretches, interrupted only by the idle drone of the radio and the quiet hum of the engine.
His hand rests around the shifter, thumb tapping the leather absentmindedly, your eyes flitting to it every few seconds. You bite at your lip, grip tightening around the flowers, the paper crinkling gently.
"You have a good day?" you ask abruptly.
"Can't complain. You?"
"...Yeah. I had fun."
The turn signal flicks to life—a steady click, click, click until he turns. The moment he straightens out the wheel, your fingers brush his in question.
You graze the line of his wrist, then his knuckles. An accident, you tell yourself. He glances at you briefly then turns his hand over, not saying a damn thing about it.
You slip yours into it, fingers lacing together. When his thumb rubs along your skin, your head leans back against the seat.
"That's nice," you whisper.
He doesn't respond, but you know he heard you when he squeezes lightly.
You watch him sidelong—following the slope of his nose, the scruff along his jaw, the way his lashes flutter against his cheek when he blinks.
"You're starin'," he murmurs.
"I am. Can't help it."
His face softens, jaw working then relaxing again.
"Still goin' the right way?"
You look ahead, recognizing the church on one corner and the McDonald's with its bright sign on the other. "Yeah. Turn right at the next light."
The conversation filling the air isn't small talk. It's more than that. Something unfamiliar that makes your defenses fall a little further with every breath you take in the dark cabin.
"This is me," you gesture, already gathering your things like you'll be expected to leave the second he stops.
It's a dreary apartment complex—a former motel converted into still-overpriced units that you share with more roommates than anyone knows what to do with. No central A/C despite the sizzling Texan summers, hardly a kitchen, and a single closet that scares you to open from how obnoxiously full it is.
To your surprise, he pulls into the spot closest to your door before putting the truck in park. He scans the exterior, and having had to defend it to others before, you do it again.
"It's not that bad inside. A little cramped, but we make do."
"You live with people?"
You shrug a shoulder. "A couple roommates."
"Okay," he says, exhaling slowly. "Ain't my business."
"Isn't it?" you ask, searching his face. "Am I not your business?"
"You wanna be?"
Bringing your joined hands to your lips, you hold his gaze as you press a kiss to his fingers.
"Ask me again the next time you see me."
He mulls it over then.
"Over dinner?"
"Dinner?"
"I ain't a bad cook," he says in justification. "My daughter might disagree, but I can make somethin'."
"Okay... Yeah, dinner sounds good. Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow. Six?"
"Six is good," you say quickly, like he'll suddenly change his mind. "Pick me up at six."
You start toward the apartment, flowers in your arms, duffle slung onto your shoulder.
Halfway there, you turn. He's still there, engine idling, watching to make sure you get inside.
You laugh to yourself. "Go home."
He shakes his head. "Get inside first."
"Chivalry isn't dead, huh?" you ask, twirling your keys around your finger.
"Not if I can help it."
Only after you've turned the key in the lock and given him a wave does the truck finally pull away. The engine fades into the night just as the door clicks shut behind you.
a/n: FINALLY I HAVE AN UPDATE 💔💔 forgive me for the constant delays, i was so incredibly busy with work and class, i fell behind on everything, but i'm excited to be back and i'll hopefully have part III up by next week! thank you for reading, and thank you for helping me hit my next follower milestone! ilysm!!! ❤️
