"I love my daddy, of course we're still together."
— Lana Del Rey / "White Feather Hawktail Deer Hunter"
Summary: Arthur Morgan loved Mary Linton, once upon a time—but loving him was never the hard part.
You, her younger sister, take to it easy. Too easy.
Maybe that's your mistake. Maybe it's the reason he finds himself coming back to you time and time again the way he does tonight.
One thing's for certain: he's yours, and letting him go? Well—that just ain't on offer.
★ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader / reader POV
★ warnings: 18+ smut (mdni), implied age gap, dry humping, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v sex, light praise
★ word count: ~2.5k
★ Bastille Saloon — Saint Denis
You've been pacing—back and forth, to and fro—draped in ivory lace and too-long sleeves. He isn't always late, but when he is, it tugs at something deep in your chest.
So much so that when you hear the thud of boots on wood—a heavy, tired sound—accompanied by the turn of the lock, you're up before you can help it, barreling straight toward him.
"Jesus, woman. Can't let a man get a foot in the door, can you?"
You giggle, voice teasing. "Oh, do you not love it, sugar?"
The moment your head tilts, lashes batting the way they always seem to at the mere sight of him, his shoulders drop. Your hands make quick work of his jacket, slipping beneath it and sliding it from his shoulders, discarding it onto the chaise beside you.
"Besides, I missed you somethin' awful." You pout, toying with the hair at his nape, already working the stress from his neck with pushes of your thumb. "Drank all the wine waitin' up on you."
He sighs then, hand finding your waist. It isn't the first time, not by a country mile, but he treats every damn time like it might as well be. "You shouldn't be waitin' on me, sweetheart. Ain't worth all that."
Your lips brush his cheek, his jaw, the crook of his neck as you undo the buttons of his shirt. He wore the black one you like—the one just a bit too tight that makes the cords of muscle in his arms stand out in contrast. "Then don't make me wait. That simple, darlin'."
"Yeah," he exhales slow, "I try not to. Always gonna come back to you, anyhow. You know that much."
Humming contentedly, you let your nose brush his. "That right? Always?"
Sure of himself—of you—he nods. Just the once. "Always."
Patting your rear, he moves for the bed, sitting himself on the edge to kick off his boots. You're kneeling at his side before he needs to ask, waiting patiently.
He watches you—sees you staring hard, near bursting.
"You need somethin'?"
His thumb rises, brushes your lip just enough to make you shiver.
"Wanna sit there," you murmur, eyes flicking to his thighs, then back up to him. "On your lap."
He tenses, searching your gaze for an answer of some kind. Sincerity, maybe. When it's all he happens to find in those pretty eyes of yours, he doesn't move.
He leans back, gives you the space to clamber onto him, ready to guide you into place if need be. "Go on."
You don't need to be told twice. You shift into his lap as easy as breathing, knees settling on either side of him. One of his hands finds your side without thinking, his thumb pressing slow into your waist. The other settles firm around your thigh, keeping you there, like you'll move away if he doesn't—and he just can't have that.
You don't rush a damn thing.
Leaning in, your nose brushes along the line of his jaw, then lower, nuzzling his neck. He smells like woodsmoke, leather, and sweat from a long day of hard work.
Warm. Familiar. Yours.
Your arms loop around his neck the way they have a hundred times before, but they don't stay put. You caress his chest, his shoulders, his back, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips through his shirt—massaging, stroking, prodding like you can't get enough.
And you can't. You really can't.
"Take this off, hm? For me?" You say softly, undoing the last few buttons, already pushing the fabric away. He helps you get it down his arms, unrolling the cuffs where they've been bunched around his elbows enough to offer some give.
Then he's bare-chested—all hard lines and a dark smattering of hair that leads down to where you can't see—and the breath in your lungs falters just enough to hurt.
All the while, he's watching. Curious, albeit a little unnerved by the raw devotion he sees in your gaze.
Reverence.
Heady and intense in the way it makes your chest rise and fall a little quicker, pulse thumping a rapid patter in your veins.
He exhales slow and heavy, deciding then to unload what's been on his mind since he arrived. What's always weighing heavy on his shoulders where you're concerned, especially when you look at him like that.
"Your sister had it right," he murmurs, voice low like it pains him to say it at all.
"You're meant for somethin' better than this."
You don't interrupt, don't tell him he's wrong as much as it aches not to. You just listen, hope he realizes how foolish he's being, forgets all about it, and gives in without another word.
That there's nowhere you'd rather be than here with him, in his arms.
"Ain't no life for you. Not with me," he says.
"Why not with you?" You ask quietly, fingers still on his chest.
His hand rises, covers yours over his heart where his pulse quickens to match your own. "You're supposed to have a good man," he confesses. "One that don't come home to you draggin' the dirt and blood along with him."
You let his words settle between you, let them take root in the ground, fill the air in the room until it pollutes your lungs. "Funny..." you breathe, "Don't feel like I'm missin' out on much when I've got you like this."
"I mean it."
You pause, but not for very long. He's wrong, he knows he is. As if you could ever love another man when you've got the best one right here.
"Suppose you're right..." You murmur, fingers finding his jaw, turning his gaze right back to yours. Something flickers in his eyes then, like your agreement dulled the shine in them just enough to make it noticeable.
You hate it.
Pressing a kiss to his lips, slow and steady, you whisper, "My sister... was a goddamn fool to let you go. But me? Oh, sugar—I ain't ever letting you run from me. Chase you to the ends of the earth to keep you mine, I would."
He stills at that, just for a second. His hand on yours lingers, thumb brushing across the back of it once, memorizing the feel of you there.
"You never make it easy," he mutters, but there isn't much fight left in it. Not when you're looking at him the way you are. Not when your hands are still on him, patient as ever, like every word you've just spoken has been set in stone since the day you set your sights to him.
His grip tightens at your side, and before he can change his mind, he gives in.
Not all at once—that's unlike him and you know it.
No, instead he's slow, careful, still half-convinced he should stop even as he leans in to kiss you again.
He groans against your skin, pushing carefully at your nightgown, bunching the lace around your hips. "Deserve roses, and jewels, and a man that don't— Damn it, woman. Anybody but me."
His lips stay on yours, hands running along your sides with more purpose now—one finding your lower back to arch you into him, the other palming your cheek to keep you close. He's hard as stone beneath you, eyebrows scrunched up tight as he rocks into you gently, guiding your motions.
"Got dressed up for you, you know that?" You murmur, teeth sinking into the plush of your lip, a dazed smile curling your mouth. "I look pretty?"
He studies you, eyes dragging across your frame—bare from the waist down, womanhood dampening his lap—before they land back on your face.
"...Yeah," he murmurs, voice rough. "Real pretty. Got me in trouble already."
Oh, you know it, too. Your hips are chasing the friction he's offering, head falling back when he hits just right at the most sensitive parts of you.
"You gonna make love to me? The way I like it?" You search his gaze, eyes heavy with desire.
"Sweetheart—"
"Please? I'll be good," you whisper. "I swear it."
He never did quite learn how to say no to you. The idea of it doesn't peg him like a good one either way.
The second kiss he gives you in response is different, without an ounce of hesitation. Still gentle in that careful way of his, but heavier all the same once he's finally stopped holding himself back. Just this one small thing for himself—he'll take this, and accept whatever else you give willingly.
No more, no less.
His hands don't stay still—fingers kneading at the soft flesh of your backside, fingertips rough against your hips. And neither do yours. You work at his belt, pulling and tugging, a hint of frustration in the way you frown when the leather just won't give.
"This damn thing," you mutter, whining as the words leave your lips.
His fingers close around your wrist, moving you away to do the work himself. "Easy... Let me, darlin'."
You meet his gaze, annoyance clearing up the moment his rough drawl reaches your ears, nodding slowly.
"Atta girl," he praises quietly. "Just keep sittin' there and lookin' pretty."
And you do—hands relaxed in your lap, no longer rocking this way and that chasing your pleasure. With a strong grip around your waist, he shifts you onto your back, settling between your thighs.
He kisses your neck, your collarbones, your breasts, stubble scratching your skin when his tongue works at the stiff peaks. He doesn't slow his descent, not with what he has in mind for you. Only when he reaches the heat at the base of your thighs does he stop.
"This alright?" He murmurs, eyes lifting to meet yours. You're watching him like he's heaven-sent, fingers combing through his hair, pulling lightly at the strands.
"Yes," you breathe, legs parting further, watching him drag his tongue slow across the length of you. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you from bucking, spreading you further for his mouth.
You feel yourself burning up, blood like fire in your veins as he devours you like a man starving.
He must enjoy the sight of you like this, the way his eyes keep finding your flushed cheeks, the rosiness that's found its way down his own chest. His fingers curl tighter into your skin, only to soothe the sting that follows with gentle strokes of his thumbs.
Your breath catches, sharp, sudden, fingers tightening where they cling to his hair.
"Arthur—"
Your pleasure overtakes you all at once, forcing your back from the bed—leaving you unraveled from his touch, his caress, his mouth still lingering on your most intimate of places. His own groan of pleasure reverberates through you, furthering the effects of your release until your vision grows white, blurring at the edges.
The time it takes for your breaths to settle is always your favorite. It's when he moves to hover over you, holds you close, thumb brushing your cheek as he watches your expression like it's the best thing he's ever been awarded in this life.
"Good?" He asks in a whisper.
"Mhm. Real good," you return, pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth, hand finding his cheek and keeping there. "I love you."
His eyes soften, enough that you can see it in the dim light of the room. Always for you.
Only you.
"I know..." He mutters. "Sweet girl."
You smile, shifting enough to remind him there's more still left to do. That you're not satisfied just yet.
He exhales against your mouth, something unsteady in it this time. "You sure?"
You don't say it, just pull him closer in answer, and then you feel it.
The breath leaving him, the way his hands tighten around you, like he's bracing himself for something he knows he won't walk back from. And when it happens—the length of him finding home deep inside of you—you clutch at him, a soft, startled sound falling from your lips before you can catch it.
He stills for half a second, searching your face. When all he finds is pleasure, serenity, adoration staring back at him, he moves.
Slowly. Carefully.
"Yeah... There you go," he murmurs, hands framing your face, watching your lips part with every roll of his hips, eyes flutter when he hits just so. "Just like that."
His voice drops lower the longer he watches you, like it's being pulled from somewhere deeper than he means to let you hear.
And you see it then—the way his breath hitches, the way his focus sharpens, jaw tightening like he's the one losing control of it now.
A slow smile tugs at your lips.
Oh...
You like that.
Mine.
The thought comes quick, quiet, certain.
Mine, mine, mine.
"That right? I got you lookin' like that?" You tease, words a low purr.
"Don't you start," he grunts, but there ain't much bite to it. Not when his grip on you tightens, not when he gives himself away all the same with the faltering of his hips.
"Oh, sweetheart," you coo, soft and sure. "Take what you need."
That does it.
His breath catches once more, something in him breaking clean through whatever restraint he had left, and his hand slides up to your jaw again—firm this time, keeping your eyes on him.
"Look at me," he mutters, voice rough.
You do. Don't think you could look away if you tried.
And the way he watches you—like he's committing every little detail to memory—pulls something tight in your chest, warm and aching all at once.
"Yeah..." he breathes, quieter now. "That's it."
Your fingers tighten where they hold him, a soft, broken sound slipping from you.
"Arthur— I can't, I—" He stills just enough to search your face, thumb brushing once along your cheek.
"...I got you," he whispers.
He doesn't look away.
Not once. Even as he says "I love you," quietly, all rough edges, not meant to be said aloud.
But you hear it, loud and clear, and your heart stutters enough to still you, eyes widening just a fraction—like you aren't quite sure you heard him right.
And then it settles in your chest like a lead weight—deep, warm, undeniably yours. A soft sounds leaves you in response, half laugh, half something else entirely, and his name falls from your lips in a ragged gasp.
Your release—tight and hot around him, beckoning eagerly for everything he has to offer—spurs his own, his face finding your neck, a strangled groan muffled against your skin.
His hand roves the expanse of your back as he turns, pulling you to sprawl across his chest, the comfortable silence encompassing you both like a warm embrace.
When you finally speak, it's to ask, "Still think you ain't the man for me?"
He huffs, arms tightening around you imperceptibly, drawing you closer. "Might always think that, sweetheart."
Rolling your eyes, you laugh softly, muttering, "Damn fool." But he feels the way you settle in closer, relax in his touch.
Some women wouldn't know a good thing if it stood right in front of them. But you? Yeah... You know exactly what you've got.
And you ain't letting him go.
a/n: wrote this in literally one sitting because i couldn't stop imagining a universe where Arthur gets the girl, and it just so happens to be Mary Linton's feral, deranged, younger sister. ANYWAYS! hopefully no typos, but if you see any, please feel free to lmk. my first foray into oneshot/imagine writing, and requests will be open VERY SOON! start pondering in your filthy little heads what you want me to write. dutch requests are welcome, too (yeah... mhm). ok love you byeeee xx
Thinking about Simon being obsessed with watching you cook.
Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader
𓂃⊹ ִֶָ
Ever since Simon came home from deployment, he’s been clinging to you constantly. “Missed you, lovie,” he’d tell you, trying to justify his constant hold on you. Sure, you thought it was cute, this big military man clinging onto you like some kind of koala, but his intentions weren’t always as innocent as they seemed.
The day had begun to wind down, the sky painted in an ombré of colors as it set, the chitter chatter from the TV spreading into the kitchen. You’ve cooked everyday since Simon came home, enjoying the comfort of another filled seat at the dinner table.
There you stood, mincing up a garlic clove for the pasta dish you decided to make tonight. The faint bubbling from the pot on the stove filled your ears as you turned your gaze to it, pouring the rigatoni pasta into the boiling water.
A soft patter of feet could be heard against the tile floor of the kitchen; it could only be one person. The warmth of a strong chest pressed against your back, hands wrapping around your waist gently, nudging you back to him. “Whatcha making tonight?” He murmured out by your ear, his gruff voice only sounding raspier from the low tone.
“I’m just making some pasta, s’all,” you said, moving back over the cutting board on the counter, his large stature slightly restricting your movement. Your movement seemed to make his grip grow tighter on you, one of your elbows nudging back against his bicep. “I can’t cook when you’re holding onto me like this, Si,” you said with a huff of a laugh.
He seemed to ignore your words, his face burying in the crook of your neck, stubble scratching against your skin. “You’re just s’gorgeous,” he breathed out against your skin, his large hands moving down to grip the plush skin on your hips. “Simon,” you said softly, head leaning over a bit, enjoying the feel of his breath on your skin. “What’s wrong, hm?” He questioned quietly at your call of his name, his chapped lips pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin on your neck. “Just wanna watch y’cook, s’all,” he breathed out against your skin, his words clearly far from the truth.
You decided to try and ignore his soft touches, beginning to mince up the rest of the garlic clove from earlier. His kisses only got more insistent, teeth nipping gently at your skin, his tongue soothing over the skin afterward. “Simon, I can’t,” you began, dropping the knife back down onto the cutting board. “M’sorry, can’t help it when ya looking so good in here,” he said gruffly, one of his calloused hands coming up to paw at one of your breasts over the fabric of your t-shirt. The feeling of something hard was pressing insistently against the small of your back, what could that be? causing your cheeks to only flush a deeper shade of pink.
“Simon,” you breathed out at his touch, head leaning back against him, eyes fluttering closed. He couldn’t help but grin against your skin, moving his face up by yours, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. “Think the pasta’s done, love,” he said softly, pulling away from you, and walking back into the living room.
Thinking about how sweet Leon would be to you.
Leon Kennedy x fem!reader
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔
You and Leon were invited to an upcoming party. In advance, you ordered a dress to wear. One that you thought would be quite flattering. Ordering clothes online could sometimes be difficult, and dresses were especially difficult sometimes. Would you need to size up, down, or stay at your normal size? It was difficult to determine, and sizing charts didn't seem to be helpful most of the time. Your package has arrived in the mail. Upon opening it, you absolutely knew that it wouldn't fit. Of course, Leon wanted to see it, though.
Tugging the dress on, it surprisingly fit, yet it was...quite snug. You dreaded seeing yourself in the mirror, but you never know, it could look alright. Walking over to the full-length mirror situated in the corner of your shared bedroom, you gazed over your body. The dress had a scoop neck that was quite flattering, and thin sleeves that made it quite comfortable. The proportions seemed a bit off, though, you knew you shouldn't have ordered from that website. The bust of the dress was quite restricting. Your breasts felt smooshed against your chest, almost felt like a corset, yet it made your cleavage look good. The skirt of the dress was flowy and pretty, yet you couldn't help but feel so exposed from the bust of it.
You sighed as you struggled to take the fabric off, tugging it off with a huff as you tossed it onto the bed. Putting your pajamas back on, you walked into the living room, sitting on the couch beside Leon, gaze moving to the TV. "My dress came," you said simply, gazing over at Leon. "Hm, did you try it on? It looked pretty in the pictures you showed me," he replied softly, his blue eyes turning to look at you. Your head shook at his words, speaking with a light laugh, "Oh my gosh, no, I should've ordered a bigger size." His eyes widened a bit at your words, his hand giving a light squeeze to your thigh. "When did you try it on? You should've shown me," he said with a faint smile on his lips.
"Leon, it's so bad, I can't," you said with a laugh, the thought of putting the dress back on not being very appealing. "Come on, baby, I'm sure it looks good; go put it on for me," he said softly. His soft words and smile on his face made it hard to say no. Begrudgingly, you stood up from the couch, almost stomping back to the bedroom. You tugged the too-tight dress back on, gazing over yourself in the mirror, a flush spreading across your cheeks at the thought of how Leon would possibly react. You crossed your arms over your chest as you walked back out to the living room, standing in front of Leon, a small frown plastered onto your expression.
"I love the color, it looks so good on you," he says with a faint smile, his blue eyes raking down your figure. "Move your hands, lemme see you," he says, his fingers motioning to your crossed arms. Letting your arms fall by your sides, a flush spread across your face. His eyes widened as he took in the whole dress, seeing how the bust accentuated your figure. "Gimme a spin," he says, his voice a bit gruff as his tongue comes out to wet his lips. You spun in a quick circle, the skirt of the dress flowing out a bit. "I don't know if you should be wearing that to the party," he says, his teeth nipping at his bottom lip. "I know, that's what I told you, it doesn't look good," you said with a huff. "No, no, no- it looks too good," he quickly said, standing from the couch. "So pretty," he said gruffly, his hands coming to gently rest on your waist. "I think it's too much," you murmured, one of your hands motioning at your chest. "I think you look gorgeous," he blurts out quickly, hands running down your waist, giving your hips a light squeeze over the fabric.
—————————————————————————
wrote this earlier this year and I really like how it turned out 😛
Thinking about Simon loving back scratches.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader
⋆˚࿔
It was just another regular night, you and Simon had been lounging on the couch watching TV. A yawn escapes your lips, giving a final squeeze to his hand before standing up from the couch. He knew what that meant: you were tired.
“M’gonna finish this episode, love,” he said softly to you as you walked out of the living room, an “ok,” leaving your lips in reply as you walked to your shared bedroom. You made your way to the bathroom, dragging a makeup wipe across your face, getting any remnants of makeup off of your skin.
A soft sigh escaped your lips as you rubbed your eyes, relishing the rare sensation since your lashes were usually coated in mascara. You dragged a damp washcloth across your face, the warm sensation soothing over your skin. Soft footsteps against the carpet could be heard as you rubbed moisturizer onto your face, hearing Simon plop down onto the bed.
Turning off the bathroom light, you headed back into the bedroom, rummaging through your dresser for some pajamas. Grabbing an oversized shirt, his shirt and a pair of shorts, you discarded your other set of clothes into the hamper.
“Nice view,” a gruff voice spoke from behind you as you slipped on the shorts. You huffed out a laugh at his words, slipping on the t-shirt before making your way over to sit down on the other side of the bed. “Y’look good in this,” he said quietly, his calloused hand gripping lightly on the edge of the t-shirt.
“Thanks, Si,” you replied, watching as he released the fabric and rolled over onto his stomach. Your eyes narrowed slightly at the sight, amused at his actions. “That's how you’re sleeping?” You questioned teasingly, seeing his head turn to the side to look at you. “Back’s itching, could you scratch it a bit?” He said, his voice slightly muffled from the sheets.
He spoke so casually, as if this was the first time to ask you of this favor. You moved over, sitting down on your knees as your hand began to scratch slowly along his shoulders. You could see how his muscles tensed under your touch, hearing him let out a faint groan.
“Seems like I do this every night now,” you said softly, nails continuing to scratch slowly along his skin. “Yeah? S’nothing wrong with that,” he murmured out quietly, eyes fluttering closed. “You got some kinda weird rash going on back here or something?” You asked jokingly, hearing him let out a faint chuckle at your words.
“Your hands feel good, so soft,” he murmured quietly, your hand moving lower, scratching down his spine gently. You smiled softly at his words, your other hand going up to run through his short blond hair, fingers playing with the strands by the base of his neck. “Is-“ you were cut off by a loud snore erupting from his throat, seems like you put him to sleep.
Hope y'all enjoy this re-upload of this writing that I did earlier this year! I've decided to try and get back into it as I really did use to enjoy it :)
origamiaround
blakekathryn
kaledo-art
dailybridgerton
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
baratheonpilled
